The Way of the Black Beast - Book 1 of The Malja Chronicles

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The hours that followed threatened to bring about the ghosts of Malja’s memory, but she managed to deflect such thought by focusing on Dead Lake. Fawbry called it a reminder of how the Devastation had changed the world. Before, the area had been composed of hills and forests, roads and towns, houses and families. Children played in their yards, climbing trees and throwing balls. Mothers and fathers worked to better their families and society. Magicians strolled the streets like holy leaders of peace and prosperity.

In the instant of the Devastation, the town vanished. A giant hole engulfed the land and rains filled it in. Those unfortunate enough not to disappear with the land and roads and homes floated in the new lake, adding their blood to the water.

All these years later, little life had returned. The innocent blood poisoned the shores. Nothing grew. Gray rocks littered the ground and the occasional bone washed up in the limp tides. It reminded Malja of the Freelands — a dark, wet version.

Hazy fog rolled off the waters bringing on night a few hours early. Tommy shifted in the saddle, and Malja tried to comfort him with a firm hold, but he shirked off her arm. The horses’ various sounds — hoof against stone, air forced through nostrils, headshakes jingling reins — amplified in the narrowing visibility. Malja’s eyes never ceased searching for threats.

“Almost there,” Fawbry said, his eagerness unmistakable.

All of what counted for civilization lay so far back that Malja understood why Fawbry might feel safe here. Desolate and destroyed, the area would be lonely, but alone and alive sounded better than surrounded by others and dead. A figure appeared in the haze causing Malja to reconsider the “alone” part.

“It’s okay,” Fawbry said. “They’re just the Chi-Chun.”

“I thought they were a story.”

“No, the Chi-Chun have existed for a long time. I’m not saying they really have the magic to ward off the dead. Frankly, I don’t really believe the dead are going to rise. But they believe.”

As they rode by, Tommy’s hand trembled. Malja fought off the urge to respond. The Chi-Chun presented a frightening figure. He stood six feet tall, but seemed bigger, framed by bony trees and thin foliage. He wore a frayed, black robe — tattered cloth that draped him like seaweed. He stood motionless with his hooded head hung low and his arms outstretched. Malja imagined the pain his arms would radiate after only a few minutes. If the stories were true, he would stand like that for several hours.

Fawbry explained that the Chi-Chun were a sect of Korstrians that had few but highly devoted followers. They believed Dead Lake was the epicenter of the Devastation and if not constantly kept in check, a second blast would occur, strong enough to ensure extinction for every living thing. “According to their texts, the first sign of this blast will be the return of all the dead at Dead Lake,” Fawbry said with a derisive snort.

“Wait, wait,” Malja said. “You can read?”

“No, of course not,” he said with a fumbling cough. “And if I could, I wouldn’t waste my time with Chi-Chun nonsense. I mean, they spend hours like that for what? Another will come along to relieve them. Then they go to their little commune, pray, eat, sleep, start all over. Nothing else. What kind of life is that?”

Malja settled back in the saddle. She didn’t care about the Chi-Chun, but to find another who could read thrilled her. He could deny it all he wanted, but she had heard the education in his voice earlier, and now he let slip that he could read.

Gregor had taught her and if for nothing else, she loved him for that infinite gift. Jarik and Callib had taught her much as well but only what served them — never what would solely benefit her. Teaching a child should be an act of love in many ways. For Jarik and Callib, it was an act of control.