The Ostyragor - Chapter 1 - Final Rest

Chapter 1 – Final Rest

“Leave it be, Colli!” A'ton cringed inside as she caught the look on his wife's face. She watched Ta'rak from the window in the kitchen, muttering under her breath, and banging the metal pots around in the basin. She spun towards him, fairly growling.

“Don't you tell me what to leave be! You see him out there? He's been miserable for too long!” Colli lifted her arms up and down as she vented her frustration. She hated to see Ta'rak look so defeated. “He hasn't been like this since his wife died!”

“That doesn't mean its your job to fix it. If the Ancient wills it, then Ta'rak will find another wife.” He spoke gently, and hoped not to get her too angry.

“He should have another wife by now! He should be hoisting his son over his shoulder, or be protective of his little girl. Instead, there he sits, day after day,” She looked sadly out the window again, “drinking his tea, hardly moving until someone comes along to prod him.” She spoke quietly, and A'ton could hear the concern in his wife's voice.

“I see him too, armaani, but he is Kalpa Mestari. Out of respect, there is nothing I can do that won't appear to be interfering.”

“I don't like to see him just wasting his life like that. He is just.... waiting.”

“Let him wait. Someone will come along that will make him live again, so until then, leave him to his pain. Would you want me moving on before I thought it was time, um, should you go to your Final Rest before me that is,” he added in quickly as he watched her flare up, “You know how much I love you.” His thick arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed the side of her neck. She laughed as his thin beard tickled.

“Alright! I give in!” She sighed and turned away. She wasn't willing to admit how much it hurt to hear him even consider that he might move on one day, even if she had gone to her rest. She was a big woman, and childless, which was not a good thing for someone her age. It cast doubt on her ability to be a mother. There was also the fear that her handsome husband might put her aside for someone else.

That thought made her turn her head toward A'ton, and her eyes began to spit fire. She put a hand on her hip, and lifted her wooden spoon.

He tried not to laugh as he retreated from the kitchen. Its better to run then be beaten with a stirring spoon. If she heard his laughter, she might chase him down.

* * * * *

The mug of hot tea in his hands brought Ta'rak back from his memories. He could still see his wife's eyes sparkle with mischief just before she jumped into his arms with the intention of knocking him to the floor.

The road called to him and urged the fighter within him to rise up. He longed to shed the melancholy that bound him to his home here in Harm's End. Sitting around and waiting for old age to take him to his Final Rest was not his way. He wanted to fight for every breath of life and to go down to his Final Rest in defiance of those who tried to send him there.

This sadness claimed his life, and chained his will. When the Jakt Agor stole his young and vibrant wife, it took the most precious person from him. There were days that he wanted to put his sword on his belt and walk to the bridge. On those days, if he had been on a hunt near the border, he would have crossed the bridge, and tried to kill anything that got in his way. He would have died only a few feet inside that cursed land, but what else did he have to live for?

The chair beneath Ta'rak's two hundred and fifty plus pound frame creaked as he shifted his weight. The wood of the chair was old and worn, yet well preserved and sealed with wax. The fine carpentry skills that were needed to build this chair could be found in every village he visited over the years, but this chair was special. Every person that had been important in his life, his father, mother, and his wife Jaana, sat in it at some time in the past.

The village of Harm's End had been here for centuries, and held stubbornly onto this piece of the Ostyr Agor in spite of the dangers they faced with the Jakt Agor only a couple of days ride to the northeast. The palisade, made of the strong hardwoods that grew in the forests around the village, protected them from raiders, bandits, and wild animals. He didn't think it was enough though.

“Damned council. Polkkypaas, the lot of 'em.” Ta'rak sighed. His head ached from the constant arguments in the council chamber, petty bickering about improvements that he thought they should have. Wood burned, rotted away, and eventually turned to nothing but another expense for repairs.

The Manor was stone, but the knowledge of how the Fallen built it was lost to the centuries since they disappeared from the land. Its stone was the speckled granite that dotted the countryside, cut square and smooth, stacked with no mortar, yet held together so firmly that no battering ram could move a single block. It would be the place everyone ran to in case of a siege. The Manor had exquisitely carved corbels and buttresses, while the doorposts were carved with symbols no living person could translate. The building's architecture was second only to the king's castle in Arouna Dell, the most heavily populated community in the Ostyr Agor, and the only real remaining city since the time of the Fallen.

His house, and the mausoleum, were the only other buildings that were constructed in stone. The mausoleum used limestone, while he had the masons build using stone the farmers needed to get out of their fields. It was solid, did not groan in the wind, and would stand for many centuries.

The surrounding houses haven't changed in his lifetime, nor his father's before him. The shops that lined the market square were the traditional homes for each of the artisans who occupied them. The baker's shop was directly in front of Ta'rak's home and the baker's living residence was above the bakery. The general goods merchant, the tanner's shop, the butcher, and even the smith all had shops around the square with their homes above them. The thing that bothered Ta'rak was that they were built with wood.

“One good fire is all it would take.” Ta'rak grumbled quietly. In the long centuries that Harm's End had existed, no one had rebuilt their home with stone. The structures were simple and humble, clean, meticulously maintained, and in spite of his irritation, he could still see the pride each person took in their homes.

Every morning, he would sit, drink his tea, and watch the people in the village go about their daily lives. His house was the largest in his village but he did not take pride in that fact as other people might. Children did not fill its massive bedrooms with laughter, or its halls with delighted shouts as they raced about.

He took another swallow of his tea, enjoyed the sweetness, and tried not to face his memories. He didn't want to see his wife's face in his dreams. He tried to block out how his wife tried to bowl him over so she could kiss him until he begged for mercy. It was no use though. His large hands ached to hold her one last time, to feel her arms wrap around his neck, or her hands reach and grab hold of his beard when she was angry at him. She had him wrapped around her little finger and he did as she asked so he could see her smile.

Ta'rak smoothed his thick beard before taking another swallow of his favored blend of tea. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. The tea plants did not grow well in their colder climate, so he was forced to have a shipment brought in three or four times a year. He could drink a local brew of berries, herbs, and barks, but this was one thing that he considered essential.

