12. The Burial of Abashar

Weep for Abashar the valiant! Weep for Irlohar the brave! He the warrior, he the binder, lost within earth’s darkest grave.

This is an installment in a serialized novel. To start at the beginning, go here.

Hal and his father made their way slowly back along the path, the old man limping slightly on his bad leg. The sounds of festivity grew louder as they rounded the main house and approached the bonfires. Hal was separated from his father as he edged through the crowd into the firelight. He saw the groom, surrounded by a group of young men, holding a cup of wine. He looked a little dazed. On the opposite side of the fire sat the Veyta Mother and the boy who had accompanied her– a little apart from the rest of the crowd. And at the far end of the gathering sat Selinuth, back a little from the firelight, his face shadowed.

And there was Piria, talking and laughing, white teeth flashing along with her copper ornaments. Their eyes met, and she ran to him, holding up the hem of her robe.

“Where have you been?” She pushed a finger into his chest. “I was looking for a dance partner during the last song. I think my husband has done all the dancing he can handle tonight.”

Hal smiled. “Yeah, he looks like he might need a break from all the celebrating. I needed a break too.”

Piria crossed her arms. “There’ll be plenty of time to be thoughtful and morose later. The feast will be over soon, and then I’ll be off with my new family in my new home living my new life.” She swallowed, her eyes even wider than usual.

Hal’s eyes grew misty. He folded her gently into a hug. “I don’t know what we’re going to do without you, Piria.”

She squeezed him tightly around the waist and then stepped back, wiping a tear from her eye and straightening up. “I blame Mishath for marrying an orphan and staying here. We have no practice with goodbyes.”

“It’s not goodbye– Selinuth is going to train Selip as a weller, and Broan wants his help repairing the pumps in the western fields. There’s a family connection now. You’ll be seeing plenty of us– maybe more than you want.”

Piria grinned. “What I want right now is for you to dance with me!” The rhythm of the music had picked up again. Hal let her lead him into the circle of dancers, and he let himself be swept away in the music and movement, feeling the resonance of the drumbeats in his body.

After a while, the music stopped. Happy and satisfied, the dancers drifted back into small groups around the bonfires. Hal sat too, leaning back on his elbows. A woman with a tasseled headscarf stepped up onto the small platform near the center of the gathering, leaning slightly on a long wooden staff– Hal’s grandmother. Firelight danced brightly upon her face. In anticipation, many among the crowd gathered closer and sat. Then she began to sing.

The verses were slow and rhythmic, the melody staying within a theme, with small flourishes and variations from line to line. Her voice still carried well, though it no longer had the pure unbroken tone of her younger years.

She sang of a time long passed, a time of myth rather than history, when the Enedram had been the only people on the desolate plains. Of how those ancient angelic beings, the amahenta, had taught them to access the water flowing in rivers below the surface. Of how the watered land above the rivers had become green and flourished, and how the Enedram people had flourished with it.

She sang also of darker times, when the Veyta came to the land, riding north from the frozen southern steppes with their horses, with their green eyes and warlike ways, and their strange magic that advantaged them in battle. Of how they had conquered and oppressed the Enedram, even as they fought amongst themselves, tribe against tribe. Hal looked toward the Veyta Mother as his grandmother sang about this, but the woman’s face was impassive.

Hal’s grandmother sang of how an even greater danger came to the land– a creature as ancient as the amahenta, but as evil as they are pure. Of how a great leader rose up among the Veyta– one who did not oppress the Enedram, but instead united all the people of the plains for their defense. He was the first of the Veyta kings, she sang, and his name was Abashar.

Hal sat up straight, attention suddenly rapt. Abashar, the first king. Out of sheer confusion, Hal had let the encounter with Athra recede and rest in his mind– he didn’t know what to make of it, so he had given up thinking about it for a time. Not that he could completely forget, given that Oweth continued to talk about Athra as if the ancient creature were his friend, or maybe a family pet.

But now, he could clearly hear the strange animal voice in his memory, echoing from the cavern walls:

The valiant one with the heart of a king

The heart of Abashar

Hal’s grandmother finished her song. People cheered the performance as she descended from the platform. Conversations started up again around him, more subdued now–it was getting late, and some people were beginning to drift to their tents. Hal’s grandmother was walking away too, leaning lightly on her walking stick, toward the cottage where she insisted on living by herself. Hal followed her.

