Chapter 197: The Ice Cliff Tribe

Book 4, Chapter 38 - The Ice Cliff Tribe

Voices.

Aaron groaned. His body ached all over. Every joint and major muscle was a hot spot for pain. Worse were the headaches. Their faded in and out, never truly leaving. Sounds felt too near to his ear. His own creaking limbs and the rustle of cloth were like an echo caught in the canals of his ear. And then there were the voices.

Voices.

Muffled, strange, painful.

Aaron gasped as something cool was placed on his forehead. Slowly, like a trickle, his thoughts returned to him. The Spinewood. The princess. A battle. There'd been blood. There'd been anger. And there'd been strength unending given him by his blade.

The battle , where'd he'd felt truly alive…

But what of the outcome? Corpses. Corspes everywhere , Aaron remembered. Laughter there was too. Jackrin? Yes. The mad jester had been here, appearing at the right moment to save Aaron from his reckless charge into Virk lines. Viper was on the verge of collapse, and Eksa…

Eksa wasn't here.

More voices. Aaron's eyes snapped open. A bolt of panic seared through his breast as he sat upright in an instant, crippling pain following in the seconds after. He curled with a childish moan. Despite everything he could have thought of in that moment, his first worry went towards Butter Knife. Where was that sword? Where was that power that would make him whole, make him alive? What if it had fallen into the wrong hands? Into those that would abuse its power, and fall prey to the bloodlust that it provided?

Fall prey? Alive? Aaron gripped his head and groaned again. I did that, he realized. He'd fed the weapon hatred from the depths of his soul. In return he was given a horrid yet beautiful strength. If only he could have that vigor in his blood again. If only he could hold that glorious hilt tight in his palms, his aches and weakness would be a shallow puddle to tread past than the riotous seas they were right now.

And he could also silence the voices.

Voices? Aaron took in his surroundings for the first time since awakening. Strangers surrounded him. Strangers in strange clothes of strange words he had a vague recollection of. There was an aged woman watching him carefully. She wore many layers of cloth over what appeared a simple dress, and a grey fur shawl over her shoulders to match the grey threads between lush, black hair.

Next to was a younger woman of similar garments but no fur, a curious pendant with what appeared a tear shaped vial around her neck. At the end of the small room were two large men, both wearing knee length skirts, veins running up thick leg muscles. They held a spear each, and wore the stripped hide of a wolf over their heads, and what appeared like pelt vests.

Aaron found Butter Knife resting against the wall next to one of those guards. He reached for it, pulling himself from bed, and collapsed on his face into the sheets where his feet had been a moment before. Pain arced up his back, arms, and legs in waves that did not lessen in intensity as time passed. Aaron moaned aloud, tears caught at the corners of his eyes.

Virk surrounded him. He needed his weapon. Desired it…

Virk? That's right. He'd been fighting to defend a Virk faction from another, to indebt them to him, to assimilate them into his growing numbers…

“… alive.”

Aaron frowned. The old woman had spoken. Of all the words she'd said, he recognized only one. Something along the lines of 'you should not be alive' or 'you're fortunate to be alive', likely. This language of the Virk tribal peoples was buried deep in his mind, carried from the memory of an ancestor from Flames knew how many centuries into the past. Aaron closed his eyes and racked his brain for knowledge of it. He rolled over with another groan, facing the aged woman who'd likely been taking care of him. “I… Aarondel,” he said. “You?” A flash of pain shot through his head as the younger woman frowned and clutched at the pendant-vial thing on her neck. An Artifact?

“You speak our tongue, but one from among us has not crossed the Äld in centuries,” the old woman said. Or, at least that's what Aaron deduced from what he picked up. The unfamiliar words of hers filled more gaps in his memory of this lost language, bringing him further fluency in its ways. A language with many 'Ls' and 'Ss' it seemed.

“I study old text,” Aaron said.

The old woman looked to the younger one, who shook her head. “I cannot tell if he lies,” said the younger woman. A faint glow pulsed from that vial she had, and its every thrum made a pounding throb in Aaron's head.

“That you cannot tell is telling enough,” the old woman said. “He is one with memory. You are Aarondel… Zz'tai.”

Exposed.

Escape first, think later. Aaron lunged for his sword. But his pain ridden body moved agonizingly slow. He'd barely moved several feet before one of the guards drove a knee into his gut. Aaron's eyes went wide as the shock of the impact spread along his every fibre. He keeled over, coughing. Bile came up and dribbled out his open mouth. Tears fogged his eyes.

The old woman walked over with the aid of a grey wooded stick. “You have no enemies here, child. Lest you mean us harm. But you don't. I am Wysal, Blademother to the Ice Cliff tribe's First Sword. You helped us from the Grey Peak tribe's wrath. Why?”