Life in Harm's End was simple, and marked with tradition. Every piece of their lives had some tradition built into it, from the ceremony of Final Rest, to naming the first born son. Ta'rak's father's name was Tahvo, while his grandfather's name was Raktin. The combination of those names was a way to honor their family.

Ta'rak watched the kids as they dashed about between the houses and shops, played games and worked off all the excess energy kids seemed to have. His desire to see children run up and down the stairs of his home would not go away. After all these years, his hopes held in check, he couldn't keep the lines of sorrow off his face. His home stood practically empty, other then his trusted servants, and occasional friends that dropped by.

“Maybe someday, Furlon and Akeena will have children. Maybe A'ton and Colli too.” With him as a benefactor, he could only imagine the trouble a child might get into. His friends were all he had left as he had no living blood relatives. They were his only hope for a family.

Ta'rak sighed heavily. Death comes to everyone, and some people so much earlier then others. The Jakt Agor made sure of that.

Even a thought of the name of that cursed place put a shiver down his spine. He growled unconsciously as he thought about the riivaaja that roamed that land, demon beasts which only loosely resembled the wildlife of the Ostyr Agor.

A'ton startled him out of his reverie when he clapped him on the shoulder on his way to the bakery.

“Don't forget the fish for supper!” Colli's voice rang out from inside the house. A'ton winced as he ran by.

“Yes, dear,” he called back towards the house, only to hear Ta'rak laugh. He looked back over his shoulder to see the big man smiling in amusement.

“You've been caught! Better run or she'll have you scrubbing her oven again!” Ta'rak's words seemed to light a fire in the younger man, who only squeaked before he ran through the back door to the baker's house.

The smell of fresh bread bombarded Ta'rak as the door opened. He loved the smell of fresh bread in the morning, his mouth watered as he thought about the butter melting into the steaming hot bread, with wild blueberry jam ready to slather on top.

Ta'rak still remembered the day he met his houseman. A'ton had seen someone try to get behind him with a dagger. Ta'rak was facing another legal opponent in the Ring and unable to sense the one behind him. The young man, muscles chiseled from long hours of work cutting trees in the forest, rushed into the ring and tackled the sneak. A'ton had no battle experience, and had not held a sword in his life. For his bravery, Ta'rak has trusted the man with his life, and his home, ever since.

Ta'rak placed his tea on the railing, stood, stretched and worked the stiffness from his muscles. He watched a couple of children zip by his house, one chased the other down, rough housed a bit, before they reversed roles, and the chaser became the chased. There was more then enough room for children to play in the lanes between the homes and not get in the way while they burned off their excessive energies.

Ta'rak smiled. These boys would soon be at the age when they would begin an apprenticeship with one of the craftsmen of Harm's End, or over in Stromgren. It would be time to turn boys into men. He remembered his own apprenticeship, that first day under the Kalpa Mestari, the Sword Master of Arouna Dell. He earned a fair amount of bruises that day, and some of Haltija's respect.

“I should go see his other student some day. What stories we could tell each other.” The Kalpa Mestari rarely took on students unless they showed unusual promise with the blade. The Sword Master's duty was to keep the Soturi, Arouna Dell's guard force, free of corruption. There were none more skilled with the sword.

“I hope you forgive me soon, Furlon. I need you to get my armor refitted.” His friend's pride had been hurt when he found that room. Dozens of unused pieces including weapon sheathes, belts, bracers, gloves and gauntlets, and just about anything else a fighter might need to protect himself in battle. They were all Furlon's work, purchased over the years, and stored here. Ta'rak didn't have a need for the items. Furlon's leather lasted for years. By purchasing so much of what he did not need, he was able to supply his friend with a little extra silver when he needed it.

He was still surprised at how angry Furlon had been. He called it charity, a sneer in his tone. Ta'rak didn't consider it charity. He would need those pieces eventually.

“Maybe I did go overboard.” He would have to apologize when Furlon returned from his hunting trip. Wounded pride was a hard thing to heal, but with a few careful words, they would drink cider until Akeena came to box his ears for leaving her alone for so long.

“Maybe I could get Furlon to make some new tents for the Hunt.” he said softly. It would be a reasonable amount of work, and since his own tent had seen better days, it would not be charity. If he steered some of the people who were registered this year towards Furlon's shop, maybe it would help to soothe those ruffled feathers too. The Hunt was an annual event where he took assorted wealthy patrons, and any bodyguards they cared to bring, close to the border of the Jakt Agor to hunt. Since he was the event's organizer, he could easily influence their decisions on needed gear. They were hunting very close to the Jakt Agor. His opinion counted.

“TA'RAK!” He lifted his eyes to the bakery as A'ton ran out the back way. A chill traveled down Ta'rak's spine at the way he shouted his name.

* * * * *

The guard shielded his eyes from the noon day sun, but as soon as he was able to make out five men, their horses trailing behind them, he followed his orders. Take quick visual stock of the approaching people and send word for the Elder to come to the gate. He continued to assess them from a ladder.

Their armor would need to be replaced. He could see tears, slices, and blood stains all over. One breastplate looked so badly damaged that it would probably be turned into lacing or patches. Two men held their swords, almost dragging them behind them, with blood staining the blades. One man looked sadly at the horse that trailed after them, a covered body strapped across its back. Nongul arrived at the gate a few moments later, climbed the ladder and took a look for himself.

“Open the gate. I don't think they are here for a fight.” He jumped down, his stocky but agile frame easily absorbed the impact of the jump. The guard opened up the gate just as Rodan arrived.

“Ancient alive, look at them! What happened to them?” Rodan looked from man to man.

“They were in a battle. A bad one by the looks of things. Their eyes look haunted.” Nongul cleared his throat. “Ho, gentlemen. From where do you hail?” The councilor was no stranger to the blade. He had survived many battles in his life, including many in which his opponents did not.

“We're from Stromgren, four or five days to the west. We were hunting up near the Jakt Agor and ran into some trouble.”

