Star Axe Read online

  Within a few minutes he was dead.

  The Cormatine stared at him, while the others reacted by hastily dumping the contents of their cups. Their leader also poured the deadly poison onto the ground before him, and then did a strange thing. He grabbed the bag containing the potion and handed it to Kenlahar.

  “Pour it from your hand to my cup,” he commanded. When Kenlahar had done as he was told, the Cormatine took a long draught of the liquid. The others gasped in surprise, but when he did not fall over stunned, they began to look on Kenlahar with a new, almost worshipping respect. Then the Cormatine dropped reverently to his knee.

  “You are now our Cormatine,” he said. “The Cormat has chosen you. He speaks through you now.” In an undertone he quickly explained to Kenlahar the customs of his people. “In the right hands, the blood of the Cormat is a healing agent. In all others it becomes a deadly poison. No one knows before the change whether he is still the Cormatine—or how long he will hold the power before he passes on to someone else. But if it was poison when you tasted it,” he concluded, puzzled, “why did you not die? If it was not poison, how did you know?”

  “I just knew…” Kenlahar said. How could he explain how he had detected the small mote of evil in the potion—much as one could taste the first souring of milk. And how he had sensed that it would change and grow with time.

  The Cormatine seemed to understand Kenlahar’s silence. The ways of all Cormatine’s were mysterious., “We owe you our lives,” he said. “What would you have us do?”

  “Free the others of the company and help us to Swamp’s End. This is all I ask.”

  “It will be done,” the Cormatine answered, and barked out orders. The People of the Cormat swept aside as Kenlahar passed, and he briefly had a heady but uncomfortable feeling that he could have commanded anything of them, and they would have followed.

  He himself had to wake the others by pouring some of the converted blood of the Cormat over the heads of the drugged warriors. The Cormatine bequeathed him a leather bag full of the Cormat’s blood, which he tucked under his cloak, alongside the Star Axe.

  It was only as they were leaving that Kenlahar realized that Jakkem had not been among the sleeping prisoners. He had thought that Jakkem had entered the village with them, but now he was gone. When had Jakkem slipped away? Now that he thought about it, Kenlahar could not remember seeing the big man for several days. He had not thought anything of it, for surely Captain Jonla knew of the disappearance, perhaps had even ordered him off somewhere before they had been captured.

  Later, he was to regret that he had not raided an outcry then, when all the Companions could’ve heard him.

  The next morning, the swampmen led the reunited Companions on trails through the mire that none of the men of the Watch, not even Captain Jonla, would have ever seen. The Cormatine had stressed to the guides the importance of their charge, and the swampgirl—who was again leading the escort—seemed to lake her duty very seriously.

  The People of the Cormat-had shown they were in command in their own lands, and Kenlahar began feeling that they were free from danger at last. He was stunned therefore when a scout materialized from the heavy fog and urgently whispered to the swampgirl. The girl approached the men of Lahar with puzzlement lining her dark face.

  “Qreq,” she said, her accent grating on the word. “They are many and are coming fast. They do not seem to care that they are about to die! We shall have to split into more than one company. Some of us may escape. The new Cormatine must above all survive.” She nodded at Kenlahar.

  She spoke rapidly to the swampman who had brought the news in their own language, and he grasped Kenlahar tightly by the arm and led him away from the troop. He caught only a glimpse of Sanra and Balor, their worried faces not yet reacting to the sight of him leaving, and then they were behind him. If it had been up to Kenlahar, at that moment, he would have stood his ground and dared the Qreq to find him. It was time, he told himself, that he tested the power of the Star Axe.

  Still he followed the grim, silent swampman. They made good progress and Kenlahar was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, everyone had been able to evade the Qreq—when a dying scream somewhere behind him quickly changed his mind. Soon he was running with an endurance he could only have imagined a few weeks earlier. It seemed to him that they ran throughout the night. Soon he was no longer paying attention on what lay behind, and concentrated on making that next staggering step. So it would have ended, but for the young unknown swampman.