Aaron mumbled incoherently as he faded in and out of consciousness. Wysal stood over him patiently. He took several minutes to gather his bearings again. Evidently, these people did not think his wounds dire if they were content leaving him lying in his own vomit for an extended period of time.

“Happened in moment,” Aaron lied. “They attacking you as they attacking me. So I fight.”

“You lie,” Wysal accused. She had not consulted the younger woman this time, and that truth seeking Artifact she held. “You are one with memory. Your actions are never meaningless. Tell me truth, Flame Bearer.”

Aaron slowly sat upright again. He felt utterly humiliated, sitting on a dirt floor with his own spit and bile staining his clothes, strangers looking down on him. His belt and leather lay at his side, the latter bearing so many cuts as to disfigure the eagle carved into the breast. “Flame Bearer,” he repeated. “There is dead Flame Shrine here yes? Somewhere here?”

Wysal did not reply.

Aaron closed his fists. A dead Flame could not be rekindled. Not without multiple Flame Bearers giving their fire to ignite it again. This part of the world was now permanently under influence of Darkspawn forces, and the malcontent their presence bred. There were Artifacts to remedy that, and a Flame Bearer's presence could hold the shadow at bay, but Aaron could not always be at Red Vine. “You need me,” Aaron said, assuming his position. “After persecuting… us… so long.”

Wysal frowned. “We have never persecuted you.”

What? Then the lies and deposition of High House Zz'tai was not an event that reached this remote part of the world. And yet, it remained impacted by it. With the Flame Bearers gone, northern Xenaria, and indeed the lands beyond the Äld went without a caretaker to kindle the Flame. “How long since Flame's death?”

“The holy Flame began to dim well before my time,” Wysal said. “It was but a candle light in my youthful days. Our tribes that once lived in harmony turned on each other, sought conquest, and supremacy. Then the light died, and came the creatures from below. Grey Peak, the largest of us Virk tribes took advantage of the chaos, and felled tribe after tribe. We are among the last who remain.”

“And so… you flee mountain. For refuge,” Aaron said.

Wysal narrowed her eyes. “You knew this. So you helped us. To what end, Memory Holder?”

“I need army.”

Wysal snorted. “We don't have one.”

“How many?” Aaron asked.

Wysal looked to one of the guards. “Maybe two hundred scattered in the mountains. We have less than fifty here.”

“How many of Grey Peak?”

“You cannot convince them,” Wysal said. “They are lost to the madness of shadow and violence. We survived it for we held a Flame Lantern. But even that has now died.”

Flame Lanterns . Old Artifacts that could carry an Eternal Flame and utilize its cleansing powers to a minor extent. But Wysal said they had a lantern. In times past, great armies carried dozens to keep Darkspawn swarms cowed in battles. A single lantern was not enough to keep at bay hosts of significant size. “I will relight you Lantern,” Aaron said, making no mention of what he thought. Most Flame Lanterns were lost in Vyetrim, the fallen kingdom, never to be retrieved unless the brave explorers of Estraea came brought them back by chance. “I will give you refuge. You will help me.”

“That is not my decision to make,” Wysal said. “My son, the First Blade of Ice Cliff, shall decide your fate tomorrow.”

“Decide tonight,” Aaron demanded. He flinched as another shock of pain vibrated through his chest with his forceful nature. “Or my men… maybe attack you tomorrow. You come down mountain with me. With us. You help fight rat person. Help fight Grey Peak if they come. I give you food to shelter.” Aaron frowned. “ And shelter, I mean.”

“Grey Peak are thousands,” one of the guards said. “Rat and imp are thousands. Do you have thousands?”

Aaron turned toward him. “I will. Soon,” he said. Assuming Elizia Serene kept her end of the contract.

Wysal nodded. She turned to the younger woman. “Selila, go and inform my son of our protector's requests.”

“Demands,” Aaron said. There would be no equal partnership here. “You are… in our debt. My demands. Take them, or suffer alone.”

“You are not in a position to make demands,” the woman named Selila said hotly.

Aaron snorted. “Neither is you. You has less than fifty. I has a thousand outside you wall.”

“Selila,” Wysal insisted.

The younger woman flushed. “I cannot. Husband is busy with his second wife. It would be improper.”

“Am I to care?” Aaron asked.

Wysal gave the younger woman a flat stare. Selila fled under the pressure. “You are a very forceful man, Aarondel,” Wysal then said.

“Was it my spoken word that told you this? Or the bodies I piled outside your fort that made you… arrive at this decision?”

Wysal narrowed her eyes at his sudden fluency in the language. She knocked her stick against Aaron's ankle. He scowled to mask the pain. “You are also rude. Like my son at your age.”

“I am far older than all of you, girl ,” Aaron hissed.

Wysal cocked a brow. She rapped the end of her stick against Aaron's throbbing head. “This is older,” she said. She then pointed at his heart. “That is not. You can make important decisions like a learned old man. But you act like a petulant child.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes. Such is the universal argument when one has nothing to say.”

