Leslie Moore: Griffin's Destiny

Seijon fell without a sound.

Without warning, a terrible pressure grew within Ashinji’s head, just behind his eyes. With a shout of rage, he loosed it like a taut bowstring. The recoil knocked him flat on his back.

Seijon’s killer burst into flames.

The man dropped his sword and staggered in an erratic circle, shrieking, until he finally collapsed. Acrid smoke filled the grove with the stench of burnt flesh. The two men whom Magnes had knocked to the ground had regained their feet. The one Magnes had beaten leaned like a drunk against his comrade, his face slick with gore. Both men raised their hands above their heads.

“Please, don’t kill us!” the injured man croaked.

Ashinji rose to his feet and without thinking, loosed another bolt of energy. The slave catcher flew through the air then smashed into a tree trunk with a meaty thud. His body slid to the ground, broken and lifeless. Howling with terror, the remaining slaver whirled and bolted away from Ashinji, running hard for the edge of the grove. Magnes lunged but his fingers closed on empty air.

“Let him go!” Ashinji cried. Sick with horror, he stumbled toward where Seijon’s body lay and sank to his knees.

No, no, not you, Little Brother!

The sword had sheared open the boy’s belly, making a ruin of his innards. Death had come swiftly. Ashinji drew in a shuddering breath and gently lifted Seijon’s head to cradle it in his lap.

The boy’s half-open eyes and parted lips made him look as if he had one last thing he needed to say. Ashinji stared into the small face-so pale and still-trying to dredge up from the darkest place in his soul a spark to re-ignite the rage that had called down fire to destroy a man, but he couldn’t. The fire had burnt out, leaving only sorrow and bitter regret in its stead.

“This is my fault,” he whispered. “I should never have allowed you to come with us. If I’d made you stay behind, you’d still be alive.” Hot tears sliced through the dirt on his face. The air in the grove had grown thick and oppressive, as if it had become saturated with Ashinji’s grief and could hold no more.

“No, Ashi. You can’t blame yourself for this. Seijon knew the risks when he begged you to take him with us.” Magnes came up and knelt beside the body.

“He was only a child!” Ashinji brushed a strand of hair off Seijon’s forehead. “How could he possibly have known? It was my job to protect him, and I failed.”

“It was all of our jobs, Ashi,” Gran rasped. She had emerged from her trance and now stood behind him, and when Ashinji turned to look up into her face, he gasped with dismay. The light and strength that had always been a part of her had burnt out, and at any moment, she might crumble into ashes.

“Gran, please, you must sit down!”

The old woman shook her head. “No. If I sit now, I’ll not be able to get up again. I must keep moving, at least until we’ve cared for the boy and left this place.”

“I promised Seijon I’d get him to Alasiri. How am I going to keep that promise now?” Ashinji shook his head and a tear fell to splash on Seijon’s bloodless cheek.

“Back in ancient times, oak groves were sacred to our people,” Gran replied. “It will be a fitting resting place for the boy. Take a lock of his hair, Ashi, and bury it when we reach home. That way, you can keep your promise, at least in a small way.”

His gaze never straying from Seijon’s face, Ashinji tried to rise, but could not make his legs obey. Sudden, crushing weariness had pinned him to the earth.

“Gran, something’s wrong with me.” He had to struggle to lift his head to look at the mage. “I feel so tired.”

“You expended a lot of energy doing what you did, Ashi.” Gran squeezed his shoulder. “You are young. It won’t take you nearly as long to recover. Rest awhile before you and Magnes take care of the boy.”

“I’ll get started.” Magnes bent to retrieve a sword dropped by one of the slavers. “This will make digging easier.”

He walked to the nearest tree and began scraping at the hard soil between two of the twisted roots fanning out from its base. Ashinji watched for a few moments then struggled to his feet.

“I’m all right,” he said in response to the consternation in Gran’s eyes, but in truth, he wondered how much longer he could keep moving. Focusing his mind on the task at hand, he managed to dredge up a reserve of strength left untouched by the flow of magic. Scooping up another discarded sword, he joined Magnes and together they chopped into the stubborn earth. The labor kept Ashinji’s mind off the part he had played in the destruction of the slave catching posse.

When they judged the depression deep enough, Ashinji and Magnes threw down their swords. Ashinji bent to gather up Seijon’s torn body in his arms. Carrying the boy as gently as if he were sleeping, Ashinji then laid Seijon into the grave. With Gran’s small belt knife, he severed a lock of the boy’s russet hair then he and Magnes covered the body, first with a webbing of branches and then a fill of soil and small rocks. To finish things off, they veiled the top in a thick covering of dead leaves. Magnes piled a small cairn of stones to serve as a marker.

When they were done, the three of them lingered beneath the spreading limbs of the ancient tree, loathe to depart, yet knowing they must. To Ashinji’s heart, it felt like abandonment, even though his head knew the folly of that notion. Seijon was dead and beyond any feelings of abandonment. Even though the boy had been born on the streets of Darguinia and knew very little of the elven religion, it comforted Ashinji to believe the Goddess would recognize one of Her own and gather the boy’s soul into Her eternal, loving embrace.

“Goodbye, Little Brother,” Ashinji whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”

Wordlessly, Magnes helped Gran up on her mare, then mounted his piebald gelding and waited. Ashinji twisted the lock of Seijon’s hair into a knot and held it out to Gran who tucked it into her waist pouch. He then swung on his horse and the three of them left the grove behind, riding down the side of the hill through the grisly aftermath of Gran’s magical defense. It would be several days before the terrorized remnant of the slave posse got back to Darguinia to report their defeat, and by that time, their quarry would be beyond reach.

Ashinji looked back over his shoulder and, for an instant, thought he saw a small figure standing at the edge of the grove, a shadow really, backlit by the glow of the dying sun. He blinked and the figure disappeared.

He fixed his eyes on the northern horizon. The exhaustion he had kept at bay until now pulled at his limbs once more. He covered his face, weeping, and thought about how badly he needed to feel Jelena in his arms again.

They took shelter that night inside an ancient mound whose sides had partially collapsed, allowing access to the burial chamber below. Many such mounds dotted this part of the country, along with crumbling walls and weed-choked towers, the remains of an extinct civilization that had once ruled here. Magnes explained that no one knew much about the mound builders. Their world had fallen long before the coming of the Soldarans, and folk hereabouts viewed them with a mix of awe and superstitious dread.

“No one will bother us in here,” he stated. “I’m certain the locals give this place a wide berth. They won’t dare approach, no matter what they see.”

The rubble from the cave-in made a convenient ramp on which to lead the horses down into the burial chamber. Looking around, they could see robbers had looted the grave long ago, leaving behind only a few pottery shards and fragments of animal bone.

After Ashinji and Magnes had cleared an area of debris and had unpacked their meager supplies, Gran spread a blanket on the floor and lay down, closing her eyes. While Magnes built a small fire, Ashinji scrounged some sticks with which to hang their chicken over the flames.