Chathen
Chathen Dubrais had been tracking the little band of goblins for nine hours, as best she could tell. There were five of the vile creatures, a nasty and short variation of goblinoids that called themselves Gobs. In the hours just before dawn they had slipped out of the forest and scaled the palisade wall into the town of Ylvain. She'd awoken when a sheep's fearful bleat was cut short by one of the gob's wicked little knives.
The branch of the thick old tree swayed gently beneath her feet, but Chathen had spent half her life in the trees. Their motion was like her own, something to be embraced and appreciated, and their sounds masked hers. She could hear the gobs squabbling ahead, along with the hundred other sounds of the forest - the songs of birds, the rustle of the underbrush as a hare shot through it, the yelp of a fox as a pair of wolves scared it away from its dinner. She could feel the tapestry, the wide and wild story the forest was trying to tell her. She could hear the forest telling her its secrets as she strained her ears for the raspy language of the goblins. Words came on the wind.
"Shass haratsk, Grekza," came the words, carried on the wind. "Speed up, Grekza."
Chathen wasn't well-versed in the language of the goblins, but she'd heard this dialect enough in her squabbles with the little tribe of monsters to recognize a phrase or two. They might have caught her scent, heard some evidence of her pursuing them. She leapt from her perch and swung silently into the canopy of another big, sturdy tree. As soon as her feet touched the next branch, she bounded off it as well. Her legs knew how to land true, her hands knew where to grasp and when to let go, and her senses worked in masterful unison to propel her across the secret highway of squirrels and birds and hunters. For a minute, she was flying.
She came to rest in a large oak behind the goblin raiders, close enough to see the glint of naked bronze from their daggers and swords. The two in the middle were the stockiest, but none of them weighed half as much as Chathen, and the tallest among them was barely as high as her belly button. They had the disconcerting look of misshapen children, with skin the color of a wilted daisy and stringy grey hairs. The one in front carried a wand at its hip - a hedge witch, most likely, and dangerous. Chathen pulled her bow from its case across her back and strung it in a moment with a practiced hand, nocking an arrow and creeping through the branches to follow the moving band. She took aim for the leader and loosed the deadly shaft.
The arrow plunged through the skull of the second gob in line, intercepted as the blighted little monster stumbled on some unseen branch, knocking into the back of the leader. That one whirled around and grabbed for its wand, a crude little thing cobbled together from rat bones. Chathen could see the panic and fury on its twisted face, ritual scars in a spiral on its forehead giving it a menacing look. A stream of wild lightning spewed out from the end of the wand, tearing at random through the trees. They hadn't spotted her, so the spell had been thrown wild.
The goblin witch's spell was a costly gambit, but an effective one. The lightning arced and slammed into the tree Chathen was using as a perch, throwing her down to the ground. The huntress fell with a crunch into a bush, saving her from breaking upon the hard ground but stabbing and scratching at her skin and the sturdy leather armor she wore.
She could hear them charging her, the pounding of six feet, the rasping of three blades, and the high-pitched wail of a spell being prepared sending a chill from her ears to the base of her spine. She got to her feet as quick as she could, straightening just in time to see that two of them had typical daggers, but the third wore a string of small stone knives. Time slowed to a crawl as Chathen threw her hand back to her quiver. She felt her muscles straining for more speed as her mind roared, screamed to dive away, but another part of her was in control. The hunter's skilled composure had taken over and she felt her arrow find its place on her bowstring as the gob hurled one of its knives. She drew, aimed, and fired in what must have been a single heartbeat, then dropped her bow and ducked to the side.
The goblin's knife whizzed past Chathen's shoulder, hurtling through the space her sternum would have occupied a moment before. She didn't have time to be impressed with herself, though. Her right hand was already gripping the hilt of her sword, drawing the steel blade from its scabbard, but the two rushing gobs were upon her.
One leapt through the air, arms upraised and dagger turned downward to drive the point into her flesh. Chathen let herself fall to her back, rolling out of the bush and throwing her legs up. She caught the monster's elbows with her feet as she tumbled back, upsetting the smaller creature's leap and sending it spiraling backwards. Her blade was tasting the air as she came to her feet, and the second gob hesitated in its own attack. Chathen snarled and lashed out with a jab, sending the little monster leaping back. She had time to see that her shot had landed true, her second arrow protruding from the knife-thrower's eye as it lay on the ground.
