Paul Kemp: The Godborn

“Help! Anyone! Help, please!”

She realized that she didn’t even now where she was. She’d been in a forest. Now she was in a mountain pass.

“Gods,” she said, tears falling down her face. “Gods.”

She wandered the shadowed landscape, shouting until her voice was hoarse, watching with a sense of dread as the sun sank. At last her legs would bear her no farther and she sagged to the ground under a cluster of pines, exhausted, wrapped in the aroma of pine needles and rain.

She would give birth alone, outside, in the dark. The realization pressed against her chest, made it hard to breathe.

“Help!” she called, expiating with a scream the pain of another contraction. “Help! Someone please, help!”

Over the rain she heard voices.

She froze, afraid to let hope nest in her chest. She cocked her head, listened, tried to hear above the thump of her own heart.

Yes, voices!

“Here!” she cried. She tried to stand but another contraction ripped through her and forced her back to the bed of pine needles. “Over here! Help me, please!”

The ground vibrated under her and she soon saw what caused it. A patrol of armed and armored men mounted on warhorses moved through the pass at a rapid trot. A blazing sun and a rose-both incongruous in the bleak, shrouded land-were enameled on their breastplates. They looked about, as if seeking her, their mounts trotting and snorting.

“The call came from around here,” one of them said, and pulled his horse around.

“I heard it, too,” said a second.

“Where are you?” another shouted.

“Here!” she called, and held up a hand. Relief put more tears in her eyes but gave her voice strength. “I’m here.”

Helmed heads turned to her. The men pulled up their horses.

“Here in the pines!”

“It’s a woman!” one of them shouted.

Several of them swung out of their saddles, pushed through the pine limbs, and hurried to her side. They smelled of sweat and leather and horse and hope.

“She’s with child!” said a young man whose helm seemed too large for his head. Even under the trees their bodies seemed to attract the last, meager rays of the setting sun, and the fading light limned their armor and shields. She could not take her eyes from the rose. Her memory blurred subsequent events, compressed what must have been close to an hour into moments. The oldest of the men, his long, gray-streaked hair leaking from beneath his helm, his face seamed with lines and scars that his trimmed beard could not hide, had kneeled beside her.

“Rest easy,” he said. He closed his eyes and placed the fingertips of one hand on her arm.

She felt his mind touch hers, as if evaluating her soul. She did not welcome the violation, but she was too tired to resist. After a moment he opened his eyes and nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“What is your name, goodwoman?” he asked.

His deep voice reminded her of a rolling brook. It calmed her.

“Varra,” she said, and winced as another contraction knotted her abdomen.

“You’ll be cared for, Varra.”

He took a small holy symbol, a stylized rose, in his hand and placed both of his palms-gnarled and scarred from years of battle-on her stomach. He intoned a prayer to Amaunator. A soft glow spread from his palms to her abdomen, warming her, easing her pain, and quelling her fear.

“You need a midwife,” he said. “And a priest skilled in childbirth. I can get you to both. Can you stand?”

She nodded, and he helped her to her feet. He stood almost as tall as Erevis and smelled like the rain.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“You’re with me. And safe.”

The simple words took her by surprise, recalling, as they did, her wish from the meadow. Her eyes welled. The man removed his heavy cloak and draped it around her shoulders.

“How did you come here?” he asked her, guiding her toward his horse.

She felt the eyes of the other riders on her, their gazes heavy with questions. They’d already remounted.

“How did you find the pass? Are others with you?”

She swallowed, shook her head. “I was with a caravan, but. . I think I’m alone now. And. . I don’t know how I came here. What. . pass is this?” “She could be in service to the Shadovar, Derreg,” said a young, squat rider.

“Don’t be a fool,” the older man, Derreg, snapped. “Look at her. She is no servant of the shades.”

“The shades of the desert of Anauroch?” Varra asked, wincing in anticipation of another contraction.

“Desert?” said the young rider, his face pinched in a question. He looked to Derreg. “She babbles.”

“Erwil, ride toward the foothills,” Derreg said. “See if anyone else from her caravan is about.” To Varra, he said, “Do you think you can ride?”

She took stock of her condition, nodded, grunted as another contraction pained her.

“She rides Daybreak with me,” Derreg said to his men. “Nav, Greer, ride for the abbey. Tell the Oracle we found her. And tell the abbot we return with a pilgrim in the midst of labor. Then rouse Erdan. He has experience in these matters.”

Two of the riders wheeled their mounts and rode off.

“Abbey?” Varra asked, leaning heavily on Derreg. “Pilgrim? Oracle?”

“The Abbey of the Rose,” Derreg said, as he assisted her toward the warhorse he had called Daybreak. “You’re a pilgrim, yes? Come to see the Oracle?”

She had never heard of the Abbey of the Rose. “I. . don’t know.”

He studied her face, the age lines in his brow deepening with his frown. “Where are you from?”

“Sembia. North and west of Ordulin.”

Derreg’s eyes narrowed. He studied her expression as he said, “Ordulin is a wasteland. It was destroyed in the Shadowstorm. And Sembia is a vassal state to Netheril and the shades.”

She stared at him uncomprehending.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She felt lightheaded. She shook her head. She must have misheard. “I don’t understand. I just left. . ”

A contraction doubled her over. When it passed, strong hands took hold of her and lifted her gently atop Daybreak. She sat sidesaddle as best she could. Derreg mounted behind her, enclosed her in his arms as he whickered at the mount.

She hissed with pain as the horse started to move. She kept one hand on her belly, felt the movement of her child within.

“The abbey isn’t far,” Derreg said. “Tell me if it becomes too much to endure.”

“It’s tolerable,” she said. “But please hurry.”

The rest of the patrol fell in around them as they rode through the pass. The way narrowed as they followed a winding, circuitous path of switchbacks and side openings. A mist formed around them, thick and pale, obscuring vision. Whispers sounded in her ears, sibilant words suggesting a meaning that slipped away just prior to understanding. She thought she heard Erevis’s name in their whispered tones, and another name, too: Erevis’s real name-Vasen.

“Try to ignore the whispers and whatever else you see,” Derreg said to her softly.

She nodded, alone with her pain. “Please hurry.”

Faces formed in the mist, men and women with eyes like holes. They dissipated moments after forming, fading like lost memories. She squeezed her eyes shut, but still the fog tugged at her clothes, pawed at her belly. Still the voices hissed in her ears, speaking of her child.

It’s the child , they said.

He’ll dream of the father.

And the father of him.

“They know me!” she said, terrified.

“No,” Derreg said. “They’re the voices of spirits that serve the Oracle and guard the way, but they’re harmless to us. They only confuse. Don’t heed them.”