Elderpyre book two asp.., p.66
Elderpyre: Book Two - Aspirant, page 66
“You still haven’t taught me that trick,” Hunter said, eyeing the disappearing gear.
“Patience,” Fawkes replied without looking up. “I’m not gone yet, am I? The evening’s still young.”
As if on cue, a distant drumbeat echoed from deeper in the village, slow and ceremonial. It marked sundown, and with it, the official start of the festivities.
Fawkes scooped up the last of her trinkets and tucked them neatly away up her sleeve, then rose to her feet, brushed off the back of her trousers, and stretched her arms overhead until her shoulders popped.
“Let’s go, then,” she said, casting Hunter a sidelong glance. “We don’t want to miss the main event, do we?”
“Yay,” he said, with all the deadpan enthusiasm of a man headed to his own tax audit.
The rest of the village didn’t seem much more thrilled about the feast, either. Hunter had thought the welcome feast was half-hearted back when the Behemoth riders first rolled into the village, but this one took the proverbial cake. Everywhere, the smiles were forced and the pleasantries hollow, and the strained cheer that some of the folken still clung to barely masked the unease simmering just beneath the surface.
By far the most cheerful among the throng of folken making their way to the longhouse were the Behemoth Nation crewmen and women themselves. Hunter suspected their good mood had less to do with the feast and more with the fact that they were about to get the hell out of there and back to their mechanized, nomadic life of adventure.
Before getting to the actual festivities—such as they were, which mostly meant food—the folken had to endure yet another gathering in the longhouse. Only this time, the elders of the Hawk Nation had something important to announce. And, judging from the guarded looks of the men and women crowding the old building, few were under any illusion that it would be good news.
Hunter was in no mood to cram himself in among hundreds of folken, packed shoulder to shoulder in the longhouse like kindling, just to watch Yuma bask in his moment of glory. The heat alone was stifling, thick with the smell of sweat, smoke, and too many bodies in too tight a space.
Fawkes, however, was of a different mind.
“Oh, I’m going,” she said dryly, a wicked glint in her eye. “Wouldn’t do to miss it if Wroth finally snaps and wrings Vanchik’s neck. Maybe Marten’s too, while he’s at it. Grimnir willing, he’ll make a proper job of it and take a few of the other old bastards with him.”
A pleasant thought, that, Hunter had to admit—though if the Behemoth elder hadn’t throttled the alderman already, he wasn’t likely to do so now.
Vanchik stepped forward to address the gathered folken, opening with the usual hollow pleasantries and tired platitudes about Ancestors and tradition and brighter tomorrows. Hunter had heard it all before, more than once, and whatever novelty it might once have held had long since worn thin.
What did catch Hunter’s attention was the change in the lineup. This time, Vanchik wasn’t standing alone. Flanking him were Yuma, solemn and stiff in ceremonial garb; Tayen, her expression unreadable as stone; and Brother Marten, swathed in his usual dark-hued robes and sable furs. The doomsayer stood with quiet authority, casting his cool, disdainful gaze over the crowd, unchallenged and entirely at ease, as if that prominent position among the Hawk Nation’s who’s who had always been rightfully his.
“The past few moons have tested us, each and every one,” Vanchik droned on, and there was a vague sense of defeat about him, one he looked too tired to hide. “We have seen hardship. We have borne witness to loss. We have walked through days darker than any I had hoped to see in my time. And I know I do not speak alone when I say we carry the weight of those days still. The grief has not spared a single family. The worry has not skipped a single hearth. Yet even in that shadow, there have been voices, young and old alike, calling for change. For strength. For new leadership to see us through what lies ahead. The Ancestors do not turn a deaf ear to those pleas… and neither do we.”
With that, Vanchik stepped back and gestured for Yuma to come forward. The younger man did so stiffly, every inch the solemn heir being presented to his people.
“As of this night, I will step down from the role of alderman. The time has come for the next to carry the burden, and I have no doubt in the strength of the one chosen. I give you Yuma of Clan Ashari, of the Hawk Nation, of the Brennai!”
