The Chosen by Kris Kramer (read the beginning after the end novel TXT) 📕

“Tarac, how is this possible?”

The boy thought for a moment. “Well, you have to….hmm, it is difficult to explain, I suppose. Took me years to learn, but I never had to teach anyone else.”

“I don’t want to learn it, boy.” Pjodarr took a deep breath. “Tell me how you killed the havtrol back there, the one that was attacking Gruesome.”

“Oh, well, I tried several things. But havtrols have thick muscles and flesh. So, I had to think of something else. Then it came to me!” The boy looked quite proud of himself. “I-,” he closed his fist sharply. “-pushed his blood to his head. It was too much, even for his thick skull!”

Gruesome gaped at the necromancer. “You can do this?”

“That and more, let me show you!”

The warrior’s big hands went for his weapons. Tarac raised his hands and bowed his head. This time Folik did not make a move to defend his master. “Peace, friend Gruesome. I wish to show you an aspect of the power, not attack you. Did you strike the two that fled?”

The havtrol relaxed somewhat. “One with hammer, one with axe.”

“Excellent, have you cleaned your blade yet?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

“Show me, please.”

Pjodarr watched with rapt attention as Gruesome pulled the axe from his hip. He pointed the double-bladed head at Tarac. The boy rose carefully and peered at its edge. He bent the tip of his staff to it, whispering words of power. Blue light spread over the two figures. The hair on the back of the shaman’s head stood on end as the night went silent. Tiny bits of dried blood flaked off the shiny steel. They followed the necromancer’s staff and floated in the air, then crashed together in a splash as the blood turned to liquid again.

“Yes,” Tarac moaned, his voice husky. “He still lives.” He cast his big green eyes up to Gruesome. “And wherever he goes, the blood will follow.”

The havtrol took two steps backwards. With great deliberation he returned the axe to the strap on his side. Eyes never leaving the young man’s face, he squat down on the ground. Then his eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. “So be it, boy.”

For the first time in his life, Pjodarr found himself utterly speechless.

Chapter 21

Gruesome contemplated the boy conjurer. Blood magic. Necromancy. Of what depravity did the people of Durum Tai not partake? And what did that make him? Tarac saved his life, and now he would allow blood magic to lead him to his prey. Did this stain his honor? The Honorless were beyond the reach of the gods, and their bodies were food for var and worm. Their souls would be shattered upon the rocks of oblivion. Nothing of them and their broken oaths would remain, so why not use their blood? Do they deserve no less than to be tools for the boy’s dark magic?

All these thoughts passed through his mind as his hands worked. He sat by the dwarf, putting oil to armor and weapon. Blade’s hands worked absent his eye, for the old general stared ever forward. Gruesome wondered for not the first time what magic ailed the glorious Lord of Northwatch. In five seasons the dwarf had never spoken, never slept. He fought, but not with the gusto of a proud Warshield. It was as if he walked in his sleep. He knew the shaman’s voice it seemed, but the havtrol had to push or nudge him to get his attention.

The shaman sat by the fire and moved the pot of meatless broth he cooked in the embers. He still thought the girl would come to them. Gruesome admired the man’s heart. It held much kindness and love, and might be all that kept the dwarf alive.

Snow crunched and all eyes turned toward the slim figure in a plain dress. Her long blonde hair fell over her face as she stared down. Pjodarr scooped some of the broth into a bowl and set it by the side of the fire away from everyone else.

“It is not much, but it is hot. It will help.”

She picked up the bowl and sipped tentatively. Her face was cleaner, but still streaked with mud and blood. Her hair was matted and wild. She lifted her face to drain the bowl and the collar around her neck jingled. Slave. There were no human lords this deep in the forest, so why would she be here?

“I am Pjodarr, shaman to Master Blade.” He pointed to the dwarf. “This is Gruesome, warrior of Clan Beartooth.” Her gaze sunk deeper into the ground. Gruesome felt renewed outrage at the Honorless, that they would cause her to fear him as them. “That is High Priest Tarac and his companion Folik.”

Pjodarr traded glances with the rest and leaned toward the girl. “What is your name, child?”

She set the bowl beside the fire, and then lay on her side. She curled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, then buried her chin into her chest. The shaman pursed his lips and nodded. They sat in silence. Pjodarr crossed his legs under him and placed a hand on each knee.

“You are well learned, right, Tarac?”

The boy cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose. I know the history of my people, but I am not so clear on the rest of the Bergsbor.”

“Do you even know how the world came to be?”

“Came to be? Well, the gods created the world, of course.”

“That sounds a bit simple, doesn’t it?” The old slave arched an eyebrow at the younger man.

Tarac smiled. “I would never call the gods simple, good shaman.”

Pjodarr laughed and slapped his knee. “Neither would I, but I’m in the mood for a story. Would you like to hear how the world began?”

“I would!” Tarac’s face was childlike.

