Joely Sue Burkhart

Week 1
Week2
Hot off the press again, but it took all evening to get through this.  I couldn’t decide where to stop, and ended up doubling the length.  It needs some work, but here’s the next installment.

Wrapped in the Shadow of Death, Gregar crouched in the waist-high grass, invisible to the two warriors standing not ten paces from him. In the distance, thousands of tents dotted the foothills with the thrice-crowned Mountain rearing up in the distance. This night, Vulkar’s Mountain rumbled constantly, further cloaking the evening sky with ash to match the mourning in the tents.

A most beloved Khul of the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan for over twenty years was drawing his last breath, and his favored son stood on a hill above the Silver Lake searching for guidance.

Both grim-faced warriors were known to Gregar. In fact, they were his closest friends, if a Death Rider who roamed the Plains killing in Vulkar’s name could be said to have friends. Rhaekhar stood a hand taller than the other warrior, his shoulders broad, his hair already heavily laden with his kae’valda. Warriors spent their lives earning tokens of honor to braid into their hair. By honor alone, Rhaekhar stood to make as excellent a Khul as his father before him.

If he wasn’t terminated first.

Aye, the second Call thundered in Gregar’s head, dueling with the shadowed Call that whispered how sweet the woman’s blood would taste. Truly, the Calls tore him in two different directions. One urged him to peel back the Shadows, stand, and join the other warrior who stood close to the would-be Khul. Over the coming days, seven other warriors would likely feel the undeniable urge to approach Rhaekhar.

Nine total, one from each Camp, the Blood would protect the new Khul with their lives from assassins like him. As a Death Rider, his greatest honor would be found in spilling Khul’s blood, the greatest mark on the Plains, not in protecting Khul with his very life. So why had Vulkar planted this second Call in his heart and mind?

Shadow tugged on his will, urging him to terminate this would-be Khul and then ride for the Shining Walls and the woman set apart for his sacrifice alone.

“You should prepare for the Kae’Khul now,” the other warrior said, his voice flat and hard. Varne had never been known to show much emotion, but surely a son should have time to grieve for his father before his friend pushed him to begin plotting to take Khul’s place. “Drendon will be your closest challenger.”

“Aye,” Rhaekhar replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “We have days yet, Varne. I don’t think–”

“His skill with the rahke is better than yours.”

“Aye,” Rhaekhar repeated, his voice tightening, although outwardly he gave no sign of his displeasure. “He may very well best me, but he’ll pay in blood. Unquestionably, the kae’don will be mine. My warriors are the finest on the Plains and he knows it.”

“He has a mate. You do not. He’ll gain much advantage over you initially with her to increase his honor. Perhaps you should–”

Rhaekhar strode toward Gregar’s hiding place, standing so closely he could have gutted the warrior without moving.

“I shall have a mate soon enough.”

Gregar’s heart thudded, his ears roaring with rushing winds. He barely heard Varne’s query.

“Nay, you do not know her. I don’t know her myself, not yet, but when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll recognize her.”

The last fervent whisper rocked Gregar to his heels.

“The Rose will be mine, a love like no other.”

Kill him, kill him, kill him.

This warrior would take his Rose. This warrior would be Khul, any Death Rider’s greatest mark. Nay, the woman, his woman, his greatest mark, his most secret heart’s desire, and Rhaekhar would take her as his own and name her Khul’lanna.

Gregar held himself very still, but inside, his heart raged, his stomach rebelled, and his very blood boiled in his veins in adamant denial. The ivory rahke came into his hand eagerly, hungry for blood, for this warrior’s blood.

I love you, she whispered, and he buried the ivory rahke in her heart.

A love like no other.

Rhaekhar whirled, smoothly unsheathing his rahke as he scanned the tall Plains grass. “I know you’re there. I hear your breathing.”

With a rueful sigh, Gregar revealed himself, slowly standing from the cloaking shadows. To his credit, Rhaekhar didn’t blanch or even take a wary step back. Face dark with shame, Varne charged forward and put his body between them, but he was too late and he knew it. If Gregar had decided to kill, the warrior would already be on the ground gasping as his life’s blood fountained on the grass.

“Vulkar sorrows with you, Rhaekhar.”

“My thanks,” he replied. He sheathed the rahke, but he watched Gregar carefully, his eyes hard. He knew very well how close to death he’d been. Since he kept his hand on his rahke, he must also realize the threat had not completely diminished. “My father will ride to Vulkar soon. Stand aside, Varne. I’m not Khul yet.”

“But you will be,” Varne retorted. “I feel the Call.”

Gregar snorted. “If you feel the Call so well, why didn’t you know I laid in wait? I could have slit his throat before you blinked your eyes.”

Stone faced, Varne let his right hand flit toward the rahke on his hip, but he hesitated.  He was mentally counting the red kae’als that had once hung in Gregar’s hair, and in the end, Varne turned stiffly and followed Rhaekhar down the hill.

The three warriors walked down to the pebbled shore of the Silver Lake. Above the waters, the full moon hung so low and full that Gregar thought he could reach up and snag it from the sky. Silvered light glimmered across the still, silent waters, shining like her eyes, the Dark Mare’s daughter, the woman he would kill.

Evidently, the woman Rhaekhar would make Khul’lanna if given half a chance.

The sudden silence in Gregar’s mind made him stagger, his fingers involuntarily relaxing enough that the ivory rahke slipped from his grip. Startled, he grabbed the blade before it hit the ground, slicing his fingers open to the bone. Why had both Calls disappeared?

“That was rather clumsy,” Varne said, his voice smug. “Even outlanders usually wield their swords without cutting themselves.”

Rhaekhar gave his back confidently to the most honored Death Rider who had stalked him. “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

Staring at the blood dripping down his fingers, staining the white blade, Gregar swayed. His head felt as light as a feather, his heart sluggish and reluctant to beat. Pain banded his chest, radiating from his heart. “I don’t know.”

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 10th, 2008 at 9:06 pm and is filed under Friday Snippets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.