Danticus Stormwell

The Makers Wood, Shevhala

    FROM A DISTANCE, Danticus watched as Shana skinned a deer. Her hands were coated red with blood, and her face was made up in a most serious expression. The knife she wielded glided beneath a bloody layer of skin and hair and sparkled like a thin ruby crescent in the sunlight. The scouts she taught looked on with morbid curiosity as they watched Shana dissect the dead stag. "The cut must be clean, and the skin must be pulled away from the muscle as one," Shana said as she tugged the deer hide free from the muscle. "Remember to always start from the hindquarters and work your way towards the neck. Preserve the pelt as best you can." She gave the hide a tug, separating it from the muscle. "After this, I'll show you how to cut and quarter the meat for preservation."

    Despite the grace in which she did these things, Danticus could tell there was a solemn quality in her manner as well. She didn't want to be here, and though that might not have been clear to the scout recruits, it was clear to Danticus, who knew her better than most. Where she would rather be, however, was another matter entirely. Where Shana's place was at any given moment was determined only in that moment itself, and off of whatever wild whim entered Shana's head. She was a hard one to pin down, and Danticus was only able to pin her down today thanks to a helpful word from Oren and the other guardsmen.

She took some questions from the recruits, about skinning a deer, building a fire, and whatever other scouting questions they could think of. Shana answered each halfheartedly, rattling off an answer made of quiet breath and few words. When she caught Danticus' eyes by chance, there was a tired flicker of irritation in them (or was it anger?). With a weary shake of her head, she dismissed the green scouting party. "I'm afraid I have to cut our lesson short. I've taught you all I can today. Dorah will see to it you receive further training later this evening. Tomorrow, we will resume the rest of our lesson. Until then."

    She stood and left without another word, and riddled her students with curious glances and unasked questions. Not soon after, the unfeathered scouts dissipated back towards the Shawl. Danticus followed her a ways further into the woods. He still had a sight of her black and purple dreads, bobbing and weaving beneath branches and over bushes. She certainly didn't mean to lose him. If she had, Danticus surely would have lost sight of her already with not a trace left to give clue as to where it was she went. He followed her until the two were alone by a stream. Shana was still as lakewater, staring idly at nothing in particular when Danticus came to her side. Her fingers were coated in red, and her eyes were dark pools of indigo.

Danticus cleared his throat. "You skin a deer better than any hunter I've ever seen." In truth, Danticus had never seen anyone skin a deer, but with Shana, the first words he said to her were always the hardest. He felt stupid for saying that. In truth, he always felt stupid around Shana. There was just something about her.

Shana's gaze seemed to flow with the stream below them, lingering on no one thing for too long. "A scout must always be ready to survive off the land. We never know where our duties might take us, and some of those places prove more dangerous than others."

    Danticus nodded. "I'd agree." He remembered their nights together, stalking the Tahlo and searching for Kara. Those were hard nights, nights that reminded him of his ranger training. He was so certain there was nothing that could run him as haggard as old Bayer Wilken, or prickle him as badly as the cocky young Sir Whitelocke. The day he was made a ranger proved to him there was nothing he couldn't do, no mountain he couldn't climb, and no nightmare he couldn't withstand.

    He couldn't have been more wrong.

    It wasn't his ranger training that kept him alive; it was Shana. It wasn't his battle tactics that kept them going; it was Shana. And it certainly wasn't Aryanne or Adelyn that took his seed from him, to be the first woman whom his manhood would know.

    It was Shana.

    And I lied to her, Danticus thought bitterly. I lied to her about everything. The pain she's been in, the doubts she's had, the grief of hers and the Shawl...it's because of me. What he was about to do was very foolish, he knew. There was no doubt about it that his head may roll in the next few days, if not hours. But this secret inside him was like a poison, seeping into every vein and fiber of his being. He had to get it out. He had to tell someone. Gods above forgive me.

Danticus let a sigh pass through him like a lazy autumn wind. "I um...I wanted to talk to you about something."

    Shana's eyes left the stream and went to the skies. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."

    Danticus grunted and shook his head. "That was what you said the last time I found you. Shana, please, there's something I really must-"

    "No," Shana said sternly. "I do not wish to hear it. You speak too much, Storm man. Words have little place here in Shevahla. Ours is a history forged by actions, not words. Keep them to yourself. I do not wish to hear them."

    Frustration coursed through Danticus just then. Days he had searched for her, always missing her by moments, and that was if he was even able to learn of her whereabouts that day. It was a hard thing finding a woman trained to cover her tracks. His eyes darkened from emerald to jade as he set his jaw. "Gods above, you stubborn woman, just listen to me."

    "No," Shana snarled as she met his eyes. "You listen to me. You do not belong here, outsider. You are not one of my people, and I owe you nothing."

    Danticus scoffed. "You sure fuck me like I'm one of them. And that's the only time you ever wish to see me."

    "Do not flatter yourself, Storm man. Many men of the Shawl have known my bed. I visit yours when they are unavailable."