The hedge witch's second spell was almost prepared. Chathen could hear the gob's wailing chant coming to a head. Preparation of a spell, in general, meant that a larger amount of power was being gathered, and that lightning blast had been no minor feat to begin with. She planted her back foot and crouched before propelling herself into a dead sprint past the two wary knife-wielders. She heard the one she had kicked down yelp with surprise as it fell again, but the other had found enough courage to make chase. She'd have one chance and only a few seconds to pull off a second impressive maneuver, but at this point it seemed the gods were favoring her. On the other hand, they might feel they'd given her enough luck and let it run out. In the moment encapsulating her wild charge at the hedge witch, Chathen held something like a desperate prayer in her mind.
The distance was closed and the hedge witch was still chanting. That was lucky. Chathen hoped the spell would die with the caster and not explode with the gathered power. She swept her sword in a wide arc through the air, pivoting on one foot in a deadly pirouette. The sword slowed a bit as it smashed through the gob's tough yellow skin, and there was a split second of gut-wrenching terror as it snagged on the old fur of the monster's armor, but relief washed over the huntress as the blade cleared the now-bisected body and swung back around in front of her. She'd spun in a half-circle, one powerful swing intended to strike two targets, and it seemed the pursuing gob was willing to play along. As if on cue, it impaled itself on her sword while trying to skitter to a stop out of its full sprint. In its death throes it managed to lash out with its dagger, but the thing hadn't the strength to cut the leather of her armor.
Chathen could see the other gob, her last enemy, scrambling away into the underbrush. If it was allowed to get back to its camp the whole vicious tribe might retaliate with a larger force. It wasn't likely that a sheep would be the only casualty, should that happen. Her sword was stuck between the ribs of the dead goblin, but its dagger was within her reach. Chathen snatched it and hurled it at the fleeing gob, itching with dismay as the hilt bounced off the creature's arm. It seemed to know it was home free, turning to mock her as it ran-
Headlong into the trunk of a tree.
Chathen couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing as the gob sprawled on its back, dazed. The huntress pulled her sword free and followed after the dizzy survivor, crouching next to him. Up close he smelled of thick musk and carrion, like a scrawny coyote, and his eyes were rolled into the back of his head. Unconscious, but still very much alive.
There was no honor in killing this creature, not like this, but she couldn't allow it to escape. In the scheme of things, it was still a gob. By and large, their kind were vicious bandits that murdered for sport and profit. She'd heard stories of camps that had worked with the various civilized peoples of the world, but they were few and far between. Besides, those had almost all been mercenary groups that still fought and killed for their own gain. And this was still a solitary, living creature. She wasn't going to eat it, and it was in no position to fight back.
It was, however, in a position to threaten her. In all likelihood she could kill it now or kill it when it came back to Ylvain Town with fifteen raiders instead of six. It was known that goblin raiders often split off on their own – that was how new encampments were made. A whole raiding party going missing without explanation wouldn't raise any suspicion. One survivor would start a war.
She lifted her sword, ready to plunge it swiftly through the little monster's heart.
“Nothing personal,” she whispered.
The gob's eyes snapped open and it shrieked out a single syllable.
“Wait!” it cried in the Common Tongue. That itself was so surprising that Chathen hesitated. It took the opportunity to say more.
“No kill! I go, I alone, no kill!”
“You speak Common?” she asked, half stunned. The gob nodded, squirming out from under the point of her sword. He started to get to his feet and she rested the blade against his neck, not ready to let him go just yet.
“Give me one reason to trust you,” she said softly. In her experience, gobs were a step above mindless. The fought, they hunted, they stole – as a rule, they didn't negotiate and they didn't beg for mercy.
“You kill Murdrug,” he said, pointing with a shaky finger to the corpse of the hedge witch. “Murdrug bad. I hate Murdrug. You good.”
Chathen nodded, looking back at Murdrug's body. It had seemed powerful, for a gob, and the idea that it could be holding some threat over this one wasn't far-fetched. She took a long and pulled the sword away from the gob's neck. She flicked the last bits of blood from its blade before sheathing it.
“Don't make me regret this.”
The gob nodded, backing away on all fours.
“I Grekza,” it said with something like a smile. Then it got to its feet and bolted off into the woods, leaving Chathen to attend to the bodies. One of the morbid perks of being the one sent to fight the monsters was, after all, loot.
It was nearly morning when Chathen arrived back in Ylvain, the sun a few short hours away. Already, the town priest and his acolyte were puttering about the town square with a few laborers, setting up the long tables and decorations for the festival. She called over the acolyte, a tall and lanky boy called Ropur, to help her drag in the deer and three pheasants she'd managed to shoot on her way back into town. The Summer's End Festival always included a feast, and as one of the town's hunters it fell to her to provide venison. Normally she'd have cleaned the animals before giving them over, but she was already weary on her feet and the festival would start at midday. If she was going to get any sleep at all, she had to get home sooner than later.