“I see one of your number now rests. Did he die well?” He spoke as a comrade, and hoped he went down fighting. To die standing on your feet, fighting for every bit of life was the way most any man in the Ostyr Agor, the Wild Lands, wanted to go out.

“Aye, he died well, but he's not one of ours. He's from Harm's End. I met him once before, and if I remember correct, he's the tanner.” That was what he missed. These men were from Stromgren, and by all rights, they would have returned there. They traveled instead to Harm's End. They had a reason to be here.

“Furlon?” Rodan felt like he was punched in the stomach as the news was delivered. One of his own villagers was dead. “Were you able to kill the beast? It must have been big, and fierce to do this much damage to this many of you! Was it a bear?” He asked hopefully. A bear would be a fairly good reason as to why they appeared so beaten. The man shook his head, and handed Rodan a leather bag, the string drawn closed. He noted the solid white eyes like a pearl, no iris, no pupil, just white, a physical sign that the person was a Raaka, and most likely the Elder.

“We gutted the beast and burned its body where it died. We took only its paws as proof. Its all we really needed.” Rodan opened the bag gingerly, his vision swam, grayed at the edges as sparks flew. It felt like he might pass out.

“Ancient preserve us! I think... I need to sit for a moment.” He tried to catch his breath as his hand found the wall. Nongul couldn't believe what he witnessed. A powerful Raaka, one with Hajjakar, was completely unnerved by what was in the bag.

“I … men, we... we owe you a debt of gratitude in what you've done! Please, come inside and have something hot to eat. My home is open, and we would be glad to have men such as you there.” The leader shook his head, shaggy hair matted to his forehead with sweat.

“Sorry, we can't stay. You have a comrade to bid farewell to, and we have our own village to warn. Take comfort in the knowledge that he wounded the beast enough to allow us to kill it.” The five men walked away, eyes downcast but they could not help but stare at the body across the saddle as they passed. The tent was caked in blood in places, but they knew what was underneath the leather. It would be a while before they could get the image of his corpse out of their minds.

Rodan turned to Nongul, his face reflected a deep seated fear of what he saw in the bag. His inability to deal with the situation was unnerving, and maddening. As Elder, he was the power in this village. If he said to kill someone, the guards would execute them. If he said to burn someone alive, they would do it. He possessed Hajjakar, divinely planned chaos, the ability to generate elemental energy and use it to inflict vast amounts of damage to buildings, structures like palisades, and people. For this, he was given the traditional title of Elder, and the responsibility of the village's protection. Raakas, as they were called, were rare and valuable pieces of any community's defense plan. A village without a Raaka was a prime target for raiders and bandits.

“What do I do? I've not dealt with a Crossing before!” Rodan wrung his hands, completely thrown by this event.

“Whatever happened, you have to get a hold of yourself,” he said firmly. Nongul's eyes hardened, and his tone was sharp as he tried to keep the contempt from his voice. Rodan looked over at him with despair written clearly on his face. How could someone who wielded this much power be so mentally weak?

“You are the Elder! You have to hide what you're feeling, even when things are tearing you apart inside! You can't show fear or weakness! You can't show anything that would say to our people that you can't protect them! They will be relying on you for guidance, and you better be prepared to give it to them!” What had him so upset though? He held his hand out.

“Let's see what's in that bag.” Rodan handed him the bag. Nongul's face went white when he looked inside. “So its true. A Crossing. Damned Jakt Agor and bloody Kirosi!” The curse fell from his lips easily, the paw telling him all he needed to know. Furlon's death, as horrible as it was, probably spared others the same fate. Had the beast been able to make it all the way back to Harm's End, the Kirosi might have been able to get inside their village walls, and kill many more people before it was killed. The idea that his friend's death might also be a blessing left a sour taste to his mouth.

There have been many Crossings over the last couple of centuries, one about every ten years, and the result of each Crossing was always the same. Death and destruction followed in their wake.

Survivors told stories, told of beasts within those borders, how they enjoyed killing, and seemed to love the taste of blood. They were fast, strong, and very hard to kill. This wasn't their first encounter with those creatures, and it wouldn't be their last.

“What should we do first?” Rodan pushed himself away from the wall and straightened his clothes, asking for the guidance he so desperately needed.

“We need to tell his wife. We'll need to have a council meeting about her allowance.” His poor wife was now a young widow with no means of income. Their lives were fairly tough before his death, but Nongul wouldn't abandon Akeena in her time of need.

“What about Ta'rak? You've heard the rumors of the falling out they had before Furlon left.” Rodan had no interest in a clash with Ta'rak, a man whose metal had been tested time and again. He seemed to be a bit down lately, but only a polkkypaa, a fool, would anger the man on purpose.

“Yeah, I've heard. That issue is now done. Ta'rak will have to deal with his grief in his own way. The Ancient knows he's had enough to last him for the rest of his life.” Ta'rak would have to be told, but he didn't relish the idea. “By the time we tell Akeena, he may already know. News travels around here pretty fast.” Nongul closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed the lump in his throat, and led the horse within the gates. He had to keep his own grief buried. With Rodan so inexperienced as an Elder, he knew the Raaka would call on him many times in the next couple of days.

Ta'rak met them just inside the gate. His face looked like stone, but his eyes made both men step back. Where gray eyes should have been, twin black marbles stared out at them.

“Ancient preserve us.” Nongul caught the whisper to his left and could only nod his agreement.

* * * * *

Hannele sighed in pleasure as she read the passage. The scroll in front of her was hand copied from the original, well worn, and expensive. These treasures usually contained valuable information, history, or even a contract. This one was a simple collection of songs and poems, and she read it purely for pleasure. She looked up from the writing when she heard a noise.

The front door to her home opened slowly. She looked up, saw a face she knew quite well, rolled the scroll holders back together, placed it on the table in front of her and stood.

She didn't have to ask why Ta'rak came to her home instead of the mausoleum. She was the Kalma Hoiva, the caretaker of the dead for Harm's End. Her profession was an honored one. Only a polkkypaa would fail to show her the respect she deserved, and such a person would suffer at the hands of the rest of the village for failing to show her that respect.

