Cormack held his tongue, not wanting to risk interrupting the solemn ceremony. It went on for a long while until finally the ring of dwarves opened, revealing a cairn of piled stones. Still singing, the cadence marking their every movement, the dwarves turned as one so that they were no longer shoulder-to-shoulder, but formed instead a single file as they marched around and then away from the grave of their fallen comrade.
“So, are ye awake then?” the leading dwarf asked when they reached the beach and began to disperse. “Was thinking ye meant to sleep the whole o’ the day.”
“Better for him if he did, what?” the second dwarf added in a sinister voice indeed. “Better for him if he’d listened to his fellows and done run to their home o’ rocks.”
“More fun for us that he didn’t,” another put in, stepping out of the line and pulling his red beret from his hairy head. In the same movement the dwarf drew out a curved, serrated knife, its gleaming blade already marred by blood, and Cormack knew that he was doomed. Powries-bloody caps, as they were known-wore their most prized possession on their heads, and those red berets, through some magic that no race other than the dwarves understood, shined more brightly with the blood of fallen enemies. The intensity of a beret’s hue constituted the powrie badge of honor, of rank and respect.
The dwarf with the knife approached. Cormack tried to hold steady his breathing, tried not to be afraid, as he glanced all around for his Abellican brethren.
But they were not to be seen. They were in the rock chapel, as the dwarf had proclaimed, and Cormack couldn’t even free his arms to defend himself.
The tall and willowy woman burst from the forest, the wide leaves of the many ferns and low plants slapping against her bare legs as she rushed along the sketchy path. She had hurried from her village, intending to perform the midday service, the Fishermen Blessing, as her station demanded of her. As soon as Milkeila cleared the last brush and viewed the rocky expanse to the beach she knew that her service would be delayed, however, for none of the fishermen were in the water. They stood upon the high rocks, staring out over the calm lake to the southeast. Moving out onto the beach and toward those rocks Milkeila understood the distraction, for the sounds of battle, the sharp crack of sticks, the occasional cry of rage or pain, drifted across the flat water to her ears.
“Chapel Isle,” one of her kinsmen said to her. She knew that already from the direction of the sounds, referring to the small and rocky island upon which the Abellican foreigners had built their simple monastery.
“The monks are longing for their homeland again,” another fisherman said with a derisive snort, and others snickered at the thought.
Milkeila brushed from her face her thick hair, a rich brown hue that highlighted red before the sunrise and sunset, to peer intently into the fog, though she knew that she would see nothing definitive at this distance across the misty lake. Only on breezy days, when the perpetual fog was blown clear at various intervals, could the people of Yossunfier, this island, catch the slightest glimpse of the monks’ home, and even then, it was nothing more than an indistinct blur in the distance.
There was simply too much mist this day, as almost every day.
“Better the powries than the monks,” another of Milkeila’s kinsmen remarked. The others grumbled their agreement.
Milkeila remained silent and did well to hide her discontent, for she hardly agreed. Nor had it always been this way between her people of Yan Ossum, Clan Snowfall, and curious southern Vanguardsmen who called themselves Brothers of Abelle. When the monks had first appeared at the lake they had befriended the barbarians, particularly the shaman class, to which Milkeila belonged (though back then, she had been merely a young and eager student). Many of her kin had quickly become disenchanted with the Abellicans because of their insistence that their way was the only way, that their religion was the true religion, and their demand of adherence to that strict order and rituals.
Milkeila’s hand moved up to brush the necklace concealed under her more traditional one of claws and teeth and bright feathers. Under her smock the young woman kept a ring of gems, stones of varying color and type and magical property, given to her by one of the younger monks. She glanced around guiltily, knowing that her people would judge her harshly if they ever discovered her secret-and the other secret: that she was privately meeting with that young monk, being tutored in the general ways of Abellican gemstone magic. And much more than that.
The sounds of battle increased across the water.
“Looks like they have a good row going,” one of the barbarians said. “We should prepare the boats and paddle in behind the fight. The pickings will be easy. Perhaps we could even go right to their stone church and throw the foolish Abellicans from the lake once and for all.”
Others mumbled their agreement, but all present knew the impracticality of the suggestion. No raids could be executed without the proper blessings of the shamans and the careful planning of the elders, and none of that could happen in short enough order for this impromptu mission to occur. Still, the eager nods reminded Milkeila that she and her few rebellious cohorts were playing with danger here in their secret relationship with the Southerners, particularly Milkeila; she was shaman and had dared to take Cormack as her lover.
“Maybe the powries will do our work for us,” the same man said after a few heartbeats, when enough time had passed for all of them to recognize the impracticality of his previous suggestion.
To hear her people cheering for powries over fellow humans left Milkeila cold. The Abellican monks had crossed a dangerous threshold early on, one they had stepped over by choice and not heritage. In insisting that the barbarians elevate the teachings of Abelle over their long-standing, traditional beliefs, the monks had, in effect, openly declared themselves heretics and had been branded as such by the elders and the shamans.
Milkeila recalled the day when she had warned the Abellicans about their unacceptable path and winced in her mind’s eye to remember Brother Giavno’s angry retort. “What do we care if our ways offend you?” he had roared. “Your place is in hellfire while heaven awaits the followers of Blessed Abelle!”
Milkeila hadn’t known what “hellfire” might mean, but when Giavno had assured her that she and her people were doomed to sit in eternity beside the likes of the dactyl demons, she had fathomed the point of his rant quite clearly.
Fortunately not all the Abellicans were of similar temperament as that unpleasant one. Some of the younger brothers, one in particular, were quite open to the possibilities that there were other explanations and traditions worth exploring in sorting through the mysteries of life. Of like mind to Milkeila and her small group of friends, who often wondered about the world beyond the borders of the mist-covered lake, a world upon which they were forbidden to venture.
“Be safe, Cormack,” the shaman whispered under her breath, her hand brushing her shirt above the necklace of magical stones, and in an even lower voice, she added, “My love.”
The serrated blade was barely an inch from Cormack’s throat when another dwarf grabbed the arm holding it.
“Nah,” that second powrie said, tugging the first dwarf back from the bound human.
“I won’t cut him wrong that his blood’s spillin’ too fast!” the first assured the others. “Let him die slow, and we’ll all get our caps in the puddle, what?”
“Nah, ye’re not for cuttin’ him at all,” said the other, and he moved in between the knife-holder and poor Cormack. He glanced back at Cormack as he did. Cormack realized from the dwarf’s recently busted nose, blood caked on his thick mustache, that this had been one of his opponents before the glacial trolls had arrived on the scene.