    Shana's words proved to be as sharp as the blades of her axes, and Danticus felt the edge of her tongue as well as the edge of any blade. Hurt rippled through him like an ocean wave against a jagged rocky shore. She did not belong to him, this he knew, but to know that she gave herself to other men seemed to stir some great jealous monster inside of him. Even worse, to know that he was her second option was a different sort of pain entirely. His original purpose, his desire to rid himself of the secret of Kara's fate vanished suddenly. This was to be another spat of a different nature. There was blood on his teeth as he forced out his retort. "In place of a mother, you've decided to become a whore then? Is that it?"

    Shana's reply didn't come in a snide remark or a bitter jape. No, instead, Danticus was greeted with the back of her hand. Her knuckles rapped against his cheekbone like his face was a door. The taste of blood filled his mouth and found its way through his lips. His fingers met his chin and came away red and stained. Shana brustled past him, trampling over earth in cold fury. When she was no more than perhaps ten strides away, she stopped and turned her head over her shoulder. "Hunt your deer and be on with it. I'm sure your home misses you dearly."

    With that, she left. Where she was going, Danticus couldn't possibly know, or care to know. He stood there alone by that stream for some time, caught in the midst of a dark storm raging behind his eyes. What did she care if he left? Or better yet, why should he care if he left? As Shana said, Shevahla was not his home. He had less than thirty deer left to hunt, and he could have that done in a week, if he so wished. In less than a moon's turn, he could be home. He could be strolling through the streets of Elderstone, clad again in the crimson mantle of the Ranger Order. He could call again on Adelyn, and take her to the markets, telling her of his adventures and the glories he'd won in the name of his House. He would find Cristomir again, and they would embrace not as cousins, but as brothers. He'd even pay sweet Jenabelle a visit, and he'd-

    "We need to talk."

    Danticus whipped behind him suddenly, his hand coiled around the hilt of his dirk. From behind the trees emerged Tyrik, the fire watchmen that sought him out a few nights ago. Danticus relaxed his muscles, and his breathing slowed, but he wasn't entirely away from the edge just yet. Tyrik certainly wasn't a welcome sight, but there were sights far worse than he. Danticus shook his head. "I've told you, I don't want any part in your conspiracy."

    Tyrik chuckled. "Far too late for that, outlander. You've been asking questions, and you've been noticed."

    An uneasy lump formed in the back of Danticus' throat. Noticed? By who? "I don't know what you're talking about." Danticus didn't even believe the words himself.

"Do you take me for a fool? Of course you do, and you know as well as I do that's the truth. You'd do well to accept my offer."

    Danticus took a look around the woods that surrounded them, a cautious survey he feigned as a curious glance. "I told you," Danticus said in a voice thick with wariness, "I want no part in your scheme."

    Tyrik shook his head. "It's not a scheme, outlander. I've told you already, it's a cleansing. A cleansing of the evil that plagues my village."

    "Cleanse it yourself then," Danticus snickered. "Your people are not my people, and they've made that very clear to me."

    Tyrik let a silence settle between them, the forest, and the rest of the world. All Danticus could hear was a lonely wind blowing through the trees.

    The silence was shattered. "Fair enough, outlander. I'll make a bargain with you, seeing as there's no sense in appealing to your morality. How many deer do you have left? The betting says near thirty."

    Danticus rolled his eyes. He learned only two days ago that the people of the Shawl had bets going to see how long it would take him to hunt all fifty deer. Some of the betters had more faith in him than they did their own Maker, waging that he'd have all fifty deer skinned and stewed within a week. The fools, they were. Most of the reasonable said within a moon's turn, a few of the optimistic said within half a moon's turn, and a small few of the pessimistic sort said by the end of the year. Oren, the guardsman, said he'd never complete the task, and would serve as a footrest for Chief Akem.

    "I have thirty-two deer left to hunt. Why? What's it matter to you?"

    "I'll halfen that number for you. Help me with my task, and I'll help you with yours. You've been at this hunt of yours for nearly half a moon, and that's only eighteen deer. You've got another moon or two until you're done at the rate you're going. Help me, and I'll help you. With my bow at your side, you're likely to leave the Shawl within a matter of days."

    That was a sweet bargain indeed. The process had been painfully slow, given the deer have scattered since he invaded their grazing lands, and hauling one back to the Shawl was often long and bloody work. The most he'd collected thus in one day was two deer. With an extra bow, that number would surely double. He'd be gone in half the time.

    Danticus sighed. He was sure to regret this. "Fine. I'll help you, so long as you help me hunt my deer."

    Tyrik grew a smile that made Danticus uneasy. "Excellent. Meet me tonight at the fire watch tower. I'll explain everything there."

*****

    Under the cover of night, Danticus finally arrived at Tyrik's tower. His hand tightened around the final rung of the ladder before he hoisted himself up into Tyrik's lookout post. Tyrik closed the hatch behind him. "Were you followed?"

    Danticus shook his head. "No, I don't believe so."