Chathen found her mother and brother still asleep in their bedroom when she arrived in her little house, so she took care not to disturb them as she pulled her boots and armor off by the door. She crept across the main room to her ladder and climbed up to her perch in the rafters. The nest – it couldn't be called a room for lack of walls or a consistent floor – had been her only private place in the town for almost six years, built with cast-off wood and furs she'd decided not to sell. There was even a small mirror up there, as unnecessary a luxury as it was. Her bow and sword went onto a rack she'd convinced a carpenter's apprentice to carve for her, and she took a minute to tie and cover her hair the way her mother had taught her so many years ago. Finally, exhausted, she curled into the soft pile of furs and fell into a deep, instant sleep.
She was awoken by music.
By the intensity of the light streaming in through the small window, she guessed it was near midday. She was late to the festival, but there was no changing that now. She could see, hanging on a rung of her ladder, that her mother had set out a dress for her, but she'd never felt quite right in dresses. Instead, she simply changed into clean underclothes and trousers then put her light leather armor back on. It was how most of the village knew her, anyway. After a moment's hesitation and the memory of a goblin left alive she strapped on her sword belt and slipped down, out of the house.
Chathen didn't see anyone on the cobblestone streets of Ylvain until she turned to see the square. It looked like every one of the nearly three-hundred residents had crowded around the long tables, surrounded by twelve heavy iron braziers and twelve blue-burning flames. There was music, pipes and drums and strings playing two or three mingling melodies from different sides of the square, and people were already well into their revelries. Most had already begun drinking, many were dancing, and all were talking or singing or laughing. Those with the wealth to do so – not many in a small town bordering one of the vast and wild forests of the North – were decked out in furs and silks. For a moment Chathen felt a pang of guilt at leaving the dress behind, but a hand on her arm pulled her suddenly out of such thoughts.
“Thought ye'd never make it!” chirped a cheery voice from behind.
“And miss the chance to see you make a fool of yourself? Oh, Lessa, it's like you don't even know me.” Chathen turned to her friend and wrapped the little woman in a tight hug. She and Lessa had grown up together, both somehow outsiders in the tiny community, yet almost polar opposites. Where Chathen was tall, dark-skinned and muscular with hair that curled and flowed however it pleased, Lessa was short and paler than snow, with hair like silver that hung straight. While Chathen had practiced with the bow and the sword, Lessa had studied magic.
The little mage was already, it seemed, a few cups into the celebration. She swayed and grinned after Chathen stepped back from the embrace.
“I only make a fool o' meself around you, turtledove. Ye should feel honored. Got a seat yet?”
Chathen shook her head, glancing back for her family at the tables. She found her mother fairly quickly, laughing merrily with the weaver and her husband, but her brother was nowhere to be found. She did spy two empty seats on either side of her mother, though.
“I assume my mother will want me to sit next to her,” Chathen said as she turned back to Lessa. “Not that I'm too excited about the prospect. She's sitting with the Quils.”
Lessa stuck her tongue out, twisting her cherubic face into a goofy grimace. “Ah, gods forbid ye have to spend an hour with yer mam's friends. I happen t' think the Missus ain't half bad.”
Chathen scowled as she laughed. “They're both fine people, but between her voice and his breath it's an assault on the senses. Honestly, it's bad enough that I have to hear four different songs and a hundred conversations all at once today. Spare me at least a little.”
“Follow me then,” quipped Lessa, grabbing hold of Chathen's hand and pulling her away from the tables and the noise. The pair paused just long enough to grab a handful of sweet rolls before slipping down a side street. A few minutes later they were sitting together on the edge of a rooftop, far enough from the festivities that even Chathen's sensitive ears only picked up faint wisps of music and voices. She stuffed a roll into her mouth and leaned her head on her friend's shoulder.
“Thanks for this,” she said, mouth half full. Lessa knocked her head gently against Chathen's and chuckled.
“You bet.”
It wasn't the first time the pair had been alone on a rooftop. As long as she could remember, Chathen's senses had always seemed too highly tuned. When she was young, before the forest took her father, she used to wake in fear from the sounds of wolves or gobs or other monsters of the forest. Sometimes she would run out of the house, searching for any quiet place to find refuge, but the whole village was filled with the sound. Lessa found Chathen crying outside her window. Maybe it was the magic in her, Lessa's own othering cacophony to deal with, but the mage had seen what was tormenting Chathen almost immediately.
“When it all gets to be too much,” she'd said, holding fast to Chathen's hand, “don't try to hide from it. You'll never get away. Instead, understand it.”