Hannele's predecessor had taught her that anyone who came to her home did not need the pleasantries. When they had lost someone dear to them, they needed her services, and would not be able to engage her in small talk.

“Show me.” After putting on her ceremonial robe, she looked Ta'rak straight in the eye. He walked back outside to a horse with a body strapped across its back.

Ta'rak pulled his knife, cut the straps, lifted the body into his arms, and cradled it like he would a child. He had a fear that he would cause the body harm, or Furlon undue pain, although he knew that his friend was already dead.

“Follow me.” She turned towards the mausoleum, a fairly large building to the right of her home, and opened the door ahead of him. The mausoleum was the largest building within Harm's End, and no expense was spared in its construction. All the mausoleums within the Ostyr Agor were built with stone and mortar, and the architecture spoke volumes about how the people felt about their deceased family members.

The front room was furnished with wooden couches that were padded, strictly for the comfort of those who grieved. This would be where people would wait for her to take them to their family's vault. Three hallways led from the main room, the left one turned into a large room where she prepared the bodies for their Final Rest. A small room was attached to the body preparation area, for her supplies. The hallway leading to the back of the building was lined with several small vaults in the walls. Each vault was of varying size, but the average was one foot square, and a couple feet deep. Each vault had a cover made of silver lined glass, with a silver frame, and each vault was used to house a few small artifacts of the deceased. It was customary for parents and children to share a vault. Some of these vaults held entire family lines for several hundred years. Some were empty as the family line died out, and with no remaining family to care for the vault, it would be emptied, and the artifacts put in a clay urn that would sit on a shelf in the hallway.

Hannele led him down the hallway. “Put him on the table. Who is it,” she asked quietly.

“Furlon.” She could see that his grief was being held in check, but just barely. She knew that Furlon was his friend, which meant she had to walk carefully, but she also knew that the dead man's family had little money. His personal effects would have to be used to pay for the shroud.

“The poor girl,” she said. She felt saddened at the knowledge that Furlon's wife would now hold the title of Leski, a widow.

Ta'rak cut her off. “His effects will go into a vault, for his wife. He will be attended to properly. Cotton, full pyre, vault with silver and glass sconce, food and drink.” He laid a bag on the table. The sound of silver coins clinking together could be heard as it landed on the table.

Hannele looked up into his face, and stepped back a bit. His eyes, for only a brief second, looked like deep pits filled with pitch black tar, no iris, no white, just blackness, and for the first time in her life, she knew why this man had such a fearsome reputation. The black faded, and he once again looked like the man she had known for years. His eyes had been the exact opposite of a Raaka's. A Raaka's eyes were pure white with no other color present, while Ta'rak's eyes looked like they were as black as onyx stones.

“It shall be done.” Hannele let her breath out in a rush after he turned and left. Many years ago, she had once considered Ta'rak to be a suitable man to marry, but Jaana snagged his heart before she could make her intentions clear. In the years since his wife's death, she could see the man's pain and knew there would be no way she could bring back the happy man she once knew. Although it pained her to remain aloof and alone, Ta'rak would have been the only man who would not treat her differently for being the Kalma Hoiva. In the eyes of the village, she was a holy woman, and there weren't many people who could get passed that aspect of her role.

She took a deep breath, cleared her thoughts of her past, and her loss. Furlon was someone important to Ta'rak, so she would do her best. Not that she didn't do so every time. She was always careful to be respectful towards the dead. There were procedures to be followed. She had learned from her predecessor on how to treat the bodies, and how to prepare them for their Final Rest.

“Now, let's see what you need my friend.” She sliced the straps that held the tent around his body and opened the leather he was wrapped in. “Oh! Kirosi Ena!” The curse fell from her lips as she opened the tent. She stumbled back from the table and the blade fell from her fingers. She had seen the condition of many bodies in her time, but Furlon's body nearly made her gag. The body was mauled, clawed, chewed, and partially eaten. Her mind quickly took in the missing parts, tried to figure out how to fill in the voids, while her senses reeled from the damage.

“Your poor wife! My dear Furlon, I hope the Ancient granted you a swift death, but there is no way I can allow your wife to see you like this!” Normally, if the body was not too badly damaged, their loved ones would be able to visit them one last time. She exchanged her outer robe for an apron and picked up a few of her tools. It was going to be a long day.

* * * * *

The Pyre Stone rested a hundred or so feet from the gates of the village and had been used for the traditional Final Rest for centuries. It has stood the test of time, the elements, and the countless fires that burned there. The symbols on the stone had little meaning to the inhabitants of Harm's End but most assumed that they had something to do with the ceremony. Even after several centuries of exposure to the elements, the symbols still looked as fresh as the day they were carved.

The Kalma Hoiva had stacked an impressive wooden pyre on the stone, used peeled split logs several layers high, and tinder stuffed in all the layers to make the initial burn start easily. She had rolled a three inch wide ribbon made from cotton dyed blue over top of the pyre, under Furlon's head and his feet. Another blue ribbon was laced intricately over the shroud, most of the damage hidden beneath the bindings. The symbols that were carved on the stone were embroidered upon its fabric that used expensive colored threads, another item that denoted wealth.

Hannele had used nearly half of the silver for the pyre and the shroud for the body. She put a lock of Furlon's hair and a piece of clean leather from his clothes into a vault for his wife. She could add anything she wished when it came time.

Ta'rak stepped up to the pyre. He had no emotion reflected in his eyes. He looked at his friend's body on the pyre only. Most of the villagers were wise to give him whatever space he needed. Hannele stood by, the torch in her hand, and waited for him to do his duty for his friend.

Nongul had an arm about the widow's slender shoulders while she cried. She watched her husband's friend light the pyre with the torch, but couldn't watch him burn. She wasn't coherent enough to recognize the expense that was paid, or the care that went into her husband's Final Rest.

Ta'rak watched his friend's body turn to ash in front of his eyes, the flames burning brighter and higher then he remembered they could, but had no words for what he felt. He was dead inside. He had hoped to watch his friend raise children while he spoiled them horribly.

Rodan walked up to the pyre, took the torch from Ta'rak, and turned to face those assembled.

