All Things Begin - The Anmah Series Book 1

Jarda Mistri was tired. He ran his hand through his dark hair, disheveling it, and then smoothed it back to neatness without conscious thought. His brown eyes were weary, and he had to force himself not to curse. He had been away from home for almost eight moons, he was currently on his fourth day of traveling north from his company, and he desperately missed his family. His wife, Elise, and his parents, Miva and Analy, were waiting for him at his home in the forest south of Torkeln, and he clicked his tongue at his horse to make him move a little faster. Gorshan was just as tired as his master was, but he obeyed the command and picked up his pace from a walk to a trot. Jarda groaned as he realized he was at least three hours from home still even at that faster pace. With a few bouts at a full gallop, however, he might make it in half that time.

“Come on, boy, I want to get home, and I know you do, too. Just think of the warm stable and of the oats and mash you can have when we get there.”

He tightened his thighs around Gorshan’s flank, and the horse snorted once before breaking into a gallop. Jarda leaned over his neck and urged him on. They made it about a league before Jarda reined him in and brought him back to a trot.

“Rest, boy, and then we will do it again.” Jarda settled back in the saddle and adjusted the sword at his hip. His father's sword. “Almost there,” he said softly as one part of his mind drifted toward his home and the reception he would receive when he arrived. The other part of his mind was acutely aware of what was around him, however, and it was that part that noticed the small figure on the side of the road about sixty paces ahead of him, just on the edge of the trees surrounding the road.

“Whoa,” he said as he reined Gorshan to a walk. In a few moments, he reached the boy, and if it had not been for his training, he would have gaped. The child was wrapped in a filthy, ragged blanket that hung to the ground. His face was grimy and caked with dirt, as were the hands holding the blanket tightly around himself. His hair was long and matted. The legs that Jarda could see through the holes in the blanket were stick-thin and ended in dirty, bare feet. The few fingers he could see looked like skin stretched over bone with no flesh separating them. He had no idea how this boy was still breathing until violet eyes that glowed in the failing light were raised to him. Then he knew, but he was still shocked, though he did not show it. He slid smoothly to the ground, his booted feet thudding dully on the packed dirt of the road, and held up his hand when the boy took a step backward, his wide, too-big eyes on Jarda’s sword.

“It is all right, boy,” he said softly. “I will not hurt you.”

He knew an Anmah in Torkeln, one he counted as a friend, and he had met several others, but never one this young. The boy could not have been more than six or seven, and Jarda wondered where he had come from. He slowly took a knee in the dust and placed his hands on his thighs.

“What is your name?”

The boy’s eyes stayed on the sword and he said nothing, but Jarda could see his fingers convulsively tightening and loosening around the edges of the blanket.

“Can you talk, boy?”

Still no sound came from the boy. It was as if he were mute or dimwitted, but as Jarda gazed into the eyes that branded this boy as Anmah, he saw intelligence there and a fierce determination behind the fear. Those eyes that had not moved from his sword.

Jarda slowly stood, and the boy took another step backward.

“Do not be afraid,” Jarda said, moving his hands toward his sword belt calmly and unbuckling it. Without taking his eyes off the boy, he reached behind him and hung the belt from the pommel of his saddle. Then he knelt in front of the child again.

“Better?”

This time the eyes snapped to his, and the boy gave him a small nod. Jarda smiled.

“Good. Now, will you tell me your name?”

The boy cocked his head and studied him.

“My name is Jarda Mistri. I live about eight leagues north of here. Where are you from?”

Saying nothing, the boy raised one bony arm from under the blanket and pointed behind him toward the mountains to the west. Jarda once again contained his surprise. He knew that there was nothing between Torkeln and the mountains but trees and wild animals. Then the boy let go of the blanket and made a point with his hands briefly before grasping the filthy cloth again.

“The mountains? You live in the mountains?” Jarda did not see how that was possible. As far as he knew, no one lived in the Parbatas.

The boy shook his head and frowned. He curved one hand in a downward arc.