A smattering of hesitant applause followed, scattered and subdued. The crowd’s reaction was lukewarm at best; more obligation than celebration, as if no one quite knew how they were meant to feel.
“The finest among this new generation of Aspirants of our people,” Vanchik continued, “Yuma has shown himself worthy in the eyes of the Ancestors. Not only through trial, not only through blade and bravery, but through hardship endured and lessons learned. He has been tested, as all leaders must be, and I believe he has come out of that trial stronger and wiser.”
He swept the crowd with his eyes, as if making sure every face bore witness to the moment.
“Do not lend your ear to those serpentine whispers that seek to sow discord among our folken. Yuma is not alderman because he is my son. He is alderman because the Ancestors have seen fit to guide his path, and because the elders have placed their faith in him.”
With his piece said, Vanchik gave a slow nod and stepped aside, yielding the floor to Yuma. The moment hung heavy as the younger man stepped forward to address the folken in his own right.
Yuma cleared his throat, chin lifted just a touch too high. “I know the weight of what’s being asked of me,” he began, eyes fixed somewhere over the heads of the crowd, voice steady. “And I know I walk in the shadow of greater men, of the Ancestors whose names we still speak with reverence. I do not claim to be their equal… only that I will try to be worthy of the path they’ve laid before us.”
He paused, searching the silence for approval, or at least acceptance. What he found, mostly, was hesitation.
“What a load of bollocks,” Fawkes muttered, and Hunter was inclined to agree. This was a dog-and-pony show if he had ever seen one.
“Yuma of the Hawk Nation stands not merely as a son of Vanchik, but as one chosen through trial by fire. Though wounded in spirit and in body, he is still standing strong and proud. Still willing. That is no small thing.” Marten’s voice lowered just a touch; he sounded more intimate now, more reverent. “He will not walk this path alone. I will be at his side, as will Elder Vanchik, to offer counsel where needed. To help him find his footing as the burdens of leadership settle on his shoulders. All in service to the will of the Ancestors, may their wisdom guide us through the darkest of nights, and to the brightest of dawns.”
A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd, uneasy and uncertain. A few heads nodded with fervent approval, Marten’s growing circle of zealots clearly present and listening rapt. But most of the folken shifted in place, their expressions guarded.
“And he will not walk alone in life, either,” Marten continued, with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For by his side stands Tayen of Clan Besk, of the Hawk Nation, of the Brennai. An Aspirant, rare among women, yes—but should we expect less from the grandniece of Hallara Besk?”
Tayen stood like a statue, face carved from stone. She looked neither proud nor defiant; simply unreadable.
“She carries the strength of her bloodline and the favor of the Ancestors,” Marten went on, folding his hands. “Together, they shall carry our hopes into the days ahead.” He paused, then opened his arms slightly, like a preacher before his flock. “So let us eat. Let us drink. Let us give thanks to those who came before us, and to those of us who walk their path with courage. And, of course, let us also give our thanks to the elders and braves of the Behemoth Nation, who stood with us in our hour of need. Their aid will not be forgotten.”
Hunter turned his gaze to the Behemoth riders, who were gathered at the far side of the longhouse. Wroth looked as if he might burst from his seat, his jaw clenched so tight the cords in his neck stood out. Beside him, Elder Rook sat unmoving, studying Marten with the quiet intensity of a predator sizing up another. There was no trace of warmth in his gaze, only cold, patient scrutiny.
“But the time has come for them to continue their journey,” Marten went on, unfazed. “To carry their strength where it is most needed next. The Hawk Nation must now learn to stand on its own. So let us eat. Let us drink. Let us give thanks to the Ancestors, and to those who walk their path with courage. Let us move forward, not in fear, but in purpose.”
Across the hall, Hallara sat still as ever, her expression neutral. But her eyes, emerald-green and needle-sharp, never left the doomsayer.
And just like that, it was done.