Aaron opened his mouth to rebut. He snapped it shut, taking his own words to heart. The longer this went, the more this wily old woman would make a fool of him. He was not in a proper state of mind. Even centuries of knowledge faltered in the face of distraught emotions. And here, Aaron was alone, whether he'd care to admit it or not. Viper had to be incapacitated. He was on his knees last Aaron had seen. The guards had certainly seen the Shieda fight, but no mention of him had been made during the discussion.

Then there was Jack, who was Flames knew where. As long as that one doesn't pull any extreme stunts.

As if .

“My son will not like you,” Wysal said. “Assuming you continue being rude.”

“I don't need people liking me,” Aaron said in the common tongue, causing those around him to frown. “I need them obeying me.”

***

Elizia marched at the head of her column of soldiers, making her way through the corpses of fallen Virk and Xenarian alike on the way to the Virk fortress. Sunlight peeked through the tree line directly in her path. Elizia squinted against the beams catching her eye.

A second, smaller column of Lord Caranel's soldiers marched next to hers, headed by Jengard Rask and another man even taller than Rask himself. Elizia had bow in hand and an arrow pinched between two, sweaty fingers. She did not expect a battle to ensue, yet the possibility remained.

The air around them grew fetid with the stench of rot, blood, and filth. Many of the corpses had evidently been eaten into by wolf and ratman alike. Teeth marks were left here and there, while some bodies had entire chunks missing. Left another day or two, this place would be crawling with disease and pests. Already fleas buzzed and crows upon crooked branches cawed their glee. The fallen had been relieved of strips of cloth and un-retrieved equipment. Darkspawn were adept foragers, Elizia noted.

At last they came upon the clearing where the battered fort stood against the mountainside, sparse few guards watching its walls. They shouted at the appearance of the soldiers, and knocked arrows on their crude, yet heavy looking bows. Bows forged with bone and wood together.

The sun shone down on the clearing. The hill of bodies that'd been here the night before had all but disappeared, a few scattered limbs and corpses remaining. Even more fleas swarmed this place, and a murder of crows had come to feast, tugging of decaying flesh strings with their pointed beaks.

Elizia snapped her fingers, and two from her small army marched alongside her, holding reinforced wooden shields in the event the fort's defenders decided to attack. Elizia stopped herself a dozen feet from the gates and looked at the wall guards who muttered above. “I demand the immediate return of Lord Aarondel Caranel. If he be wounded, I bid you open these gates and let us in. We will treat him ourselves. You've until the shadows drift a foot toward the north to comply, or we will assault your fortress,” she finished, unsure if these Virk barbarians even understood the common tongue. Regardless, it should be evident that she was here for Lord Caranel.

With a final breath of foul air, she said “Am I understood?” Behind her, her own soldiers shifted. Elizia heard the grates of blade on sheath. Differing faction or no, Elizia's men had seen barbarians slaughter their brothers. Their discomfort and anger was obvious.

The fortress' gates suddenly swung inward. Lord Caranel, followed by dozens upon dozens of Virk, woman, child, and warrior alike, walked outside. Elizia stepped back, knocking arrow to bowstring, but not raising the bow above her waist. Aarondel moved with a sluggish gait, limping with every other step, but staying at this company's head. He had dark circles beneath his eyes.

“You are not understood, Princess,” he mumbled as he passed by her. “These people don't speak our language.”

And then he hobbled off toward Rask, ordering the Wolf of Metsiphon to climb down the woods and retreat towards Red Vine. Elizia stood there for a hard moment, watching them all retreat before Lieutenant Faren came to her side. “Captain. Orders?”

Elizia shook her head. That insufferable Flaming… “Retreat,” she muttered. They'd been fighting barbarians half a day ere. Yes, there were two factions of them, but for Aarondel to just lead them away like they were his own people all along without question, tension, or conflict? Her soldiers stood wary at the presence of the tall, muscular warriors of the Virk. Elizia's own heart skipped beats when seeing the large men pass her by with their axes and crude broad blades. The young men of Lord Caranel's armies however… they seemed perfectly content following their lord and his new merry band of refugees and marauders alike.

Elizia bit her lip. He was a street grown bastard. That was what everyone said of him. An urchin turned to piracy, given the miracle of a fortune from his sleazebag, despot of a father. A drunken whoring slave to the Trillian powers that be. What she found was an insufferable man of guile, strength, and kindness enough to be loved by his subjects. A man who made harsh decisions without a hint of indecisiveness. A man who could forge bonds with those most would assume enemies.

Those who don't even speak the common tongue. Allegedly.

Where did that leave Elizia, who'd grown with the privilege of being a princess, of having heroes for parents and all the tutelage that came with their position and power? She was inferior in every way despite her superior upbringing. The thought gnawed at her endlessly on the descent down the mountainside, and plagued her well beyond.