Fifteen years after that first night, clambering onto Lessa's roof and trying to identify every sound and smell, the two were still as thick as thieves. The sun had dipped back down into the sky when Lessa finally cocked her head, looking at her friend.
“We should get back before the Recitation. Brecklynn'll get mad if we miss his fancy prayer, an' the feast proper starts at sundown.”
Chathen lay back on the slanted roof and sighed.
“I suppose you're right,” she conceded, fingering a curl in her short, black hair. Speaker Brecklynn had no practical authority over the town, but it wouldn't do to be labeled a heretic. In a town where everyone knew everyone else, additional oddities were halfway to a death sentence. “Give me one more minute, and I'll be ready to go.”
“As ye wish, turtledove,” Lessa said with a soft smile. A few minutes later they made their way back into the town square.
The revelries had carried on throughout the day, but all came to a pause once the sun dipped behind the horizon. A portly man with a booming voice and a scratchy grey robe stepped onto the platform in the middle of the cluster of blue flames. Chathen and Lessa slipped into the back of the crowd, watching as everyone gathered close.
“My people,” he called out, motioning for the music to quiet. “Another cycle of the seasons has passed, with its times of hardship and prosperity. We have seen greatness and evil, but always the Twelve have watched over us.” This brought murmurs from the crowd. Many had lost a loved one over the years, and in a village of less than three hundred, a single loss could be devastating. The speaker held his hands aloft and called out to the citizens. “The Twelve have watched over us,” he reiterated, “and they will continue to do so! My people, join me in the Recitation of the Genesis.”
The portly priest brought his hands together at his waist, then lifted them to his shoulders. The whole town, from the most withered elder to the youngest child still old enough to stand, returned the gesture to him in unison. Then, nearly three hundred voices rose as one into the night air of the little town.
“In the beginning, there was nothing. Then, the Creator breathed life into his Twelve and gave unto them the task of creating and watching over our world. First came Aurus, whose purpose was to marshal the resources that the world might be created. Second were the Siblings: Nova, Sora, Estemus, and Wuster, tasked with shaping the lands. Third, the Aetherials were brought to life. They were Jikan and Tenki, lords over the heavens. Fourth came Leanna and Branko, queen and consort, creators of the thinking races and all beasts. Fifth was Maeva, the herald of heroes, and sixth came Nemesis, god of dark forces. Finally, and most powerful of all, the Creator gave unto us Archivus the Mouthpiece, that his word might be carried through the world. And lo, the Creator left the world to his Twelve until a time when he should be needed once more. So say the prophets, and so say we all.”
Chathen had never been particularly spiritual, but she recited the words along with everyone else. She could hear Lessa whispering in reverent tones beside her – the mage was a true believer. It wasn't as though Chathen didn't believe in the Twelve. Their reality was almost impossible to ignore in a world where monsters, magic, heroes, and heralds were all around them. She simply didn't spend much time contemplating them and it was easier to accept the world right in front of her. She'd never felt the need for anything else.
“Can you believe,” Lessa said beside her as the prayer ended, “that people all over the world are doin' exactly what we are right now?”
It was true, as far as Chathen knew. Her mother had told her that in the deserts of Estemus all that differed about the festivals were the foods. She imagined the same held true for the mountain strongholds and mining towns of Wuster and the farmlands and river cities of Sora. Some of the festivals would have thousands of worshipers are gathered in celebration and reflection, but many would be as small as Ylvain's own.
Chathen's eyes came to rest of the gentle curve of Lessa's neck. The mage had pushed her hair behind her ear, exposing a length of pink pale skin that made Chathen's fingers twitch. Years had gone by, but what Chathen had thought of as an adolescent infatuation hadn't faded. Her feelings had gone unspoken, but today felt important. Her arm moved, almost on its own, bringing their hands close together. Lessa was staring at the priest with rapturous attention. Chathen could feel a trickle of sweat down her spine from the nerves.
The moment was broken before it began as a familiar voice rang through the crowd. Chathen's hand snapped back to her side before anyone could see how close it had come to Lessa's fingers.
“Chathen! Mama's been looking all over for you! The feast is starting soon.”
She turned to see her brother, Kaleth, and moved swiftly away from Lessa. Chathen scooped the skinny boy into her arms and threw him over her shoulder as he squirmed.
“I'm too big for this!” he cried out. It was almost true; the boy was about twelve and growing tall, but he had more of their mother in him than their father and his build was slim. Chathen had always been told she'd inherited their father's frame, but she could hardly remember what he looked like anymore.