Chapter 86
The folken filed out of the longhouse in droves, still unsure of what to make of the announcement. Only the Behemoth crewfolk looked entirely unbothered, satisfied in the knowledge that by this time tomorrow they would be far from the village, its politics and unrest little more than a fading memory in their wake.
“You got the right idea, getting the hell out of here as soon as possible,” said Hunter as he and Fawkes moved with the slow stream of bodies pushing toward the exit. “With Yuma playing alderman and Marten pulling the strings…”
“This village is on a path now,” Fawkes agreed, shaking her head. “And it’s not one that leads anywhere good. Feels like we just watched the first nail go into their coffin.”
“Well, I won’t be sticking around too long myself, I can promise you that.”
Now that they were out in the open, most of the folken made a beeline for the cooking fires and food stalls. Bonfires burned high, and the air throbbed with the beat of a dozen different drums, but even that couldn’t shake the heaviness hanging over the village.
Hunter and Fawkes went straight for the food as well, weaving through the crowd toward the long tables piled high with platters. They loaded up on fire-roasted fish wrapped in birch bark, dense flatbreads still warm from the coals, smoked venison, and root vegetables stewed with wild herbs. They made sure to take as much as they could carry for Inago and Onatah, piling the food into cloth bundles and ignoring the annoyed stares and openly hostile glances some of the folken didn’t bother to hide.
He told her about massive towers of glass and steel that pierced the clouds, of vast cities glowing brighter than bonfires even in the dead of night. He spoke of little flying machines that could spy, carry parcels, or watch your every move. Of metal boxes that cooked food without flame, and trains that ran faster than bullets. Of tiny, bright rectangles that fit in your hand and could contain all the knowledge in the known world—which still, people mostly used to gossip and watch cats do funny things.
Fawkes listened with a crooked brow and a faint smirk. “You know,” she said, “I’ve heard of things like that before. Seen the ruins, even. Twisted metal, shattered glass, half-sunken into the earth. Relics from past epochs, from the world-that-was. Some say they were made by giants. Others, by gods.”
“Bollocks,” Hunter mimicked her, grinning. “Just people, I'd guess. People with too much time and not enough sense.”
That drew a laugh from her, low and warm. “Now that, I can believe.”
She leaned back on her hands, eyes flicking up to the stars beginning to blink through the dusk.
“That’s what the Lodge was meant to be, once upon a time,” she went on. “A guild of seekers sworn to find the truly dangerous things—weapons, relics of the old world, bits of knowledge better left buried, Find them, claim them, and lock them away in deep vaults, away from the meddling of visionaries, upstarts, and autocrats. You know, for the common good.” She gave a small shrug. “Most folk think it’s a myth now. A bogeyman to keep would-be tyrants from digging too deep into the ruins of the past.”
Hunter caught the drift of her thoughts and, not wanting the mood to sour, steered things gently back toward lighter ground. “Alright, enough doom and gloom and ancient vaults,” he said with a grin. “Plenty of time to worry about those later. Did I tell you about how people back home pay for the privilege of being locked in special rooms? To solve fake murders or escape pretend dungeons?”
Fawkes blinked. “You what?”
“Escape rooms,” he said, chuckling. “It’s a whole thing. They set up puzzles and clues, and you’ve got a time limit to solve the mystery and find a way to get out.”
She laughed until her sides hurt, the sound sharp and unrestrained. “You lot pay to be locked up? Voluntarily?”
“Yup,” he said, grinning. “And then brag about it afterward.”
“And here I thought spirit-possession trials and bone auguries were weird,” Fawkes said, shaking her head with a crooked smile. “You lot are absolutely cracked.”
Their cheer, however, thinned as they reached Onatah’s tent. Even Fyodor, bounding ahead a moment earlier, slowed to a quiet trot.
The low flicker of a meek hearth cast long, dim shadows across the faded fabric. Onatah looked up as they approached, raising a finger to her lips in a silent plea for quiet. She sat beside Inago’s still form, his breathing shallow but steady, the heavy furs rising and falling with each breath. After a moment, she rose carefully and slipped outside the tent to meet them, pulling the flap closed behind her.
