The Korellian Odyssey: Requiem

Copyright © 2011 by Vance Bachelder

Mill City Press

212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290

Minneapolis, MN 55401

612.455.2293

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-937600-16-7

For L.

K
orel could not believe his good luck. Down in a draw, a razorback picked its way through rock and scant tundra towards the leaves of a thorny warnoth bush. These bushes, once plentiful, were rarely seen and thought extinct this side of the Mount of Instructure, but this forlorn plant did not seem to beckon so much as stand as an isolated reminder of what once was, a reminder of old vitality and glory now fading with the distance of memory. Its leaves had medicinal purposes and were known to give visions to those who consumed them, perilous visions containing truth, future, past, present, and even possibility within their mental twistings . . . and sometimes the slow spiral of consuming madness. Yet the boar seemed undaunted by the plant with its dormant powers sleeping just below the surface of its tender flesh. Deliberately, the boar neared the plant to taste one of the few remaining sources of moisture in all this great plain of Decaneth.

A razorback wandering out of a plain nearly devoid of life and heading straight toward his sleeping place was indeed good fortune for Korel. He had camped in the rocks of a slide that stretched well above the warnoth bush. This was fresh meat, meat of a creature almost erased from the earth since the Decline of Days and its attendant wearying of the plain. It had been many days since his supplies had run low and he had taken to eating what he could of the grasses, finding drink in the hidden watery places. He had only a bow (fashioned from stone through the arcane skill passed down through generations) and a few arrows he had made from an aurora tree he encountered before crossing the mountains into the plain. He had been allowed no formal weapons upon the embarkation of his journey, but he had been trained in all the arts, including those of war, as was the wont of his family and upbringing. The bow had taken him several days to fashion using a stone he had sharpened, stone against stone, until he had a suitable tool for the task. Even the stone tool had been taken from the spine of the mountain, the same living rock which Veruden had given to Ferrion upon which to lie the organs of the world, and the gift of Ferrion was said to still live within the stone of all high places, but even more so upon the mountains of Orden.

Korel had been careful in his approach, but even as he crept closer to his quarry the razorback bolted, as though the leaves of the warnoth had given it some primitive sense of future danger. But Korel was swift and strong, calling upon reflexes developed only after years of training in the arts of war, training that was a part of his earliest memories, even as a young boy in his father's house. He raced after the boar with incredible speed, easily pulling an arrow from its makeshift quiver, knocking it to the bow midstride, and letting the arrow fly. Yet, as if the effect of the leaves instilled rudimentary foreknowledge to the boar, it ducked the arrow suddenly and escaped injury. Korel, surprised at its tenacity, sprinted after the boar, drawing rapidly up from behind to clutch its tail with both hands and pull with a teeth-clenching grunt.

At first the boar staggered under a sense of primal fear, thrashing wildly at the ground and lashing out at the air. But then, as Korel released it, the boar spun, its squealing screams of existential panic turning instantly to guttural grunts of fury. The boar charged. But Korel, anticipating the attack, had wrapped his leather tunic around his left forearm, and as the beast hurled itself at him, tusks lunging and mouth gaping, he threw his tunic-covered hand into the boar's open maw and down its throat, obstructing its windpipe. The boar struggled to chew through the leather and the tender-fleshed forearm that lay beneath, but to no avail. In a desperate gambit to live, the boar planted its hooves and pulled backward in corkscrewing undulations, desperately struggling for breath. But Korel was too strong, and the airway of the razorback remained obstructed until finally its strength was gone, all animation spent.

The arrogance of hunting any animal bare-handed would have earned Korel at least an hour of sword scrimmage with Felmerand, his old battle instructor and conscriptional tutor to the family, or perhaps worse punishment. But Korel had exceptionally strong hands . . . or so he had always been told.

Boar had been hunted to near extinction; the healing powers of its deadly tusks being highly prized and the manner of their harvest being highly brutal made the whole a blunt irony as the beast's ivory became both the animal's salvation and its bane, a contradiction that scraped along Korel's already raw sensibilities. He removed the tusks first with the makeshift knife he had fashioned from the same living rock as his bow, placing the tusks in his purse, then moved the kill to his rudimentary campsite for proper cleaning. Korel knew that by spilling its blood, he had entered into an unspoken pact with the boar. Life through death should be preserved, as the shedding of blood during the hunt was a hallowed act. He would not waste any meat. Wasted meat also left signs trackers might follow—or worse, the scavengers of the waste, things driven by the scent of blood and drawn by ancient, dark instincts. Some scavengers were of this world but others were not, and it would be well not to provoke them. Korel used what salts he had but knew he would fall well short of a decent cure. He would have to risk a fire, curing the meat to a scalded brown to arrest its rapid decay. With these preparations he might avoid the voices sometimes heard upon the wind, if he was careful and lucky.

Using a flint, Korel started a small fire under a rocky outcropping. Wood was scarce, but what little he used was dry and gave off good heat with little smoke. But the dry wood could not last long and he would eventually have to use dead brush, a fuel that would smoke darkly under the labors of brazing the hot meat as its grease dripped into the orange heart of the fire. The bones and inedible portions of the boar could be fired during the night, as these would give off the greatest smoke, nocturnal blackness obscuring the dark plumes. The ash and unusable bone would then be buried in accordance with the order of purification and revitalization. Korel knew that any true tracker would see his fire many miles away, but he did these things to keep the other trackers, the trackers between worlds, from seeing him better. Or so the Quenivorian (Kelmarian) sisters had taught him. He wasn't sure he believed all they had taught, but he knew enough not to underestimate the judgment and teaching of the Sisters of the Quenivorian Order of the Isle of Kelmar.

