The Reckoning

The Reckoning                                

Killian’s heart pounds along with the hypnotic beat of the tribal drums, his soles digging into the forest floor. The air cloys with sweet honeysuckle as a swarm of bees zooms past. He reaches for his knife, a gift from his aunt, Wiccan Larkin, knowing before the handle fits into his palm that it is useless against these pests, but it steadies his gait. The drone of the bees subsides, as does the beat of the drums. Killian stops to catch his breath. Stumbling over tree roots, his ankle twists. Pain propels him deep into the glade.

The call of a single horn echoes about the wooded area. Once they became of age, the small voice in his head grew louder in protest of this prophecy where he is pitted against his cousin, Bogdan, whose broad chest matches his wide stance. All odds against him, Killian feels obliged to partake in this trial, regardless of his misgivings, because of his fondness for Halse, the lost child they must locate, an orphan, like Killian. If they can’t find her before sundown, she will die.

Their search presses on Killian’s heart. He’s not stealthy like Bogdan, who vanished from the clearing as soon as the torches were lit. Killian scans the forest, hoping to catch a glimpse of Halse’s ginger hair, but he sees only endless trunks and screens of branches. He sheathes the knife. Mentor Avram’s words ring in his ears: “Your destiny is at once a gift and a burden,” she would croon at the end of their training sessions. “It is your birthright to compete for the position of Tribal Shaman. May you rise to the occasion as the sun rises to greet the morning.”

The trees thin. The late sun lances through the canopy. Killian winces, stepping too hard on his tender ankle. The drums have faded. A soft groan escapes from in the undergrowth. Killian quells his instinct to hide, a futile notion given his bright red tunic. A glint among the ferns draws his gaze: two green eyes. Killian smiles and reaches the trampled grass behind a rotting tree trunk, crumbling at the foot of a small slope.

Halse’s eyes widen. “Killian!” Her hands flutter in her lap.

“I’ve found you!” He sees her leg and his face clouds. “Does it hurt?” He crouches and moves her trembling hands that cover the wound.

He gasps. He has stood sentinel in his aunt’s infirmary, but he has never seen an injury as grievous as this. The seams where flesh and bone meet are blurred. Halse turns pale at the panic in his eyes.

“You haven’t been to the grotto yet, have you?” she accuses. Killian looks away. “How are you supposed to heal me if you haven’t collected the brine yet?”

Rather than answering, Killian lifts her, gently bracing the injured leg against his side, placing her opposite arm across his narrow shoulders.

Just in time. The yelp of a raven stabs the air and the two friends clutch at their ears. The bird swoops down, its talons sharp, beak snapping. Killian grabs a twisted branch on the ground and brandishes it, trying to shield Halse. The raven slashes into his back. He swings the branch in vain, further enraging the scavenger.

Halse hobbles for cover under a rock outcropping, but trips into thorny brambles lying across her path. Killian grabs her elbow and pulls her into the nook of rock, leaving a bloody trail in their wake.

The raven gives up sooner than expected; perhaps it smells the festering of Halse’s leg. It flies away north, likely reporting their location. Killian slumps, knowing he still must reach the grotto by dusk. He bites back the urge to ask after her leg again. If she loses it, it will be his fault.

The drums fracture the quiet, as Killian ventures toward the grotto. A hint of blue slinking among the trees sends his heart to his throat.

Bogdan.

He’s barely ten strides from Killian, loping through the dry grass, oblivious to his rival’s presence, and it does not occur to Killian to overtake him. Instead, his gut taut with the terror, Killian focuses on the telltale gleam of the vial slung from Bogdan’s belt, holding the brine he needs.

In a heartbeat, Killian bolts from the cover of the underbrush, snatching the vial from his cousin, snapping the thin hide strip. Before the bigger boy can react, Killian pours the precious brine into his mouth. His nostrils flare, his hands outstretched, holding his cousin at bay.

Bogdan’s face flashes with rage, but his temper quickly transforms into disdain.

“Take me to her, maggot.” Bogdan laces his words with disgust. He has none of his mother’s tact or grace. “You had best be sure you know where she is if you want to live long enough to spit that out.”

Killian gestures for Bogdan to follow him. Cursing under his breath, Bogdan grabs Killian by the ear and snarls into his face. “Start walking. If this arrangement fails, you will be outcast from the tribe. Shunned forever.”

The salt stings Killian’s mouth and waters his eyes, but his steps grow surer as he approaches Halse’s hiding place. The sun’s long rays angle low among the trees. The boys squeeze into the narrow shelter. Halse lies on the mossy ground, her leg swollen and blistered. Bogdan balks at the sight, despite the warnings both Mentor Avram and Wiccan Larkin had given the boys while training for this trial.

“Whoever reaches the foundling in time to heal the damage to her leg will be our Ascended Shaman,” Leader Ishmael had announced from his high podium in the square. “Killian, Bogdan, we are counting on the best of you to bring her home safely. It is our duty to appease the spirits and not question their intent. Remember, you are but the means to an end.”

Killian spits the healing brine onto Halse’s ravaged leg. The effect is immediate.

But so is the attack.

The thronging ravens smell her freshly cured flesh and drop from the canopy, targeting Halse. Bogdan frowns, then charges out from under the overhang. His burly arms swat and swipe at the storm of wings. Killian dashes out after him, helping Halse across the ridge, steering her as fast as he can back to their village.

The air fills with raucous baying. Killian tries to cover Halse’s small body with his own, to protect her from an onslaught. It never comes. Confused, he looks back. Bogdan is wielding the knife his own mother had given Killian. How did Bogdan get it? He splits a seam down his arm. Blood drips from his elbow. Killian is stunned, stuck, still wondering how his cousin got his knife.

But Halse seizes the opportunity, pushing Killian away as she flees. He scrambles to his feet as the ravens swarm Bogdan, lacerating him for every blow he lands, thrashing and bloodying him.

Now Killian understands that Bogdan’s overconfident decision will be squandered if Killian does not get Halse back to her trainer. He turns from the tempest of feathers, claws and limbs, and follows the girl back to the village. Soon he can’t tell which screams are the birds’ and which are his kin’s.

The vacant village huts sit silent, their doorways open as eyes. A thin wail slices the stillness, as Killian’s people take in what’s happened, on their faces, in their skin. Wiccan Larkin faces the crowd in the square.

“And so it is done,” she says, almost whispering.

“He used your knife,” Killian offers.

“And you did not.” Tears track down her deeply lined face.

“No. But Halse lives.” He steps toward his aunt. “The foundling lives.” Halse looks for her trainer, ignoring the awe she commands. Wiccan Larkin barely glances her way.

“Killian of the North, are you prepared to be our Shaman? Are you worthy of this role and title?”

Killian pauses with a sharp breath. “I am unworthy of such an esteemed position, Wiccan Larkin. Please accept my deepest regret.” He stops. “Bogdan is your Ascended Shaman, and I am the reason he is no longer with us.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. The villagers each sink to one knee, and all bow their heads. Killian surveys his people and gestures toward Halse.

“Here is your foundling. May the spirits arise. I bid you all farewell.”

And with a curt nod, he turns from the village, knowing he can never return.