“Our friend Furlon now joins his ancestors, and his family asleep in his Final Rest. We celebrate his life tonight and the richness he brought to us just by being alive, even though we mourn his passing from our lives. His family has provided food and drink for your enjoyment just inside the market square. Please, take this opportunity to tell the stories in your memories so that he may live on in us.” Rodan walked back out through the crowd, nodded here and there, told those who asked that he would be there for years to come, to quiet their fears.

They had a right to be afraid. The last Crossing had killed many more people. The elder of the time was not a Raaka, had no power to protect them, but he had done the best he could during his reign. The memories of that attack were still strong within this village.

Reima, the elder of Harm's End, learned that Stromgren had two Raakas and the second would need to go to Arouna Dell as he would not have a title or position in Stromgren. He sent and offered the position to Rodan, and the village rejoiced. They've not had an Elder Raaka in close to a century. The only one who was not happy about the situation was Mia, Reima's son. When his father went to his Final Rest, Mia took every opportunity to undermine Rodan's authority, hoping one day that he could take the title for himself.

Rodan's presence in the village was a calming influence. With a Raaka to protect them, even a riivaaja from the Jakt Agor would not be able to withstand his attacks for long. In the dim light of the evening, Rodan could still see a fear in their eyes.

Nongul walked Akeena back to her home, her shoulders shook, her small body wracked with sobs. Her straight black hair blew around her head, sticking to her face where the tears ran down her cheeks.

Ta'rak remained outside the gates of the village, alone. He stood and watched the flames with no one to see his eyes go from black to gray again.

* * * * *

Rodan walked through the crowd of mourners, many stopped and asked him if he would be there to protect them. He kept his smile on his lips, even though inside he practically screamed from frustration.

No matter how hard he fought to protect his people, the village council fought him every step of the way. The only people he felt that he could count on were Ta'rak and Nongul, but every time it came time for a vote on an issue, they would hold their vote back until they saw what the council would do, and if the council disagreed with the Elder, they would abstain. Every single time, they would abstain.

Rodan sighed. He knew it had nothing to do with his physical size. He was a small man, just under five and half feet tall, and less then a hundred and fifty pounds, but it wasn't his physical stature that earned him the position of Elder of Harm's End. He was a Raaka.

Hajjakar gave him a natural ability to store and generate vast amounts of elemental energy. He could generate static on such a level that it would arc from his fingertips to any target he chose. Raakas preferred the static as it was more easily generated, but they had other tools at their disposal. There was also a price to be paid for this power, and as a Haka, an Adept Raaka, he aged twice the normal rate, which shortened his lifespan by decades.

The religious aspect of being the Elder, such as verifying a bond between a man and woman, or tending to a person's spiritual needs, was a tolerable aspect of his position. He didn't really know how to interpret the supposed intervention of the Ancient in their lives, but the people of Harm's End were strong in their faith that the Ancient noticed the way they lived, and died.

Politics made his skin crawl. He endorsed ideas that he thought were great, such as rebuilding the palisade with stone, but they rejected that idea. He wanted a bridge guard that would inform them of any Crossings, but the council rejected that idea more then once. He didn't understand why they didn't want to spend the silver on things that would benefit them in the end. He knew Mia instigated a lot of the disagreements. He just had nothing to charge him with yet. He hasn't broken any laws.

With all of this on his mind, and a Crossing, Rodan was practically seething inside.

“Of all things to happen! A Crossing! Why couldn't the bloody beast have come up to the walls and let me kill it! No, it had to kill one of my people!” He didn't want to believe that they had just sent Furlon to rest. He had no choice though.

He had never dealt with one of the denizens of the Jakt Agor, the riivaaja or demon beasts, when he was training his abilities under the Elder of Stromgren. He knew they were a curse left over from the time of the Fallen, but no one knew anything else about them. They didn't know why they crossed the bridge, or why they didn't cross more often. They didn't know where they came from other then the other side, and they didn't know how large the Jakt Agor really was. It could be larger then their country, or smaller. There was no information on it.

Rodan needed some solitude and walked away from the courtyard. He returned to his home, and he allowed himself to sag against the railing outside. He didn't know if he had the stomach for the troubles associated with his position. Normally Rodan was an easy going person. Every time they had a council meeting though, that fool Mia found ways to make the council vote his way.

“Piece of Kirosi dung! Take my position? He doesn't even have Hajjakar! Polkkypaa!” His anger soared, his mental control eroded, and he felt that familiar prickling sensation down his spine. Rodan looked down at his hands in alarm.

“Hitto!” he cursed. He had generated enough energy, built up enough of a charge, that he could more then hurt someone. He looked around the village for a safe place to release the built up energy, walked to the side of his home, and let the static arc to a tree just over the palisade in back of the village.

“Hitto!” The trunk of the tree burst into flames as the arc struck the bark. He sighed in frustration. Using his skills to suck all heat from the fire, he watched the small amount of flames die away and ice over.

A few of the villagers who had witnessed the display of power showed a measure of pride in their Elder. It may have been a fit of temper, but they had an Elder with power again. He would be able to protect them inside these walls. He failed to see that pride.

Rodan tried to recall the peace he felt when he first arrived in Harm's End four years earlier. The day stood out in his mind more then others. The village had accepted him with open arms and treated him like royalty. They showed him the amazing structure that was the traditional Elder's home, introduced him to all the council members, and showed him around the village. It was like he had come home.

Now every meeting was a battle, and he kept on losing. Unfortunately, because he lost, so did the village. Mia didn't realize an important detail. Without Rodan, they would return to the times where bandit attacks and raiders were common. They haven't had one in the last four years.

Rodan straightened himself up as the councilors for Harm's End came into the courtyard of the village, and one by one entered his home. They wore somber expressions, disturbed by the news.

Bloody sekopaa! They refuse to do anything to help themselves, but look to others to protect them. Polkkypaa, all of them!

“Don't piss me off tonight, polkkypaa!” The thought that there might be another service tomorrow for Mia floated briefly through his mind. The fact that he dismissed it just as quickly showed he was not ready for the position of Elder.