  He pushed Kenlahar in the back, warning him of the danger. “Run on!” he cried. “Do not stop, Cormatine!” Soon the faceless man—for Kenlahar could not now even remember what the swampman looked like—was lost in the fog. Kenlahar strained to hear the guide’s last cry over his own gasping breath, but all he could hear was a diminishing number of Qreq war cries.

  He ran on, cursing his cowardice and the necessity for it. The pain in his side grew almost intolerable, and he set each new landmark to arise on the horizon as his goal. Finally, even the pain in his side seemed to fade in the struggle for breath. He did not know if he was escaping—or running right at his enemies.

  The Cormatine watched the Companions leave the village and turned back into the ceremonial hut. It was empty now. Spilled flasks and unfinished meals were strewn across the table and onto the floor. From his bag of holy instruments, which hung near the door, he pulled forth a gray lump of metal.

  “I am sending him to you,” he announced into the empty air. “I suggest that you keep a watch for him on the borders. If anything should happen to the others, he would not survive long.”

  “I will be waiting,” a quiet thought answered. “Are you satisfied now that he is the one?”

  The Cormatine grunted and said, almost reluctantly, “He passed the Tryst. Yet he does not seem willing to carry his burden. I have sent one of my daughters along with him. She will see to his safety.”

  The quiet visitant did not answer verbally, but the Cormatine felt his sense of fulfillment. He had long planned for this moment. Soon he would be meeting the Axe-bearer at last!

  The next morning found Kenlahar hopelessly lost. The fog had finally lifted, revealing a hilly terrain covered by vegetation similar to that of the Island Laharhann. Tall evergreens and low-lying brush had replaced the swamp reeds. But this forest did not end abruptly at the edge of the River Danjar, or at the walls of the House of Lahar, but continued on in an uneven and seemingly endless expanse of green. It struck him hard that, for the first time in his life, he was beyond the Tream—Outside! The idea of a land where he would never again need to worry about such simple, but constant concerns as his next footing, was exciting—yet frightening. The green of the hills, dark evergreen and blue-green poplars, had hints of autumnal color throughout. To a man who had lived among the decaying fen trees it was as if he had never before seen color in nature. The rustling of the breeze through the branches made him feel as if he had never truly heard the clean sounds of the wilderness.

  His back was propped up to a large pine, where he had dragged himself after he had finally collapsed. The fear of the Qreq had finally faded enough for his tired legs to assert their dominance over his will. He sat quietly, unheeding of the small insects that climbed over him, exploring this new obstruction in their world. He was becoming thirsty and hungry—and increasingly cold. For the first time, the effects of his steady northward journey were being felt. Rarely in his life had Kenlahar felt such cold! Now the chill seemed to be striking into his very bones, and his sweat turning to ice.

  Common sense told him to either keep moving, or find shelter. But his willpower would not respond to his intellect. As the morning wore on, the chill actually seemed to be leaving him. He began to feel a warm, comfortable drowsiness; to dream of a dry, comfortable room, somewhere high in the House of Lahar. A stuffy room perhaps, with a fire crackling. He would sit un- moving with a book spread over his face, able to rest at last. There would be time to move on later
.

  The hands shaking him awake were not, therefore, welcome. “Go away,” he mumbled. “Leave me alone!” He did not understand the irritating words of the voice that responded, but they were urgent, glaring. Then, just as suddenly, he wanted to wake. The urgent words had struck a chord within him, and an unwelcome, but strong need to open his eyes again possessed him. But the sticky fluid in his eyes seemed to have crusted and no amount of panic would open them. He felt and heard a fire close to him and its heat, rather than warming him, seemed to be sending icicles into his legs. His eyes snapped open.

  The man over the fire did not acknowledge him, but simply continued tending the roaring fire. Kenlahar looked at him warily, too weak to move. The man was clad in a long robe, which appeared to be woven in many colors, but a closer examination showed an overlapping collection of stains. The man’s hair was pure white, flowing to his shoulders, and his hands were gnarled and stained to an almost permanent dark brown shade.

