Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (36 page)

One of the men spoke from behind the leader. The leader snapped a retort at him not even glancing his way.

Michael blinked and his eyes widened in surprise. He understood their words, or at least partially. The one had said something about killing them and hunting. The leader had told him to hold his tongue. Michael and Garen looked at each other with the same surprised expression. The Seran’tu spoke A’lan’s secret language.

“Daslir de escar dala mod,” Michael said, drawing bewildered and surprised looks from friends and Seran’tu alike.

“Ast cirgue fust shiratin,” the leader replied slowly, his tone suspicious, his face hinting of curiosity.

“Shiratin! Jost ser suma shiratin!” Garen said.

Several of the tree men spoke at once, one so outraged he pointed his short blade at Garen. The leader countered, speaking in fast, clipped phrases.

“Desla!” The leader finally said with a sharp, level motion of his hand. The others fell silent. The outraged one settled for glaring.

“How do you know our language?”
The leader asked looking between Michael and Garen.

“My father taught us,”
Michael said, motioning at Garen and himself.

“Who’s your father?”
The leader inquired.

“A’lan Trommel.”

There was more grumbling among the men, some shocked by the name.

“What was that saying your dad told us to use, that secret greeting?” Garen asked. “Tolar barka or something like that. Meant something strange like ‘I’m friends with a bear’.”

“It’s a greeting,” Michael replied, trying to remember the exact phrase. A’lan used to make him repeat it over and over. “Tolar has suma beraka,” he said to the leader. It meant, ‘I’m a friend of Great Bear’.

“Who are you?”
the leader asked.

Michael paused unsure how to answer. He was two people yet one; the son of a dead king, heir to a throne, and son of a great traveler.
“I was born Michael Ashguard, but I was raised Michael Trommel.”

The leader held up his hand and barked a command. All the men but the angry one lowered their weapons.

“What are you doing?”
The lone warrior asked.

The leader turned on the lone warrior.
“They are friends of Great Bear. Lower your weapon or face me.”

Slowly the last warrior lowered his spear, but the heat did not leave his eyes.

The leader stepped forward extending his hand to Michael.
“I am Barrata. I will take you to Great Bear.”

Michael clasped his hand and the leader pulled him to his feet.
“Thank you,”
he replied, not sure who the man was offering to take them too, nor did he care at the moment. He was simply glad they no longer wanted to run him through.

“How do you know their language?” Falon asked as they fell into step behind Barrata.

“They speak the language in my dad’s book.”

“How did he learn it?

Michael shrugged. “No idea.”

“So where are we going?”

“I’m not sure.”

Falon shot him a curt look.

“I told him I was a friend of Great Bear and he said he would take us to him.”

“Must be a leader,” Max said.

“I guess so,” Michael replied. “Dad made me memorize that phrase. He was adamant about it. Said it was an important greeting. I just hope this Great Bear is happy to see us.”

They traveled throughout the day. The deeper into the forest they went, the more awe-inspiring it became. The trees grew taller than any Michael had seen. Spruce, pine and maple stood among other types he could not name. The most amazing were the redwoods towering hundreds of feet in the air, some spanning as wide as ten men side by side.

With dusk’s light dimming to darkness they were given another sight which left them speechless. Within the majestic trees stood a city. Perhaps small compared to Tallijor or Rhalmadia, but too large to be called a town. No wall or defensive barriers surrounded the city. Michael did not think it needed any. No army would make it this far.

The city was intricately woven among the trees like it was part of the forest. Stone, wood and mortar used in perfect harmony with nature. Spires and towers four and five stories tall looked like a child’s toy buildings next to the massive redwood trees. The flickering light of evening fires dotted the city, giving it inviting warmth.

Their entrance created quite a stir as people stopped to gawk. Some ran into houses, out of fear or to tell others. Michael wondered if they had ever seen someone from the outside.

Making their way through orderly, well-designed streets of paved stones, they reached the center where a great hall stood five stories tall and guarded on each side by massive redwoods. There were bridges leading from upper floors to landings anchored into the trees and more bridges connected to other landings and buildings. Michael noticed elevator systems leading to landings higher still in the trees.