* * * * *

The councilors sat around the large oak table in the middle of the massive main room of the Manor. This table has served as their meeting table for as long as Ta'rak has been on the council. It now served as Rodan's meal time table as well. Whale oil fueled lanterns hung from several hooks on a wheel that was suspended above the table, while stone pillars and posts cast shadows throughout the room. Beeswax candles on the table brightened the room even more.

Each chair had a slot carved into the side, to hold a sword, a dagger, or the handle of an ax. It was not uncommon for a person to go about their daily lives with a sword or weapon on their belt. It was less common to see a person without a weapon for self defense.

Rodan had the old murals on the walls repainted, trying to spread a bit of the wealth he earned from his position to others with less then himself. The scenes were familiar to everyone in the village, but their lore didn't tell them from what era it was from, or what it was about.

There were stories told of their fallen friend, mugs of wine being raised to his memory, but there was a darkness hanging over the celebration of the young man's life. This darkness invaded Rodan's thoughts, and spilled into his mood.

He sat at the head of the table, his wine in his hand, and glowered darkly at the councilors in front of him. These people tended to walk all over him, but looked to him when they needed protection. It was this attitude that slowly turned him very hostile.

Nongul raised his glass to salute the memory of his fallen friend, but discreetly watched the silent interactions of the Elder and Mia. The fool sat smugly in his chair, no song on his lips to show respect for Furlon, but he watched the Elder boil. He worked behind the scenes, made himself the person that people went to for help, instead of Rodan. Nongul kept silent. Both Rodan and Mia had yet to learn that a Raaka with the title of Elder, was in effect the king of that village. He could not be removed unless another Raaka took his place.

The more that Rodan watched the council sing, watched them give him no respect, and pay him no heed, the closer he came to losing his temper. Rodan seethed inside, and the more he tried to control his emotions, the more they ran away from him. Since this type of behavior was so far away from Rodan's normal demeanor, years later he would wonder who had been pulling his strings.

“RODAN! Get a hold of yourself!” Nongul jumped up from his chair as he watched the surface of the large oak table in front of him suddenly ignite. The councilors pushed themselves away from the table in a rush. Ta'rak kept his seat, the surface in front of him strangely absent of flame.

“Sorry! I don't know what came over me!” Ta'rak chuckled to himself while Rodan extinguished the flames with a short blast of cold air. It was not a good thing to have their Elder so keyed up.

“Its alright, Rodan. Its been a trying day, for all of us.” Only a fool would think that an angered Raaka was a good thing. Push him one too many times and the most even tempered man will attack or lash out. It might be a welcome change for the man to throw his weight around rather then go with the flow. When you lived this close to the Jakt Agor, the Elder needed to be able to use his leadership like a sword or a hammer. A leader leads, but Rodan almost refused to lead, which was a bone of contention for both Ta'rak and Nongul.

“Since I have your attention, I might as well keep it. Everyone here knows of Furlon's death, and you've heard how he died.” He closed his eyes for a brief second. “The news is correct.” Rodan took the bag that he had tied to his belt and tossed it onto the middle of the table.

Ta'rak looked down at the bag. He had heard directly from A'ton that Furlon had been killed but was too wrapped up in his grief to find out how it happened. He reached out, plucked the bag from the center of the table, and looked inside. He face turned deathly white. He sagged back down into his chair. He placed the bag back on the table slowly, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Ta'rak was tormented by all too familiar memories and the reality of his friend's death.

Another councilor picked up the bag, feigning some sort of bravery, only to sit the bag back down after a brief look inside. Another councilor did the same, only to curse out loud. He too sat back, ashen faced, and disturbed. He had only an inkling of the pain the man must have endured, but the item in the bag showed that it was a gruesome death. No one saw fit to pick the bag up and look inside after they witnessed its affect.

Rodan swore a few curse words under his breath, grabbed the bag from off the table, and placed the item on the table on top of the leather bag.

Silence.

The councilors were several different shades of color, mostly white, to gray and pale. There had not been a confirmed attack in near to a decade. Every time they heard of a Crossing, they put it down to fear mongering. Sometimes a wannabe warrior would say he fought and killed a riivaaja, a braggart that wanted some unearned glory. Not one single person has ever killed a beast of the Jakt Agor and lived to tell the tale.

The last beast crossed their bridge ten years ago. Both Ta'rak's wife, and his father were killed in the attack. The beast had also managed to damage large portions of their village while they tried to kill it. Homes had to be rebuilt, two or three men were made lame, and several more were killed.

“There can be no doubt about what killed Furlon. I see no reason to endlessly debate the existence, or the result of the attack, like we normally do in this chamber.” The paw sat on the table, its long and sharp claws serving as a ghastly reminder of what the beasts from the Jakt Agor could do. It was fairly obvious why Furlon died. He did not hear any voices of dissent in the room, so he plowed on. “What we can talk about though is what we plan to do about it!”

Nongul, who had seen the paw earlier, looked towards his Elder. “What do you mean Rodan? Its dead, isn't it?” There was the momentary fear that maybe he missed something, that there was perhaps more then one Crossing.

Rodan nodded his head, his closely cropped hair did not move, but his shaggy beard got a little twisted in the top knot of his robe. He smoothed his beard with a grumble before he continued. “Yes, its dead, but there is the whole Jakt Agor across that bridge and every denizen within its confines would love to cross over and kill as many of us as possible!”

“And what would you suggest? Invade the Jakt Agor?!” Mia sneered. He had been quiet so far, but he couldn't help but try to further his own desires, and this was not the time or place to do that. Rodan's eyes glinted dangerously. The air in front of Mia suddenly got very cold, and his breath turned to vapor in front of him.

“Show some respect, or I will teach it to you,” Rodan said, while he tried not to growl like an animal. His temper was stretched thin, and to have this polkkypaa poke at him would only be hazardous to his health.

Nongul gave Mia a significant look. “Continue, Vanhin.” He put some emphasis on Rodan's formal title, trying to remind the sekopaa, the insane fool, that Rodan had power and he could use it if he wished to do so. Nobody at the table would stick up for him so it would not be wise to anger Rodan further. Secretly, Nongul was applauding the Elder for finally raising his sword and accepting the challenge.