“Over the mountains? The other side?”

Another small nod.

“You come from the Kedara Plains?”

The boy brought his arm back under the blanket and stood silently, watching Jarda. Then he walked around the man and approached Gorshan. He stood at the horse’s front leg, reached a skeletal hand up, and tentatively patted the animal’s forearm. He looked back at Jarda, a question in his eyes.

At first, Jarda did not know what he was trying to ask, but when the boy patted the horse again and gave him the same questioning look, he realized he was asking what the animal was.

“He is a horse,” he said slowly, his mind racing. Where had this boy been that he did not know what a horse was? “His name is Gorshan.”

The boy nodded and rubbed his hand up and down the horse’s leg before turning and walking down the road away from Torkeln.

“Wait!” Jarda took one large step after him and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He pulled it back when the boy spun around with a snarl and a hiss. His violet eyes shone brightly, and they had a feral look in them.

Jarda held his hands up and took a step back. “Sorry,” he said calmly, “I did not mean to frighten you. I just wanted to know where you are going and if I can help you.”

The Anmah eyes dimmed, and the boy relaxed a little. Jarda knit his brow when the boy dropped to the dirt and began drawing in the dust. He squatted beside him and studied the picture. It was crude, but it clearly depicted large buildings and a lot of people.

“Torkeln? Is that where you are headed?”

The boy looked at him and nodded.

“Then you are going the wrong way.” He gestured over his shoulder in the direction he had been traveling. “Torkeln is that way.”

The boy’s shoulders slumped, and he sat heavily in the dirt.

“Hey, it will be all right,” Jarda said. “I am heading in that direction myself. Would you like to come with me? You can ride with me and save yourself some walking.”

The boy raised skeptical eyes to him and then to Gorshan, and Jarda smiled.

“Yes, we can both ride on him. That is one thing horses are good for.”

Slowly, the boy stood and squared his shoulders, and Jarda stood with him.

“I will have to pick you up to get you in the saddle. Is that all right?”

The boy’s breath stopped for a moment, but then he nodded. Jarda gently put his hands on his shoulders and turned him to face Gorshan. Then he dropped his hands to the boy’s waist and easily lifted him up into the saddle, feeling hip bones and ribs clearly through the blanket. The boy could not have weighed more than twenty pounds. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind the boy. He took his sword belt from the pommel and felt the boy stiffen as he did so.

“Do not worry,” he said quietly, “I will not hurt you.” He buckled the belt around his waist and positioned his sword in its proper place. He reached around the boy and took his hands, placing them on the pommel. “Hold on here.” When the boy held on with a white-knuckled grip, Jarda continued, “I will not let you fall, little one. Just relax.” He picked up the reins, squeezed his thighs, and Gorshan began trotting down the road.

It seemed as if it might take three hours to get home after all.

The entire way to the turnoff that led to his home, Jarda wondered what to do with the boy. Eventually, he knew that he needed to take him to Torkeln and Ma’ikel, but first, he wanted to take him home, feed him, and get him cleaned up. Perhaps he could get him to talk in the meantime. The boy had fallen asleep not long after they started down the road, and Jarda had wrapped his left arm around the thin waist to keep him from slipping off the horse. When they reached the turnoff, however, Jarda gently shook him.

“Boy, wake up.”

The child jerked violently and cried out wordlessly. So, he is not mute. That did not bode well. The only other reason Jarda knew for someone to not talk was a traumatic experience, and he dreaded finding out if that was the case with this boy. He tightened his hold as the boy began to thrash around. “Stop fighting me,” he said evenly. “You are safe.”

Gradually, the boy calmed down and looked around him. The day had progressed into night, and there was no one on the road. He turned his head and looked up at Jarda, his eyes glowing like violet torches in the darkness that was only lit by the full moon and the stars.

“You all right?”

The boy nodded.

“Good. I live just down this trail.” He pointed into the forest. “Would you like to stay at my house tonight? You can get cleaned up and get something to eat. I can take you to Torkeln in the morning.”