“Nana!” He caught up with her away from the crowds. She had lowered her headscarf, and the silvery tone of her hair seemed the most natural color in the moonlight. “Nana, can I talk to you for a minute?”

She paused, regarding him with fond annoyance. “You should know better, Haleth, than to get between a tired old lady and her bed.”

“I’m sorry Nana, it’s just something you said, your song… You mentioned that Veyta king, Abashar. I haven’t heard you sing about him very often.”

“Hah! You should listen more often then, like your little brother. But you have too many new songs in your stomach to spend time listening to an old woman.” She patted his cheek fondly, reaching up to do so instead of down as she had when he’d been a little boy.

“Abashar—what exactly was the thing he was fighting against? Did he win?”

She sighed. “These tales are a thousand years old, so I’m not sure why you need to know tonight.” But she grasped his hand tightly and led him to sit on a bench under the cypress near her cottage. For as long as he could remember she had come to sit there in the early morning, drinking her tea. Now she rested her staff against her knee, looking at him. “You have heard sung ‘The Burial of Abashar?’”

Hal shrugged. “I think so. It’s a Veyta song?”

She nodded. “If you were listening earlier, you know that there was a time when the tales of the Veyta and of the Enedram were woven together in one cloth. Here is part of it:”

Weep for Abashar the valiant!

Weep for Irlohar the brave!

He the warrior,

He the binder,

Lost within earth’s darkest grave.

Hal recognized the tune. “What does it mean, ‘He the binder’? And was he defeated by whatever he was fighting? Why’s he so famous then?”

She chuckled. “So curious about history all of a sudden! You may be surprised, but I am not quite as old as the rocks beneath your feet. I don’t know all the answers. But there are at least two more verses to the lament…“

“Please sing them!” Hal leaned forward eagerly.

“Give me a moment,” she sighed, “and I may be able to remember them. But after this I am going to bed and no one can stop me.” She drew in a deep breath, then paused. She grabbed Hal’s wrist.

“Do you see someone, over there by the wellhouse?” She spoke quietly.

Hal looked in the direction of the low stone building. Clouds had obscured the moon, and the night was suddenly much darker, but he could see a shadowy figure crouched in the bushes. As they watched, the man crept around the side of the wellhouse, crouching near the path.

“Hey!” Hal called, standing. The man stopped, looking back at him, face still in darkness. “Hey, you there!” Hal took a step forward.

The man made a guttural sound. At that moment, the moon broke through the clouds, shining on a strange, horrible face. The man–or creature–held a long, wicked knife. His eyes locked on Hal for a moment, and then he lunged.

Hal moved without thinking. He grabbed the oaken rod that still rested against the bench and spun just in time to face the assailant almost upon him. The knife flashed. Hal raised the staff, deflecting the strike. He tried to swing the rod, but the man was in too close, the blows coming too quickly–it was all he could do to parry or dodge them. He was being pushed backward. Suddenly, the man snarled, glancing to the side. A rock clattered to the ground at his feet.

The instant was all Hal needed. He leapt back, raising the staff, and swung. The rod whistled through the air and met the side of the attacker’s head with a crack. The man crumpled. Hal kicked the knife away. Panting, he looked toward his grandmother.

She stood near the bench, another rock ready in hand. “Are you hurt?”

“No… thanks to you. That was close.” Hal looked down at the assailant, motionless now. He crouched to examine the face more closely. It looked… almost human, but the features were strange, twisted. The skin looked to be a strange color– greenish and a bit shiny. It was hard to tell in the darkness. But it was the mouth that was most disturbing– for there were no lips to conceal the snarling teeth. “What…?”

Before he could finish his question, shouts sounded from the direction of the celebration– then a scream of terror. Hal stood. He met his grandmother’s eyes. “Go inside Nana, and bar the door.” He held out the staff.

“Keep it,” she said, “I’ll manage. Be careful, Haleth.”

He met her eyes for a moment longer, and then he turned and ran.