“Thank you. As I said, they want to kill us. They love killing us. I don't know why there aren't more Crossings as there is no gate, no guards, and no way to stop them if they decided to come across and start killing!” He let that sink in and hoped they might see it his way now. They couldn't deny those facts, and didn't have anything that could refute his words. He kept on rolling with it. “We need a way to either stop those beasts or some sort of signal to let us know that one came across.”

Eska shook off his fear. “We've already talked about this Rodan. You know we can't afford something like this. Why do you keep bringing it up?”

“We have to talk about it again. Something must be done.”

Ta'rak kept his eyes closed, and kept his thoughts to himself. An anger burned in him, simmered just beneath the surface, but threatened to engulf him at any time.

“What do you propose we do? We don't have the resources the city has. We barely get by! Tax income for the village is too low.” Rodan had to admit that Stig spoke the truth.

“Yes, taxes are low, but the village's income increases during the market, and we receive half of the entrance fee from the Fighter's Ring Ta'rak sets up. If we plan well, we might be able to afford something. It can also be so much more if we had something in place to protect innocent people who would want to settle here. We can't get many farmers to break ground near here, and our market could be bigger if we had more farmers to sell, or we could export some food. If we had something, anything, it would tell them we mean to protect them!” The council was starting to come back to its normal ways again, and were passed the shock of the Crossing. They wanted to fly in the face of more conventional wisdom by trying to do nothing.

“How can we afford something like that, Rodan?” Eska himself was one of those farmers who lived outside the village walls. He couldn't hire people to help him open more ground as there weren't enough laborers available. His reserves of silver barely lasted him from year to year and he couldn't see that something there would help him as well.

Rodan's eyes opened in surprise. “How can we not afford it? People are dying!” Rodan was dumbfounded about how this group of people could not see they had to do something.

“That was just one man! We all know he shouldn't have been anywhere near that area just to go hunting!” Mia jumped up from his seat, trying to silence his opponent. The room went quiet. Mia looked around but was too late to stop himself from making a serious mistake. Rodan's anger flared at the same time that Ta'rak opened his eyes.

A man's honor was what he carried with him to his Final Rest. He could not take the love of his wife, the satisfaction of a job well done, or anything that would give him comfort in his final few seconds of life. It was believed that someone who died only had his honor, and that honor gave him comfort. To blame a man for his own death when he was not there to defend himself, there could be no greater insult. Such an attack usually ended in someone dying.

“What did you say?” Ta'rak wasn't asking a question. He didn't need confirmation as he rose to his feet. He picked up his well worn ax from beside his chair. He barely saw the smaller man shrink back in fear. Instead he saw someone who just attacked his fallen friend.

Without the anger that Mia kept stoked within Rodan, and if he didn't already have a moderate charge built up just in case Mia pissed him off, Rodan would not have been able to cast so quickly. He didn't even see Ta'rak cross the room, his focus was solely on Mia, and that was where he aimed his charge.

He discharged the energy and it arced across the room. Instead of striking Mia and possibly throwing him clear of Ta'rak's ax, the charge veered off course, and slammed into Ta'rak's side.

“Oh crap.” Rodan whispered as Ta'rak was thrown across the room, and slammed into the stone wall. The speed of the blast that struck took him by surprise, the lightning bolt sizzled through the air before he could swing his ax.

The councilors didn't know what frightened them more; to see their Elder strike with such power, or to watch Ta'rak climb to his feet in only a few seconds. Most men would not have been able to walk away from the assault of a Raaka, let alone the impact of hitting a wall. Ta'rak was not most men though.

The blast did take him by surprise, but it was the impact of the wall that turned his insides to jelly. He struggled to get the air back into his lungs after the impact drove it out. He moved around to make sure that his bones were not broken, and shook his head as if to clear it. Rodan saw something in his eyes momentarily, in spite of the tension. His light gray orbs turned completely black as though there was nothing behind them but a void.

He picked up his ax from where it had fallen, glared, took one last look at Mia, and returned to his seat. He managed to control his anger while the blackness in his eyes bled away.

Rodan wiped the surprise of his face. “I will not have blood spilled in my own home!” He kept his voice firm, all the while he swore silently. It wasn't supposed to hit him! It was supposed to hit Mia! Rodan was thanking the Ancient that his mistake didn't result in trying to find out just how much Ta'rak could take before falling.

Mia kept himself quiet for the rest of the meeting, his cowardice right out front while he tried to keep his head on his shoulders. The other councilors stepped into the void he left, voiced their objections to anything that cost the village some of their tax income. They preferred to believe that there would not be another crossing for some years to come. They argued about it for over an hour with no progress.

Rodan grumbled under his breath, and since he wouldn't force the issue, he decided to drop the subject.

“Since we can't seem to come to any agreement, we should move on.” Rodan held up a hand as the assembled men started to get up to leave. “Not so fast! We have something else we have to deal with. Furlon's widow, Akeena, is due our respects, and our support until she can afford to live without his income.” There was a very vocal groan around the room as they considered the implications of taking care of a young widow. She would not be likely to pass away in the near future from old age and end their commitment. “It is our duty!” He wondered if he would have to remind them that if something ever happened to one of them, their own families would require assistance.

“Aye, it is our duty, and my pleasure to provide for his widow. Come Ta'rak, let's go see Furlon's wife!” Nongul got up from his chair, clapped him on the back and walked out the door. It was common knowledge that the two men were not related, but Furlon and Ta'rak were like brothers.

Several councilors walked behind them as Ta'rak and Nongul left the room, although not as happy to spend their silver. Rodan left the chamber last and was not surprised to find that Ta'rak had waited outside for him.

“I'm sorry about that. I wasn't aiming for you. I don't know how I missed that bastard when he was sitting right there!” To hear his Elder growl, and apologize took the wind out of Ta'rak's sails. He was all set to warn the small man to not interfere in a matter of honor when the Elder had been set to respond to it himself.