Another nod had Jarda turning Gorshan into the trees toward his home. They arrived about ten minutes later. He let out a deep sigh as the lights of his house shone out cheerfully at them. As he stopped Gorshan in front of the door, it opened, and Elise stood framed in the light like an angel with her long brown hair that hung past her shoulders and her white dress. Brown eyes sparkled when she saw her husband.

“Mother, Father!” she called out. “Jarda is home!” She stepped out as Jarda dropped from the saddle, and he pulled her to his chest.

“Ah, I missed you,” he breathed, taking her face in his hands and kissing her, drinking in the taste and smell of her. He reluctantly broke the kiss as his father and mother exited the house.

“Jarda!” His mother pulled him away from his wife for a hug, and his father clapped him on the back at the same time. Miva Mistri had been General of the Crown’s Guard many years before, but he had lost none of his strength since then, and Jarda grunted at the blow.

“Who is this?” He backed away from his mother at Elise’s question. He looked up at Gorshan and saw that the boy had his head down and had hunched into his blanket.

“I do not know,” Jarda admitted. “I found him on the side of the road about eight leagues from here. He is on his way to Torkeln, but that is all I know. Other than the fact that he is Anmah.”

“What?” his father exclaimed. “But he is so young!”

Jarda shrugged. “That he is, but he is Anmah nonetheless. The eyes do not lie.”

At that, the boy looked down at the trio, and Jarda’s mother gasped and raised her hand to her mouth. Jarda reached up, took the boy down from the saddle, and kept an arm around his shoulder.

“He needs a bath and clean clothes, but first, he needs food,” Jarda said. “I do not know how long it has been since he ate last, but I can guess that it has been a very long time.”

“I can see that,” Elise said. She crouched down in front of the boy, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “What is your name?”

The boy glanced up at Jarda, the questioning look back in his eyes.

“This is my wife, Elise. She is the best cook within fifty leagues of Torkeln. She will make sure you get some food in your stomach.”

“He cannot talk?”

“I think it is more that he will not rather than he cannot. He has not said a single word since I found him.”

“Then how do you know he is going to Torkeln?”

“He is quite a decent artist,” Jarda said with a smile,

“I see,” Elise said, and then she spoke to the boy again. “Would you like something to eat?”

His eyes glowed a little brighter, and he nodded his head vigorously.

“I will get you both a plate fixed up, then. You two at least need to wash your hands and faces first."

His parents said nothing during this exchange, but his mother quickly spoke up.

“I will help you, Elise.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Elise said as she stood up and moved toward the house.

“And I will fix Gorshan up in the stable, Jarda,” his father said, taking the horse’s reins. “You just get cleaned up and fed.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jarda said, and he led the boy around the corner of the house to the pump. “Come on, boy; let us see what we can do about getting some of that dirt off you.”

The boy followed him, and after a few minutes of scrubbing, Jarda decided that they were both clean enough to sit at Elise’s table, and he led the boy into the house.

A fire was blazing in the fireplace, chasing away the slight nighttime chill. Over the fire hung a black pot, and Elise was busy ladling stew onto two plates while his mother buttered thick slices of bread. After shutting and latching the door, Jarda unbuckled his sword belt and hung it up on a peg on the wall. He removed his blue jacket and fingered the new gold embroidery on the sleeve before hanging it up next to his belt. Then he smiled, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The familiar smells of his home flooded his brain, and he truly relaxed for the first time in eight moons. Movement beside him brought his eyes open again, and he looked at the boy.

He was fidgeting, and his eyes were locked on the plates of food. Jarda took a step toward the table in the middle of the room, and the boy followed.

“You can sit here, boy,” he said softly, pulling out one of the chairs.

The boy scrambled into the seat and sat on his knees, one hand clutching the dirty blanket to himself.

"May I take your blanket, son?” Analy asked.

Violet eyes snapped to her, and he shook his head. Analy looked at Jarda in confusion.