  After a while the man rose and approached Kenlahar, carrying a large spoonful of the potion. The warmth that coursed down Kenlahar’s throat was harsh, but left him alert. Now the long-haired man took the iron pot off the fire and set it for a few minutes in the broken shards of a frozen puddle. Still, the man remained silent, and Kenlahar was unwilling to break the silence first. Nodding to himself, the man lifted the pot from the ice and brought it to Kenlahar’s side.

  Kenlahar prepared himself for another harsh dose of the fluid, but was instead surprised when his hand was forced into the pot up to his wrist. The excruciating pain of that made him cry out involuntarily. The mixture was boiling hot! Later, after the painful tingling had at last left his hands and legs, he realized that the water could have only been lukewarm.

  The stranger calmly thrust his other hand into the pot before Kenlahar had time to recover from the first shock, or fully appreciate what was happening. Again he cried out in pain. Throughout the whole painful process, the man did not speak, or reveal any emotion in his face or manner. But he had a calm, forceful timing to his ministrations.

  Whenever Kenlahar was relieved of one painful treatment, he was subjected to another. The man pulled the pot from his side, and Kenlahar leaned back with a relieved sigh. But then the stranger poured the warm liquid onto his feet instead. He forced himself not to scream.

  Later, as he discovered the Hermit’s gentle nature, Kenlahar realized that the emotionless facade was an effort to suppress his own anguish. The Hermit disliked inflicting any pain—even when that pain healed the sick.

  The Hermit never did speak that day, or the next, but seemed to know the exact moment that Kenlahar was capable of a difficult conversation. For he knew something that Kenlahar had not realized yet—that the two men spoke different languages. When he was finally able to move on, the Hermit—as Kenlahar had begun to think of him—patiently started to teach him a new language. He began by pointing out the names of herbs and foliage. Kenlahar was soon to learn of the Hermit’s seemingly endless knowledge of plant life.

  The Hermit’s home was two days distance from where he had found Kenlahar, the old man explained. But the two days passed, and then another two days. The Hermit went slowly, both to allow Kenlahar to regain his strength, and to pursue the real purpose of his exploration—the collection of medicinal herbs. As Kenlahar listened carefully to the Hermit’s tongue, and became accustomed to the accent, he began to understand more and more of what the man was saying. The new language, he soon realized, was simply an ancient variation of his own, and he was soon able to decipher almost every sentence. The long and painful days he had spent interpreting the ancient books of the Archives now helped him phrase questions to the old Hermit.

  To begin with, Kenlahar asked the stranger over and over again for news of the Companions. But the Hermit did not seem to have any knowledge of any other travelers, and only shook his head in sorrow as Kenlahar described his long journey. The Hermit seemed a learned man, and Kenlahar produced the Star Axe for him to inspect. The old man did not seem impressed with the talisman, and told him that undoubtedly the secret of the Star Axe could be found in the voluminous libraries of Kernback.

  The Hermit’s unerring instinct showed itself again and again. As Kenlahar began to understand more, the Hermit began to give more and more detailed explanations of his beloved herbs.

  By the end of the second day, for instance, Kenlahar had learned that the seed that looked so much like the head of a snake was the godly gift for the cure of the serpent’s bite; he learned to mix the seeds of another herb in wine to “comfort the heart and drive away all sorrows” and so on. Kenlahar was surprised to find himself retaining much of this encyclopedic knowledge, which only encouraged the Hermit to expound more. It was the beginning of a doubling of the apprentice’s knowledge as a healer. He only wished that the Healer Coron could have had a chance to trade wisdom with the Hermit.

  There was almost no ailment that did not have a corresponding cure in what was, until now, an insignificant appearing plant; and the Hermit was not shy in using them—constantly mixing potions for the cure of the slightest itch or sore. And in a land where Kenlahar would have starved a few days before, they ate an exotic yet filling diet.

  On the morning of the second day, the cold, dark clouds lifted to reveal mountains. Like a line of ancient warriors, the peaks marched across the horizon, tall and white from the first snows of the season. Kenlahar counted eight summits in his eight, each seeming larger and grander than his neighbor.