The shaman stretched his arms to either side and lowered his head. Snow surrounded him in a great drift and flowed around the fire to settle as a pile before each of them. The necromancer clasped his hands together.

“First, and always, there was Fjur, greatest of the gods.” A thick man-like figure formed in the snow before Pjodarr. “So mighty was he that he carried all the heavens on his back.” The man crawled on all fours, and a large dome appeared on his broad back. “Then the other gods came. They lived in the emptiness of the heavens.” Tiny people popped up on the dome. “The lesser gods fought amongst themselves.” One of the tiny snow gods punched another. Tarac laughed with glee. The girl’s eyes shifted to the shaman.

“Fjur grew weary of the gods’ petty squabbles. They argued and fought and then argued about why they fought! Wise Fjur knew their problem. They were bored! He had the whole weight of the heavens upon him, but if he did not hold them in place, they would twirl madly. What could he do to help the other gods? The answer came to him. He would give himself, and watch over the heavens to make sure they did not tumble into oblivion.”

The fire flashed and a huge ball of flame hung in the air. “His right eye became the sun. Fjur’s morning eye brings us the day.” Snow flew from the ground and formed a crescent. “His left eye became the moon, to watch over the night.” Gruesome looked at the shaman’s face. The old man’s right eye was surrounded by a black sun, his left framed by a crescent moon.

The Fjur puppet spread itself flat. “His body became the earth. But he knew that was not enough. The gods needed others to rule over, or they would continue fighting amongst themselves. First, he created dwarf and elf.” A snowy dwarf formed in front of Blade, followed by an elf. “He told dwarf to build the mountains, and gave elf dominion over the forests and its creatures. Dwarf was clever and knew the ways of stone. But his arms were short, and he could not reach the top of the mountain!” A mound of snow rose up and the snow dwarf tried in vain to grab the tip. Tarac clapped his hands, and Gruesome could not stifle a laugh. “So, Fjur made the giants and trolls. Tall and strong they were, but not very bright. They tried to eat dwarf!” A larger snowman bit the dwarf’s head off. “Dwarf said to Fjur, ‘Why do you give us such a task, then make these monsters to eat us?’ Fjur knew they were right, so he made havtrol.” A bulky figure popped up in front of Gruesome. “They were also strong, and also not too bright.”

Gruesome grunted and slapped the little havtrol apart. Tarac was beside himself with joy.

“But there was still a problem. Dwarf and elf and havtrol performed their tasks too well. The mountains grew tall, the forests thrived. All was peaceful. And Fjur knew what the gods did when things were peaceful. He needed something to keep them busy. What could he create that would upset the beautiful balance of his world, his body, his very being? No more monsters. Something with the ability to create and destroy; a being that he would allow to make its own choices.” Pjodarr snapped his fingers. “He created man.” Snow people formed in front of Tarac and the girl. The boy rubbed his finger on its head. The slave girl moved her hand, as if to reach out, and then drew it back to her body.

“Now, he was ready for the gods. The three brothers Mobin, Mani and Drogu were the strongest. Then there was Lyndaa, wife of Mobin, mother to Bodr and the bear god Jaga. Berta was the last.” Seven forms appeared before the shaman.

“To Mobin, he gave the rule of the other gods. He would watch them, and see that they oversaw their realms justly. Mani was given the vast seas and all the great beasts within. Drogu was given reign over the souls of Fjur’s children. He would see that they passed to the other side.” A small, cloaked figure rose in front of Tarac. It held a basket, the symbol of Drogu gathering souls.

“Lyndaa became goddess of wisdom, for a mother always knows best. Bodr, Mobin’s strongest son, became the god of thunder and war. He would decide which side was right when two nations fought.” An armored man grew before Blade, with snowy shield and sword.

“But wars are not won in a day. Fjur knew they would depend on many contests. So he made the angry Jaga god of battles. He would give the fight to those who fought with the most honor and ferocity.” A little snow bear swiped a claw at Gruesome. The havtrol smiled and bowed his head to it.

“And to Berta, most beautiful of the gods, he gave dominion over all that grew. She became the goddess of love and fertility.” A snowy bulb pushed its way through the mound in front of the girl. It opened and blossomed into a flower with a winding stem and long petals. As it bloomed, it crystallized into pure ice. The slave girl gasped and placed one finger on the edge of a single petal. The fire danced in her eyes.

“Have you ever seen one of those, my dear?”

She shook her head weakly. Her finger never left the icy blossom.

“They used to grow on the side of the Great Mountain. They bloomed only one week out of the year, right after the snow melted. There was a festival every year. The Winter Lily Fair. That’s what they were called: winter lilies. Every flower is a beautiful gift from Fjur, which is why we name them.”

The slave girl looked at Pjodarr. Gruesome could see the pain in her eyes. Where there was pain, there was a wish for relief. Her face softened.

“Erliga,”