“In that case, aim better next time.” Rodan looked up and saw amusement in his eyes. Thank the Ancient that Ta'rak wasn't injured as most men would have needed the care of a healer for a couple of days at least. “Come, Akeena awaits.”

They walked across the courtyard, Ta'rak shortened his lengthy stride so the shorter Elder could keep up with his pace, and arrived just as the rest of the councilors gathered outside Furlon's house. It wasn't a hard place to find. The humble house was brightly lit, inside and out. She had expected to see the council at some time that night so it was no surprise when they came over in a group.

Nongul's deep voice called to her from the door. “Akeena? My dear, come out. We must speak with you.” The small delicate looking woman emerged from the wooden shop, her tear stained face had an expression of absolute misery upon it. In spite of her appearance, it could be easily seen just how beautiful the woman really was.

Rodan's heart ached at the burden placed on such frail shoulders. She had really loved her husband and his death looked like it might break her. With Furlon dead, the tanner's shop stood empty, and if another tanner came into their village, she would have to vacate it to make room for him.

“Yes?” She asked, lower lip trembling. Her grief was so severe that she couldn't lift her head and meet the councilors eye to eye. If she had, she would have seen Rodan's and Nongul's gentle smiles.

“Akeena, my dear, don't worry so. We have just come to say how sorry we are for the loss of your husband and to offer our support. I will take care of you one dark moon to the next, for every year that you remain a widow. I consider it an honor to do so.” Rodan was a small man, but he folded his arms around her slender body and hugged her as though he were her father comforting his daughter. One would never know to look at them that they were the same age.

Nongul roughly shouldered the smaller man out of the way. “Furlon was my friend and as such think it to be an honor to care for your needs from one dark moon to the next each year, until such time as you are cared for by another.” Nongul stepped forward and hugged the small woman, his thick arms offering Akeena, who was an orphan and now a widow, some of the comfort she so desperately needed.

As their traditions guided them, so did their conscience. Each councilor had an amount already fixed in their minds that they could provide. They grieved for her loss, and they themselves would want the others to help their families should they meet an untimely end, but they had difficulty in foreseeing such a time anywhere in their future. A week here, a couple of days there, and in the end it still did not add up to enough to help her all year long.

Ta'rak stood aside while the other councilors did their part to look important, to try to make it seem like their support was the most anyone could give in their position. The numbers were just too low to help her much, even though both Nongul and Rodan had given a lunar cycle each. After everyone else had made their offers, the one Akeena dreaded to see stepped in front of her.

* * * * *

Her diminutive size only served to highlight just how big Ta'rak appeared. His eyes looked so cold and unfeeling that she wasn't sure this was the same man whom her husband called his brother. He took care not to hurt her while she tried to push him physically from her house every other night. His eyes didn't seem to betray any emotion even though she knew they could light up with amusement at the drop of a hat.

“I'm sorry, Ta'rak! I know you didn't want him to go! He should never have gone!” She rushed to fill the silence, fearful that her husband's friend would cast her aside and she would have nobody in the world to help. As often as she had to push Ta'rak out the door at night, she had to search for her husband at his place. He would always laugh while she attempted to push him out the door, never saying a harsh word while he was in her presence.

He lifted his hand to silence her. She bit her lip. He might blame her, that maybe she had something to do with Furlon's pride being so wounded. She watched his face and saw his lips quiver.

* * * * *

There she was. Small, miserable, and completely mired in the grief over the loss of her husband. He hoped his friend would approve of what he was about to do.

“My friend, your husband, Furlon ….” He couldn't keep the treacherous quaver out of his voice. He wanted to appear strong, to protect her, but he was losing it. He could feel his throat close up with the thought that his friend had died alone.

“My brother …..” He closed his eyes briefly, and cleared his throat. He opened his eyes and as she stared back up at him.

“Its my fault. He would still be alive if I hadn't....” His head lowered and the tears rolled freely down his face. Ta'rak's shoulders slumped and he found himself falling to his knees in front of his friend's widow. He looked up.

“He was the only family I had left. That means you are the only family I have left.” His throat threatened to close up again. “As I considered Furlon my brother, I offer you Avio'Lanko.” Many jaws dropped open, including Akeena's, when he offered to marry her. Avio'Lanko was an old custom that was seldom practiced, but when a widow was young, the dead man's brother could marry his widow and provide for her. There were two versions to be considered. The first was Avio'Lanko Valmiina, which allowed the widow to be taken care of until she found another to love. The bond would be released and she would be free to marry. The second was Avio'Lanko Kihlaus, and it was the same as Kihlaus, a bonding. The brother would bond with the widow, and she had a year to decide on whether or not she wanted to make it permanent, and after the year was complete, if they didn't bond formally, the brother was released from his obligation. This was a custom that only blood relations would undertake though.

“But he's not Furlon's brother!” was called out from the crowd. They were shocked that he would offer something like this when he wasn't obligated to.

“Furlon and Ta'rak are Veriside. It is his right.” Nongul responded to the accusation. Furlon and Ta'rak were blood-bonded years before and they took their bond seriously. They were brothers of blood, and it is his right.

“If you mean it, don't make me sleep here tonight! Please!” She begged. Her sadness drove right through him, like a spear through armor. Ta'rak rose to his feet, lifted the small woman in his arms as she cried into his chest. He walked slowly in the direction of his home, cradling her like she was a child asleep in his arms.

* * * * *

“Brothers of blood? Now I know why he said Furlon was his brother. But did that just happen?” Nongul, along with the rest of the council and some mourners, were still surprised. Rodan took over quickly, seeing the way through the event.

“Please people, remember, this is Furlon's night! Grab a mug, some food, and remember the man we all knew! He has left this life all too soon, and his friends and family will miss him dearly!” Rodan raised his mug of wine high in the air. Nongul smiled, grabbed a mug and raised it high above his head.

“I remember Furlon, and will miss him dearly!” Many hands took up the mugs provided and raised them high. Breads, fruits, meats, and whatever fresh foods could be provided were heaped up on wooden trays on tables in front of the tanner's house. Stories were told and retold all night long, fueled by lots of food, and lots of wine.