  As tall as the mountains appeared, the blue sky dwarfed them. Kenlahar’s horizons—the horizons of the Tream—had always been low, weighed down by heavy clouds. But this sky just kept going upward to a dark blue roof, where the stars could almost be seen in the daylight. The low mists lying halfway between the foothills and the mountains, only added to the mystery of the peaks. The foothills were matted with specks of autumnal color. The reds and yellows dotted the green evergreens. The bright colors were luminous in the early dusk.

  It made Kenlahar sad that the self-absorbed, self- important people of the House of Lahar, caught in the drabness of the Tream, could not see this, and would not believe him when he returned to tell them.

  The Borderland, as the Hermit’s land was called, lay between the Tream and the mountains. Forested and hilly, it was the domain of the both the Hermit and a breed of farmers who scratched a living on the rocky soil of the small valleys and dales.

  The Hermit insisted on harvesting one more herb before returning home, in the valley called Dunhollow.

  “It is a rare, wondrous fruit,” the Hermit said. “And grows on one small plant in all the Borderland. I stumbled upon it many, many years ago—and have tended it with care and patience, for it is fertile just once every hundred years.” The old Hermit was caught up in, excitement as he told of the possible nearness of the next fertile seeding. The Hermit’s shambling gait picked up in its pace.

  “Does this herb have great virtues?” Kenlahar asked, wishing that they could just get on with their trek to the Hermit’s home, which he was now beginning to think of as Swamp’s End.

  The Hermit paused and seemed to hesitate before answering. “It has the greatest of all virtues—prescience. The power to see into the future. I have need of its powers this day. And yet, I must warn you, there is danger—for it may embrace deep evil. I never know before taking the herb how it will affect me.” He did explain how the evil would manifest itself, and Kenlahar shook his head, puzzled and somehow reluctant to ask. A shadow seemed to have drawn across the peaceful face of the Hermit.

  The glen of Dunhollow was a small clearing, overshadowed by trees, till keeping the frost of the last night hard in its cold shade. At the very edge of the hollow was a small, scraggly bush, dull green, with small bright berries at the end of each thick stock. The plant did not appear in any way remarkable to Kenlahar, but the old Hermit handled the berries delicately, and with obvious relish. The smell was overpowering; an acrid sour smell. The Hermit gav
e out a handful of the berries to Kenlahar, and himself messily swallowed another handful. Kenlahar’s faith in the Hermit was all that enabled him to overcome the sudden revulsion he felt towards the odor.

  Even so, he swallowed—just one—and waited for it to take effect. The Hermit already seemed in the throes of some trance, and a streak of green juice escaped out of the corner of the Hermit’s mouth. Kenlahar however, felt nothing. The frost slowly melted in the late afternoon’s light.

  Melted in the intense heat—a heat such that no man could endure! The landscape changed from the forest to a thick humid jungle, and Kenlahar turned to remark on the heat to—Sanra? But Sanra was not there! Of course, Sanra was not there. The environment shifted again; both the forest and jungle were disappearing, all growth was disappearing. And desert sands burned his feet. “Sanra,” he heard someone…himself?…crying. “Sanra!”.

  When he woke, a day had passed. The old Hermit had fallen and lay sprawled in such a painful position that Kenlahar feared he was injured. As he rearranged the Hermit’s limbs into a less tangled posture, the old man awoke to stare at him with weak, but frightened eyes. Only by leaning down could Kenlahar hear the Hermit. He picked up the old man and started traveling on a northward course.

  The old man was as light as the bundle of herbs they had collected. Occasionally, the Hermit would open his eyes and correct Kenlahar’s direction. The Hermit had suffered more than he had in the exposure to the nights cold. Kenlahar wondered if the old man would survive the dangerous freeze, but his worried thoughts turned again and again to his own dream—or vision. If he had seen the future, Sanra was alive, but in danger.

  After what Kenlahar was sure must have been a circling, twisting route, they reached the mouth of a narrow valley, which the Hermit indicated was his home. The Hermit faintly whispered to move forward, gesturing weakly.

  But Kenlahar laid him down, pulling out his small, precious bag of the Cormat’s blood, and poured some down the old man’s throat. The Hermit choked, but when he opened his eyes there was once again life in them. He demanded to know what he had been given. Kenlahar smiled and said that it was a herb that he had brought from the Tream.