Tember Dubrais had perished just before the boy's birth, killed in the wilds by some fell creature. Branko the Consort and Leanna the Queen had been warring since just after the world's creation, or so the stories went, and their subjects could do nothing but serve as pawns in the battles. Tember had been a casualty, and now his sword rested at Chathen's hip. It was her wish that Kaleth never have to fight, even as a child looking at her infant brother, so she had insisted the sword be passed to her and she be trained as a hunter. Kaleth thus apprenticed as a dyer with their mother Yarla, and he seemed to like it well enough.
Kaleth stopped squirming and started to guide Chathen back to Yarla, occasionally distracted by jokes Lessa cracked as she followed behind them. The mage's family was large enough that she wouldn't be terribly missed until the feast truly began, and she'd spent as much time with the Dubrais family as her own over the years. The strange little procession found Yarla at her seat with the Quil couple in short measure.
“Mama!” Kaleth called out. “Tell Chathen to put me down!”
Yarla turned with a smile and a gentle scold for her daughter. Although she and Chathen shared the same dark, curling hair and olive skin, Chathen always felt outshone by her mother's beauty.
“Let your brother go, dear. I see you opted not to wear the dress I laid out for you.”
Chathen's face felt hot. No matter how old she got, how strong or skilled or self confident, her mother always made her feel like a child again. She shook her head as she set Kaleth on his feet. Thankfully, Lessa came to her rescue.
“Sorry mum, that one's on me,” the mage said as she looped her arms around Chathen's elbow. “I caught her comin' outta the house an' needed her help so she changed for me. One o' Da's sheep'd got loose an' we were worried it bolted for the woods.”
Chathen could see that Yarla didn't quite buy the story, but she shrugged it off regardless. Kaleth scrambled into his seat beside his mother as Lessa put an arm around her friend.
“I'd best be off, turtledove. Come an' find me after you eat, aye?”
Chathen nodded and hugged Lessa tightly. “See you soon.”
The serving of the food began mere moments later, food enough for three hundred people celebrating the changing of the seasons as families and friends talked, laughed, and ate happily as the sun slowly disappeared over the horizon. After more than an hour of food and drink Chathen had her fill. She kissed her mother on the forehead and ruffled Kaleth's hair, swaying slightly from too much mead. The drink had softened her senses so all she could hear was the lilting music. Thus, she didn't notice the clink of armor behind her until a voice broke through her haze.
“Are you Chathen?”
She whirled around to see a woman a bit more than a head shorter than herself, startlingly beautiful with crystal blue eyes and a waterfall of silken black and red hair. Even more noticeable than her appearance, though, was her equipment. Gleaming white heavy armor and a greatsword with a blade as long as Kaleth was tall, the mere sight of them made Chathen stagger back a step. She was certainly no expert on the matter, but the armor looked to be made from polished dragon's bone and the sword held the emerald gleam of grensteel. This woman was wearing enough wealth to purchase half of Ylvain, and she was asking for Chathen by name. The huntress swallowed, straightened, and nodded.
The woman held out her hand and hit Chathen with a smile that seemed to outshine the moon. There was only one thing she could possibly be, and the thought chilled Chathen to the bone. She clasped the woman's hand.
“My name is Hitomi Heartwind, of the Dawn Knights. I'm told you know the forest better than anyone.”
It was all Chathen could do to nod again. This woman, this Hitomi Heartwind, was a Hero.
Heroes were the stuff of legend. Some said they were born normal, then chosen by the goddess Maeva for greater purposes. Others said they simply sprang into the world, fully formed and ready for battle. Chathen knew that she was a skilled hunter, and that Lessa was a formidable mage, but if this Hitomi was anything like the Heroes she'd heard stories of then both of their skill combined would pale in comparison.
“I need a guide,” Hitomi explained. “Two of my companions will be here in the morning and we'll be traveling deep into the forest. Can you help us?”
“Certainly,” Chathen said, coming back to herself. “But there's nothing out there worthy of your attention. The worst we see are wendigo, and even then only maybe every five or six years.”
Hitomi laughed, and it sounded like honey. “I'll explain it all when my companions arrive. Can you meet us in the inn just after sunrise?”
“Of course. Sunrise. We'll talk more then. If,” she paused, taking in a long breath and letting it out slowly, “if you'll excuse me, I'm in my cups and need to prepare. Begging your pardon.” Drunkenness wasn't the most honorable excuse, but it was a festival and wine and ale had been flowing freely for hours.
Before the Hero could say anything to the contrary, Chathen turned and walked quickly to where she hoped Lessa would be waiting. There was a great deal to talk about.
Read the next chapter here.
Copyright Jesse Vetters, 2016
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