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Yuletide 2025
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Published:
2025-12-21
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Outcast

Summary:

"Rowan heard of...a haunting, where the spirit of an uncast man killed his tribe's goats, one by one, until his body was found and given proper rites." -The Outskirter's Secret

Notes:

In "The Lost Steersman," Steffie describes Rowan telling the story "about a dead warrior who wanted his funeral done over right." Maybe she wrote this down after Rendezvous to recall it later.

Work Text:

Vazho was the sort who had been brawling since he first came into the world. When he was a child, he tried to ride upon goats, not because he was too lazy to walk, but because he wanted to pull them by their ears and make them go where he led. As a young man, he crushed the courting gifts that were meant for him, to break the hearts of the women and men who left them. Then he seized the ones that were meant for his tentmates, so that both they and the ones who loved them grew maddened. He challenged everyone for a fine sword, though he had no need for metal-forged weapons; he could have killed just as many with a knotted tangleroot. To see him was to know he would not live long enough to cross the line; a warrior he was born and a warrior he would die.

So when the day came that he did not return from a raid, the tribe was mournful, but not surprised. They had a long march ahead of them the next day. “We do not need to seek out his body,” said Rishi, who had been chief of his band. “Our Vazho knew no peace in life; let him know peace in his death, never to struggle again.” And the band said that her words were good.

The next day, on the march, there was a shout from eight: one of the goats, a fine nanny about to bear a kid, had fallen over and spasmed. The seyoh gave the word to halt and prepare the meat, so they would not waste the goat. The scouts were ill-tempered at the unplanned delay, but the very old and very young were happy for the rest. Everyone ate of the goat, and it turned their mouths sour and bitter. “You look like Vazho looked on the day we fought the Face People,” Tella remarked, “and he only killed four, while Murnel killed five before she lost her leg and crossed the line.”

The following day, the tribe rose early, to make up for the lost time. When the sun was at its highest overhead, a scout sent a signal from twelve. Two of the goats had flown into a rage and battered each other with the thick horns of their heads. “I never saw anything like it,” the scout confessed, “saving perhaps Vazho when he fought Kessa for his sword.” Kessa had been the rare warrior with speed and skill enough to disarm Vazho, but even this had not been enough; from the ground, Vazho had headbutted Kessa in his groin. So the seyoh called a halt and had them cook the goats, so the meat would be easier to carry. They did not stop to eat, but resumed the march as soon as the meat was prepared.

On the third day, the tribe moved slowly, wary that another ill omen would befall them. But nothing occurred; the goats were placid, grateful for the unplanned rests, and they followed the tribe all the way to sundown. Just when they were ready to make camp, however, a goat from six became crazed and bolted off back the way they had come. It took the fleetest scout to trail her, and he slit her throat before she could run any farther and waste meat. “I never ran so fast,” he boasted, once he’d dragged the goat back, “except when I heard what Vazho had done to my courting gift. If that is how he treats those who admire him, I would hate to see what he does to those he scorns!”

The tribe stayed up late into the night, feasting on the unexpected bounty and watching the stars. Denais, the oldest mertutial, did not eat, but stared into the smoke rising from the cookfire. The seyoh sought her out, for he knew she had always been a voice of wisdom. “What is it you see?”

“Not what I see,” said Denais, “but what I hear.”

“And what is it you hear?”

“The voice of one who haunts.”

The seyoh knew of Einar, and all the songs of ghosts. And he knew that when a dead man’s seed is growing, his spirit will not depart until he can tell his beloved which name the child should learn with their line. So he asked, “Who lingers from lost love?”

“Who haunts out of hatred,” said Denais. “In war he lived and in war he died, but his struggle is not ended. So he slays until what was wrong is set right, that the flesh of goats may do what his own cannot.”

The seyoh heaved a great sigh. “Your wisdom is welcomed,” he told Denais, “but it is bitter nourishment.”

The next morning, he took Rishi aside, so that the tribe might see without gathering closely. “Did you cast Vazho?”

“No,” she confessed.

The seyoh nodded curtly. “It seems the air this far north is bad for the goats,” he announced to the tribe. “Let us return south, and if any other tribe thinks to challenge us that way, surely the spirit of Vazho will lead us to victory.” They laughed, and nodded, and set out, while Rishi and her band were compelled to keep a very close watch on the goats.

Three days out, back the way they had come, they returned near to the place where Vazho had fallen. “Seek him out,” the seyoh ordered. “Go in twos and threes. Do not neglect the living to honor the dead, but pursue him with vigilance, for his work is not done.”

It was Kessa and Bryl who found the remains, marred from where goblins had been gnawing them, but certainly Vazho. The time of their grief had already come and gone, and when the tribe cut him into his pieces, there was merriment among them. They had seen many good warriors live and die, but never had they seen a warrior so restless that he continued to kill even after he died.

They did not cast him all at once, but carried him with them as they retraced their steps northwards again. At each campsite, another casting. Another memory of Vazho, in his duels and his jests and his loyalty. Another victory against the land.

Denais cast the last piece, when they were farther north than they’d journeyed the first time. “It is as Einar said,” she told them. “Vazho had no home in life, north or south or east or west. In death, he could not remain in one place. But let his ghost-grass bloom in a dozen deserts, and he will never be defeated.”

The next day, they walked north. Their hearts were full of mourning and duty alike. Vishi’s band was restored to their normal patrols. From three and six and nine and twelve, the scouts sent their signals. And the goats were full and hale.