A day later, the meat was completely fired and prepared. Korel had packed it in the dry leaves that covered the floor beneath the outcropping. He then started off as quickly as he could, carefully picking his way down the slide as it flowed out toward the plain, the last remnants of his dying fire burping small, dark plumes of smoke. In the end, his use of dead brush to fuel the fire had been necessary to complete his preparations. At the bottom of the slide, Korel paused to take a few healing leaves from the warnoth bush. Somewhere in his consciousness it seemed to him that these leaves had grown here purposefully, as though the plant with its medicinal properties had taken root here many years ago in anticipation of the day when Korel would pass this very spot and pluck the green gifts it proffered. Korel's diffidence, not to mention his logic, told him to dismiss this strange impression. But it continued to linger in his mind despite the protests of a grounded outlook on the world, and in the end he let the impression stay. At last he turned, leaving the bush behind as he hurried across the sparse plain that ran up to the foot of the distant mountains rising in the east.

These plains were said to be desolate. Few living things could survive in the midst of the desert drought, where parching thirst seemed to climb up from below the crusted bake-pan surface, clawing through lungs, throat, and mouth to jump out upon the plain and reign as both as the jester and sovereign of unfulfilled need, delighting in the ache of it. Korel had thought this the talk of superstition, the fear of ignorance, but as he continued eastward across the increasingly barren landscape, a malignant thirst did seem to ooze invisibly from the ground, an anger contained within the rocks, with the forlorn echo of voices trailing on the wind. He continued traveling east, picking up his pace despite the heavy burden of leaf-packed meat swinging from leather cords carried across the breadth of his shoulders. The water supply would last another two or three days, enough to get him across the plain to the eastern mountain foot ahead.

As the sun began to set, long shadows stretched across the caked expanse, the hunger of the flat, wide valley yearning toward him, as if he were a last morsel of food granted the condemned, dying plain upon the eve of its execution. As he did the previous night, Korel sought high ground on which to camp, climbing a short ridge to the south covered with boulders and shallow crevasses, devoid of any plants or life of any kind. Indeed, all the land round about was completely barren, without even a solitary blade of grass or tangle of scrub to break the gray-brown sameness that stretched in every direction to the horizon.

Korel made camp within the boulder field, a location that would assure maximum concealment but also the maximum disadvantage, as the blocky, cluttered terrain would impede him should a quick escape be necessary. Despite this, it seemed the best spot to rest as he laid his burden of meat upon the ground and dug a small pit in which to place it, a shallow grave to hide the scent from any who might seek this place during the night. He covered the leaf-wrapped meat in the earth and looped the cords binding it over a rocky projection in easy reach should a quick evacuation be necessary.

The night closed in rapidly as the wind began singing, a chorus of lost and seeking voices riding upon it—thirsty sounds, oh so very thirsty those voices seemed to Korel, laced with a forlorn loneliness. And as the voices rose and fell, he slept he fitful sleep, wrapped in a blanket of darkness, propped against a boulder, consciousness coming and going with the undulations of ethereal tides. He spent most of the twilight hours this way until the darkest hours of deep night, not long before the coming of the dawn.

Sitting within the boulder field, Korel looked up toward the shining stars above, some of which whispered of great deeds done when the world was newly young—when Mirilyn, the first ruling queen of those who gave form to the earth, removed her crown of precious gems and placed it in the heavens to give light to all who are lost, to make the dark places less dark until the coming of the Light. As he drifted on the edge of sleep, Korel thought of his first day at the palace.

In Westoreth, he and his family had lived simple lives as weavers and cloth merchants. They had been poor when compared to the standards of wealth, though they earned enough for their needs. Yet they were wealthy in talents and basic goodness and touched with uncommon beauty, harmony, and a quiet nobility that seemed to arrive from a great distance, the grace of ancient kings come down through forgotten ages to finally settle upon the family. With this forgotten lineage also came a passionate talent for the arts of war, a character gifted through the generations and a possession of the family despite its now humble profession. But as with all families, despite their skills and gifts, the Norellens experienced unrest, even as ancient kings with ancient curses, foibles, and enemies.

Korel was the youngest of six and loved the work of weaving, spending most of his time with his mother and two sisters. He found this time together a source of peace, knowing that circumstances would not always allow for such. The rudimentary skills he soon mastered, his abilities developing rapidly until his skill matched that of the best craftsmen, inspiring contracts for the weaving of house crests, famous hunts, wildlife, landscapes, and even an occasional portrait.

But his brothers dismissed his talent, sowing the seeds of a kind of jealousy that called his works soft, the labor of the weak, and a pitiable waste, even when such waste brought the most gold at market. During those times when Korel did accompany his father and brothers to market, he was usually left to sell his wares alone while his brothers took a keen interest in the passions of sport or flirtations with beauty, where and when such could be found.

Korel was not a talented salesman, but his wares always sold well. His bartering abilities paled in comparison to those of his brothers, who typically sold more goods even with their penchant for exuberant distraction. Yet his father Gellidan was not disappointed in his youngest son, believing he saw a true talent, a vision that inspired a father's encouragement and tolerance.