A bare-chested man, tall and heavily muscled, waited for them in front of the great hall, a long spear in hand.

“Makes me think of Stren,” Garen muttered.

Michael grinned. He had been thinking the same thing.

The man’s eyes were stone, not angry, but they held no pleasure in seeing outsiders.
“Who do you bring, Barrata? We received your message. We weren’t sure what to make of it, though.”

“I bring friends, Saranta,”
Barrata replied.

“Fool! No outsider is our friend. Has your mind grown soft?”

“I bring you Michael, son of A’lan and friend of Great Bear.”

Saranta growled.

“Had he not spoken our language he would not be here,”
Barrata continued, glancing at the group of men and women filling out of the great hall.

“He may speak our language, but the others have no right to be here,”
Saranta said.

“Companions of the son of A’lan shall have the chance to show themselves true,”
a deep voice from behind Saranta said. A man slightly taller than Michael and as heavily muscled as Saranta stopped before them.

“I am Tearock, chief of the Manastra Clan of the Seran’tu. Welcome to Saluwei. Are you truly Michael, son of A’lan?”

Michael’s eyes went wide. The man spoke in the common tongue. He looked at Garen and Max, who both shared his surprise then slowly replied, “I am.”

Tearock laughed a deep barrel-chested laugh and embraced him in a big hug. “You have grown into a fine man.” Tearock held him at arm’s length, looking him up and down, smiling a fatherly smile. “A’lan has done well with you.” He scanned Michael’s companions briefly. “Where is A’lan?”

“He died,” Michael replied. “Two years ago.”

Tearock’s face saddened, tears appearing in his eyes. “May the Creator shelter his soul. Come, let us eat. We will dine in his honor and you can tell me what has brought you to us. I will miss A’lan calling me Suma Baraka.”

C
HAPTER
39

Living Headstone

Tearock led them to an adjoining building, circular and tall for a single story structure, with a sloped roof tapering to a round opening in the center like a huge chimney. A large fire pit in the center of the earthen floor had five large spits cooking fowl, pig, and venison. The cooks tended ovens and the spits with efficiency while servers bused trays of food to waiting patrons.

Soft carpets of intricate and colorful designs covered much of the earthen floor with low, round tables in the center of each. People reclining on pillows while they ate stopped in mid-bite, staring as the foreigners made their way to an empty carpet not far from the fire pit.

Tearock clapped his hands and barked commands at the servants to get them over their shock. They quickly covered the table with various dishes of meats, flat bread, beans, corn, and sauces.

“Tell me, Michael, how is it you have come to us?” Tearock dipped his flatbread into a red sauce Michael had already learned the hard way was very hot. “Barrata mentioned you were attacked by black hounds.”

Michael began his story with the attack at his home. Killing the nightstalkers drew praise from Tearock, but he was alarmed by their existence. As Michael’s story continued the crowd around their carpet grew, men and women gathering around to hear the tale. At times, he struggled with the Seran’tu language and Tearock graciously assisted him. Michael introduced his companions as he told the story making sure the crowd understood the integral role each played. Great cheers erupted when he told them about their victory over the nightstalkers at the rocky outcrop. The crowd booed at his capture in Finery’s Way only to be replaced by exuberant cheers for Garen for his incredible shot that cut the noose. When Michael finished recounting the destruction of the nightstalkers in the forest the audience stood silent; the crackling of the fire sharp and loud to Michael.

Then someone yelled, “Man’tai Dashar!” Which meant slayer of evil.

“Man’tai Dashar! Man’tai Dashar!” the crowd cheered.

“It seems you have been named,” Tearock said, his fatherly smile illuminated by the fire.

“Sesur Trommel taught you well. He was a great teacher.” Tearock tapped his chest, pride on his face, “Taught me your language. And I taught him ours. We even created a book together.” His face brightened when Michael pulled the book out of his pack. “Sesur Trommel was a great man to us,” Tearock said, thumbing through the book proudly. “We will mourn his loss properly tonight.”

“I’m truly humbled, Tearock. You called him ‘sesur’. That’s your minor word for ‘savior’. Minor because you use it to refer to a person rather than a deity. Why?”