“I think it is the only thing he owns,” Jarda said before kneeling on the floor so that he was at eye level with the boy. “She will just hang it up by the door, by my coat,” he said. “You will get it back, I promise.”

The boy looked at him uncertainly, but then he nodded and pulled the filthy fabric from his shoulders and held it out to Analy.

“Thank you,” she said softly as she took it and hung it up. Next to the pristine blue coat, the blanket looked like nothing more than a rag that someone had worn well past usefulness.

The boy was now dressed in nothing but a threadbare tunic that barely reached to his knees. Around his neck, however, hung a silver eagle in flight. The black leather thong that held it had obviously been tied together numerous times, and Jarda’s eyebrows rose at the sight of it. If he had to guess, he would say that it was worth more than most men’s wages for a moon. He also now knew where the boy had come from, and he was astonished. He kept his thoughts hidden, though, and pointed to the eagle.

“Your family’s token?”

The boy’s back straightened, and pride filled his eyes as he nodded. Jarda was about to ask him more when Elise placed one plate in front of the boy and another in front of the chair at the head of the table.

“No more questions, Jarda,” she said. “Let the boy eat.”

“Right,” Jarda said, dropping into the chair. His mother placed two mugs on the table, one filled to the brim with milk and the other with hot tea. “Ah, thank you, Mother. And you, my love,” he said, putting one arm around Elise and pulling her close, “this smells wonderful.” He glanced at the boy and chuckled. “I think he would agree that it tastes pretty good, too.”

The boy had instantly grabbed his spoon and was shoveling food into his mouth faster than he could chew. His cheeks bulged with the amount in his mouth, and he only stopped his spoon long enough to swallow occasionally. Elise sat in the chair next to Jarda, and Analy took the chair next to her.

“Slow down, son, or you will choke,” Analy said.

To everyone’s surprise, the boy stopped eating and shook his head. Elise and Analy looked at him like he was daft, and Jarda laughed out loud. The women’s heads snapped to him, their eyes filled with confusion.

“What is so funny?” Elise asked.

“It has already happened, has it not?” Jarda asked the boy.

The shaking turned into a nod, and then the boy resumed eating.

“What are you talking about, Jarda?” Analy asked.

“Once an Anmah dies from something, they are safe from that something forever. The boy’s already choked to death once, so he has no fear of doing so again. His body will not let it happen again.”

“Really? That is amazing!” Jarda’s eyes moved to his father who had just entered the house. “How do you know that?”

“I know an Anmah. His name is Ma’ikel, and he lives in Torkeln. I am taking the boy to him tomorrow.”

The boy stopped eating at this comment, and his eyes went wide as he looked at Jarda. He put his spoon down and pointed to himself.

“Yes, boy, he is just like you. If anyone can help you, he can.”

That was the last thing said until both Jarda and the boy had eaten enough to be satisfied. For Jarda, that had been two plates of stew, but the boy ate four.

“You know,” Jarda said as the boy started in on what would be his last plateful, “you can eat yourself to death unless...” He looked at the boy. When the boy shook his head, Jarda chuckled. “Unless it has already happened, right?”

The boy nodded and finished off the stew, his second slice of bread, and his third mug of milk. After he finished, his stomach was bloated, but he looked a little better. Jarda’s mother and father had left for bed shortly after they had started eating, but Elise sat at the table, watching the two of them. When the boy finally put his spoon down and sat back in the chair, she smiled at him.

“It is late, but would you like a bath?”

The boy nodded, and Elise’s heart clenched at the sight of the child before her. She and Jarda had tried for ten years to have a child of their own, but it had not been meant to be.

“Come on, then,” she said, standing up and holding out her hand. The boy took it, and she led him through a door into the bathing room. Jarda followed them with a large kettle full of boiling water. Analy had already filled the tub with water, and Jarda added the hot water to it before testing the temperature.

“Perfect,” he stated. “Do you want Elise to help you or me?”

The boy pointed to him, and Elise moved toward the front room. “I will get one of your shirts for him to wear,” she said as she shut the door.

