SEEKING BLOOD
Grandmother and her groundmites had toiled their way
around the black lake and through the remains of the city. The
chronicles of her people had prepared her for the odd aesthetics of
the Eletians and their ever spiraling streets, but the groundmites
disregarded the streets, using rough trails through the ruins they
must have broken and learned about over the generations. If there
were obstacles or some predator in their path, they lunged forward
with unbridled enthusiasm and battered down whatever was in the
way.
The castle towers
loomed over the craggy, dark ruins, sometimes seeming to float,
depending on the whimsy of the fog. It was not absolutely clear in
the chronicles if Mornhavon occupied the castle after defeating
Argenthyne or left it to rot. Even if he had occupied it, the
chronicles suggested he preferred his fortress in the west, on the
shore of Ullem Bay. She could not blame him, for the towers here
were otherworldly, disquieting, exuding the taint of Eletian power
even after so much time.
They came to the
grove more swiftly than she dared to hope thanks to her groundmite
allies.
Gubba extended her
arms wide as if to embrace the immense trees before them and
proclaimed, “Brin ban
orba!”
Grandmother, who
still could not follow the groundmite’s speech, assumed she’d said
something very profound.
“Morrrnnhavon brin ban orba!” Gubba exclaimed, and
the groundmite warriors banged the butts of their spears and bows
on the ground repeating her phrase in a shout.
One thing
Grandmother had gathered was that the groundmites regarded
Mornhavon as a god, thought that he’d created this world for them.
It was true in a sense. For all intents, the groundmites had done
very well in Blackveil, a realm of Mornhavon’s making. But
Grandmother knew better—Mornhavon was not God. He may have been the
greatest Arcosian to have lived, still loved and revered by his
people, and the favored one of God, but no, he was not God. It only
served to illustrate how much more sophisticated Grandmother and
her people were than the groundmites.
Now that they had
reached their destination, Grandmother was still unclear as to what
she needed to do to awaken the Sleepers. She assumed it would
require blood magic, but now that she saw the immensity of the
grove for herself, and that the trees, though rotting, retained
some strength in them, she realized she’d need a lot of blood. She
gazed speculatively at the groundmites. She’d need several of them,
and they’d likely turn on her if she tried to use even one of
them.
She turned her
attention to her own people. They had come all this way with her
and had shown exceptional loyalty, even Sarat, who’d been so
frightened of every little thing along the way. She’d grown very
fond of them and hated the thought of having to sacrifice even one
of them. Perhaps she could persuade someone to volunteer. It would
certainly demonstrate ultimate loyalty to her and Second
Empire.
She watched Lala
clamber up a tree root and balance her way to the trunk to look at
a nobby burl that resembled a face—a face dribbling sap. Could
Grandmother sacrifice her own granddaughter?
She would if she
must, for God had commanded her to awaken the
Sleepers.
Lala took her eating
knife and probed the burl, then jammed it into the spot of rot. The
tree trembled, casting down branches and needles and scurrying
creatures. Groundmites scattered out of the way.
Gubba clapped and
laughed. “Lalala goot!”
The old groundmite
would not be laughing had one of the truly enormous branches above
dropped on her.
The wound Lala
inflicted in the bark caused more sap to flow. It had an ocher tint
to it.
Very interesting, Grandmother thought, and she
called the child away fearing that another stab into the tree would
indeed cause it to drop a limb on them.
She stood deep in
thought, stewing over what to do, what had to be done. The
groundmites were scattered but nearby, gabbling among themselves or
picking beetles off the forest floor and popping them into their
mouths. Her own people sat themselves on a tree root to rest after
their arduous journey, and Lala took up a string game.
Gubba now squatted
and looked up at Grandmother as if expecting some great show of the
art. Grandmother in turn sighed, and then felt a twinge on the back
of her neck. Something had changed. Gubba sensed it, too, and gazed
in the direction of the castle.
Grandmother closed
her eyes and centered herself. Quite a while ago, she had sensed
the forest being distracted and God had told her to awaken the
Sleepers before the “others.” Now she could feel that those others
were here threatening everything she’d worked for.
Gubba snuffled.
“Yelt,” she said, her eyes wide,
showing fear.
Yelt? Did she mean the Elt? Eletians were here? It
certainly explained the forest’s interest and God’s ardent command.
She concentrated more deeply and sensed the bright spirits not far
from the castle.
“They must be
killed,” Grandmother said, but before she could plan an organized
assault, Gubba shouted something and her groundmites took up their
weapons. Hooting and yelling, they charged in a disorderly pack
deeper into the grove.
This would not do,
Grandmother fumed, but it was already done. Her men came to her
side.
“What’re they after
this time?” Griz asked.
“They are hunting
Eletians.”
“Eletians! What are
those unholy creatures doing here?”
“Perhaps the same as
we.”
Griz suddenly
crumpled, the shaft of a white arrow jutting from his chest.
Another dropped one of the groundmites that had remained with
Gubba.
“Take cover!”
Grandmother cried.
How did the Eletian
arrows find them through the trees like that? There could not be a
straight line of sight. Deglin and Cole rushed her behind the bole
of one of the huge trees with Min and Sarat. Lala calmly sat at
their feet.
One thing was now
for certain: Grandmother would have her blood.