“He’s asleep at last,” she said in a hushed voice, as though afraid even the night air might disturb him.
They handed her the bundles of food, and Onatah blinked rapidly, her gratitude plain and overwhelming. “You’ve done too much already, sai,” she whispered, voice thick. “Truly. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Fawkes, without a word, stepped forward and pulled the woman into a firm embrace, brief but sincere. It was an uncharacteristic gesture, and perhaps because of that, it landed with even more weight.
“Take care of yourself,” Fawkes said quietly as they pulled apart. “And of him.”
There wasn’t much else to say; nothing that could ease the ache of a mother watching her son’s world narrow to a bedroll and a tent. So they left her in silence, the air heavier around them than before.
“Want to head back to the festivities?” Fawkes asked.
“Like I want a root canal,” Hunter said, shaking his head. “Let’s bail, find somewhere quiet instead.”
Fawkes’s tent had been pitched at the very edge of the village, as if to remind everyone—subtly or not—of her status as an outsider. It had suited her fine. And tonight, it was as peaceful a place as any.
Fyodor settled down nearby with a contented huff, curling into a warm, shaggy mound, his ears twitching occasionally at distant sounds. Above them, Biggs and Wedge fluffed their feathers and found their perch on a low-hanging branch, tucking their heads beneath their wings as they roosted in companionable silence.
They didn’t bother with a fire. The night wasn’t too cold, and the sky was clear; countless stars scattered thick across the black firmament, casting a pale, silvery glow that painted everything in cool and dreamlike colors. Everything felt softer under that light, quieter, as if the world itself were holding a deep breath.
It all felt almost too nice, too still, too easy. The kind of evening that made Hunter wish, foolishly, that he could stretch it out forever. If every night were like this—cool breeze, his little menagerie nearby, stars overhead, Fawkes beside him—he wouldn’t complain. But the knowledge that it was their last made the quiet feel sharp-edged, sweet and sorrowful all at once.
He glanced at her, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “Come on,” he said, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. “Your turn. Tell me stories.”
Fawkes didn’t answer right away. She leaned back on her hands, eyes scanning the stars as if they might jog her memory. “Alright,” she said at last. “Let’s see how much I can still dredge up, shall we?”
She told him about the Stradts, massive cities hanging in the sky, held aloft by ancient engines no one truly understood anymore. Remnants of a time even the Lodge had no name for.
“Whole generations born and raised up there,” she said, “never once set foot on soil. Some of them think the very dirt on the ground is cursed. Others just think it’s, well… dirty. Messy.”
“So what happens if someone falls off?” Hunter raised an eyebrow.
“What do you think?” she said with a crooked smirk.
Then came a story from her youth, back when she was barely more than a slip of a girl, trailing after her master like a puppy. They had taken the wrong mercenary job—too much trouble, too little coin—and found themselves smack in the middle of a feud between a self-important elvish artificer leading a crew of peat diggers and a cunning ogre shaman who wanted the lot of them off his damned swamp.
“They were both after the same thing,” she explained, poking at the dirt with a stick. “Some ancient relic, buried deep in the muck. Neither of them had the faintest clue what it actually did, mind you—just that it glowed and hummed when you got close.”
“How’d you get out of it?” Hunter asked.
“We almost didn’t,” she said. “They blew up each other before we had the chance.” She gave a dark little chuckle. “I might have helped a bit with that, though I wish I’d checked whether we were standing within the blast radius first.”
“And were you?”
“Very nearly. I still have the scar on my left arse cheek.”
That earned a proper laugh from Hunter, but she wasn’t done.
“Then there was the time I ended up in a village that worshipped a thrice-damned bear, of all things. Big fuzzy bastard lived in their meeting hall like a chieftain. Sat on a throne. Wore a crown. Ate boiled root stew out of a gilded bowl.”
“You mean, like the Aspect of Mir?”
“No, Hunter,” she laughed. “An honest-to-goodness bear. Just a big old bear.”