Jarda pulled the ragged tunic over the boy’s head, wincing inwardly at the ribs sticking out above the protruding belly, but when he reached for the token, the boy’s hand flew to it and clutched it possessively.

“I am not going to take it from you,” Jarda said, “but the water will not be good for the leather. I will put it right here next to the tub, and you can put it back on when you are done.”

The boy looked as if he was not sure what to do, but he slowly pulled the token off and handed it to Jarda. Then he carefully climbed into the tub. The water almost instantly darkened as dirt washed off the boy’s emaciated body. As Jarda lathered up a linen cloth and started scrubbing the boy, he thought about where he had seen the eagle token before.

It had been about ten years ago. He had been a captain at the time, and his company had been patrolling the Kedara Plains west of the Parbatas and had come across a small village about fifty leagues from the mountains. There had been forty or so inhabitants, and they had been peaceful and courteous to the strange men in blue and black uniforms who had unexpectedly approached them. The chief, a man named Adama, had shown them where they could wash up and had offered them last meal and a place to bed down for the night. Jarda and his men had gratefully accepted. He had seen the eagle token at the chief’s hut, emblazoned across his door. He was certain it was the same token as the boy’s.

“Boy,” he said softly as he rinsed the soap out of the boy’s hair, “is your father’s name Adama?”

Violet eyes widened, and the boy nodded as tears filled them.

“Then I know where you are from, but what I do not understand is how you got here. Why are you here alone? How did you get across the mountains?”

The tears started to fall, the boy’s bottom lip trembled, and Jarda knew the answers to his questions.

“Oh, holy Yisu! They are all dead, are they not?”

The sobs that burst from the boy were answer enough for Jarda to know that he was right. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around the boy, and pulled him from the tub. He held him tightly to his chest as sobs were wrenched from little lungs until Jarda thought the boy might faint from lack of air.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered repeatedly as he began to rock the boy back and forth.

At that moment, the door cracked open, and Elise peeked in.

“Is everything all right?”

“No,” Jarda said as she walked in and shut the door behind her. “No, everything is far from all right.” He did not elaborate, and Elise placed a clean shirt next to him. Then she knelt behind her husband and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“There is not even anything I can do,” Jarda said bitterly, and then he realized that the boy’s sobs had stopped. His frail hands were tightly twisted in Jarda’s white linen shirt, and his head was on the man’s chest. Jarda pushed the child back slightly and looked into glowing eyes that were now filled to the brim with pain and heartache.

“It was the Asabya, was it not?” The barbarians were a threat and an enemy to all peaceful people.

The boy nodded, and anger competed with the pain in his eyes.

“When?”

The boy cocked his head and thought. Then he held up four fingers.

“Four sennights ago?”

The boy shook his head and pointed to the full moon that was visible through the window.

“Four moons?” Jarda asked incredulously. “You have been on your own for four moons?”

The boy nodded again and then released an enormous yawn. Jarda rubbed the boy briskly with the towel and then picked up the shirt and pulled it over his head. It hung to the ground and swallowed the tiny hands.

As he rolled the sleeves up, Jarda said, “I know you are tired, but I have one more question for you. It is important.”

The boy nodded and tried to keep his eyes open.

“How many times have you died?”

The boy held up both open hands, and then he held up two fingers on his left hand. Elise gasped and Jarda frowned.

“Twelve? Twelve times?”

Another nod.

Jarda swallowed thickly. “How old are you?”

Six fingers went up, and then the boy’s hands fell to his lap as he leaned against Jarda’s chest. The officer cradled him close and stood up. He turned to face his wife, and he saw his own horror mirrored in her face.

“Twelve deaths in four moons, Elise,” he whispered as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “Holy Yisu, he is only six. What has this child been through?”

His wife was crying, and he moved closer to her. She wrapped her arms around the two of them and placed her cheek on the damp locks of the sleeping boy.

“He has been through Hell and back, Jarda. Hell and back.”