    Tyrik snorted at the world "believe", but the word served him well enough. "Good."

    From this tower, Danticus could see for miles. It was on the southern side of the Shawl along the embankment, overlooking a sea of purple leaves that stretched as far as the eye could see. "The Maker's Wood", as it was dubbed by the people of Shevahla. Concealed beneath their leaves were all sorts of evils and terrors, or so Tyrik would have Danticus believe. Somewhere in that wood was where the covenant made their home.

    "How are you so certain the covenant makes their home in this wood?" Danticus asked Tyrik. Had he been the leader of an evil group of sorcerers, he'd like to think he'd headquarter them further away from the village and out of the eyes of their tribal firewatchers.

Tyrik's face was alive with the shadows of fire. The watchman gave him a hard look.

    "I am certain outlander. I have seen things, unspeakable things, from my post here. Things that defy the very Maker himself."

    Everything here seems to defy the Maker, Danticus thought dryly, but dare not voice. The Shevahlan's were a pious people, drunk on their Maker's milk and gorged on fruits from their margo trees that made up their Maker's wood. A word against their Maker was akin to an evil deed or act of violence against their people. He did not know if Tyrik shared their piety, but he did not care to test it. "What sort of things?"

    Tyrik gestured out to the sea of purple-leafed trees. "Things in this very wood. Near three moons ago, just before you found yourself along our shores, there was a thunderstorm, a storm that I believe served as your herald, Storm man. Lightning struck the wood, and a great fire broke out. I went to blow my horn to rouse the Shawl, but before I could, the fire disappeared, as if lightning never struck."

    Danticus' face was twisted up in confusion. "That hardly sounds like proof of-"

    "Let me finish, Storm man." Tyrik looked out to the moonlit horizon of the endless wood beneath their tower. "I went down into there, into the wood. Something compelled me to. I felt as if I was in a trance, my feet moving due to no will of my own. I found the tree that was struck, burnt, and singed with the Maker's fury, splintered and fallen. The ground was black, the dirt become ash, and dying embers hissed in the soil. There should have been a fire. There should have been a great fire to consume us all, and rid us of this evil...but there wasn't. They sought to it."

    "They?" Danticus asked quietly.

    Tyrik's eyes met his. "Yes...them. The Covenant. Using the dark magic of the other ones, they killed the fire in its infancy and robbed the Maker of his justice. I saw them that night, clothed in robes made of black feathers...feathers of a crow."

    Danticus felt a lump in his throat. Crows were messengers of evil omens in Jorden, or so it was said. It seems even their dark wings know not the distance of the seas. A rhyme came to him just then, one he and Cristomir would recite as children growing up in the streets of Elderstone.

Blessed be thy parents, may they watch us grow

Blessed be thy king, to all that we owe

Blessed by thyself, be thy holy and true

Or else a crow will fly and death will come for you

    Tyrik seemed to not notice the ill look that overcame Danticus. "Manicar...the crow is his symbol. I knew this, every child of Shevahla knows this. And yet here they were, men cloaked in their feathers, profaning our holy wood. I followed them to where they came, and what I saw that night has haunted me every night until even now, Storm Man. I have never witnessed such great evil."

    Kara, Danticus thought suddenly. Kara must have seen this too. She must have known, she tried to warn me. "What did you see, Tyrik?" He didn't want to know, but he had to.

    Tyrik looked at him with haunted eyes. "There is magic in this land, is there not? Have you felt it, Storm Man?"

    Danticus looked down at his shadowglass arm, sleek black rock twisted into the shape of a hand. He tasted spiced milk on the back of his tongue, healing his wounds and subduing his pain. The skyhart flying in the sky, the purple leaves of the Makers wood, the feathers of the greywings, tall and proud, and Shana, naked and bathed in moonlight, his seed spilled inside of her.

    Yes, this land had magic in it.

    Danticus nodded slowly. "I have felt it, yes." His voice was a hair above being a whisper.

    Tyrik let out a sigh. "There is a source to the magic, Danticus, and it doesn't come from soil or water. It comes from blood. You must see to understand. Would you come with me, Storm Man, so that I may open your eyes? Would you help me rid this place of evil?"

    Evil... It was everywhere. Danticus had seen enough evil, in the hearts of men and beast. Evil had consumed Randor Casterlyn, tempted Joras Freemane, preyed upon Gallador Thornshield, festerd in the heart of Tyren Levell, and now, it cast its ugly shadow over this village and its people. The words of his father came to him then. He had been called to battle by the Old Thorn himself, to defend his kingdom. His mother asked him why he had to go, and why he must wear the crimson mantle. "Because evil will prevail when good men do nothing," Frederic Stormwell said, wearing the same crimson mantle of the sacred Order that Danticus himself now wore. Danticus was only a boy when he heard that, but he wouldn't understand his father's wisdom until he became a man. Here now, in a small village far away from his home, was a chance for a good man to do something.

    "Storm man," Tyrik said again. "Would you join me?"

Tyrik held out his hand.

And Danticus took it.