“You have a very good understanding of our language.”

“Thank you, but it’s actually more because of this word, ‘sesur’. A’lan called me sesur sometimes, said I had come into his life and saved him from the dangers of the road.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, there is a story behind your father’s title. I was rash in my youth, ill-tempered with no tolerance for others who didn’t share my views. After a rather strong disagreement with my father one day, I left. For a while I traveled through the forest and ended up on the border where I found a group of men cutting down balara trees. Enraged by their trespass I charged right into them. Killed the two cutting the tree while their hands were still on the saw. The others were no match, but in my haste I failed to see the three men perched on the nearest hill. The first was a bad shot which probably saved me, but the second caught me in the stomach,”–he showed them the scar—“and the third struck me in the shoulder. I retreated into the woods where I collapsed. Fortunately, the three archers had no desire to enter the forest.

“Your father came upon the dead men and tracked me from there. He treated my wounds and spent several days tending me till I could walk. I would never have believed anyone outside our forest would care for one of us. I had always viewed outsiders as pompous and arrogant, bent on destroying the land for profit. A’lan was selfless and kind, so I brought him home.

“My father was so happy he threw a feast in A’lan’s name and insisted he stay with us for a time. A’lan lived among us for two years. Had an amazing knack with wood.

“We learned much from one another and he confirmed my beliefs about outsiders, but he also helped me see there were good people too. My father made him an honorary member of our clan and always welcomed in the forest. The last time he returned he carried with him a baby boy. And now you have returned to us a man.”

Michael shifted uneasily. Tearock treated him like a son. It made him miss his father all the more.

“Chief Tearock, thank you for your hospitality,” Max said. “Would it be possible for us to continue our travels through your forest?”

“Great Mentor, I myself will escort you to Serat Gar. From there I’ll see you have the best horses we can offer.”

The meal and their discussions lasted well into the night. Tearock taught them about the Seran’tu. The Nistmara Forest was divided into twelve clans, each distinct and independent. While united in their common life, disagreements sprang up from time to time. Tearock talked like they were simple spats between siblings, but they sounded more like battles to Michael.

So engrossed in listening to Tearock, Michael did not realize how late it had become until he noticed Garen and Falon were both asleep on their pillows and Max’s head was dropping, chin almost touching his chest before he jerked it upward, eyes springing open. Only Jorgen remained alert.

“Where are my manners?” Tearock said, noticing Michael’s companions. He seemed to have eyes only for Michael, like a father who had not seen his son for a very long time. “Your companions are weary from travel. Let me take you to your quarters.”

With Garen and Falon roused, the company followed Tearock to an adobe house two streets down. A nice dwelling with three bedrooms off the main room, an earthen floor packed hard and smooth and a patio on the flat roof for relaxing. As the company settled in, Tearock whispered to Michael to meet him in the courtyard shortly and strode out the doorway.

The moon cast silvery shadows as Michael made his way into the large city square, the temple looming before him. Tearock stood there waiting.

“A’lan was a great man to us,” he said. “The younger ones, they have heard stories of him, but several of us were fortunate to have been close to him. Tonight we honor your father.”

He led Michael into the temple. They walked in silence down several torch-lit corridors to a large room where a fire burned in a pit centered in the room. Gems set in the walls formed intricate shapes and caused the light to dance and refract off the walls. Seven people, five men and two women, sat cross-legged around the fire, waiting silently for them like sentinels.

Tearock did not introduce them as he sat cross-legged, prompting Michael to do the same.

Taking a canister from the woman to his left, Tearock tossed a handful of powder into the fire and a strange aroma, earthy and sweet, filled the air. Then Tearock took a long pipe with intricate designs and lit the tobacco till the pipe chamber glowed. After a few puffs of the pipe, he passed it to Michael silently. His fatherly eyes looked at Michael with an intensity that made it clear this was not the time for words or questions. Michael inhaled the smoke, acrid at first, but then mellowed to something Michael could not quite place. His mind floated and his body relaxed, months of tension seeping out of his body, as the aroma filled his nostrils. He passed the pipe to the man beside him.