by Katy Winter
"You do not anticipate a rout then?"
"Certainly not, my lord," was the quick reply. "They are highly trained and motivated. They can be no other way if they wish to survive."
"Quite so," agreed Kher, watching as the younger man rubbed a hand across his forehead. It brushed back shorter hair that let light catch the large blue, implanted gem. Sarssen saw the haskar's eyes become riveted to his forehead and gave an inward groan. He knew what question was coming. Kher's eyebrows rose interrogatively.
"You are recently chosen, Sarssen. Would you care to explain?"
"We have undergone the ceremony for the warlord, my lord." Kher's eyes hardened. His voice was implacably hostile.
"Whose idea was that, Tempkar?" The voice had become as soft and menacing as Sarssen remembered it. He lowered his head immediately he sensed the threat.
"Not mine, my lord, I swear that to you."
"Was it the boy's?" Sarssen shook his head. "Whose, then?"
"The offer was suddenly made, my lord, and we were in no position to refuse. Neither the boy nor I have choices - they are not offered us. It was not something either expected or requested."
"You do or you die. Is that what you are saying, Tempkar?" The voice was still very soft but the threat in it had lessened.
"We are slaves owned by the warlord, my lord, so we were honoured," acquiesced Sarssen. Kher looked across at the bent blond head, a cold smile touching his eyes.
"Have you ever offended anyone in your life, Sarssen?" he asked curiously. When Sarssen lifted his head, Kher again found the green eyes unfathomable.
"Not deliberately, my lord, no." Kher's smile grew.
"I begin to comprehend how you have survived, young man," he said gently. "Life has treated you extremely harshly too, has it not?"
"I am well enough satisfied with my status, my lord," was the response. Kher nodded understandingly.
"You are a very intelligent young man, Sarssen. Luton is right - you have a clarity of vision unusual in a Churchik. I would not have you for an enemy."
"I would never be your enemy, my lord." This was said with such emphasis, Kher looked surprised. He continued to study Sarssen.
"No," he replied quietly. "I believe you would not. And Beth? How did he react to the ceremony?" When Sarssen's smile went completely awry, Kher's smile grew even broader.
"He was profoundly shocked and deeply reluctant, my lord, but he adjusts."
"Tactfully put," said Kher admiringly. "So that is why he wears the warlord's seal, is it? He is the representative, you are the guide?" Sarssen had never underestimated Kher's quick mind; he didn't now. He nodded. "And your names, sons of Lodestok?"
"I am Losaren, my lord, and the boy answers to Sorien." Kher's eyes strayed to the returning youths.
"Interesting names from the distant past. Life is an oddity, is it not?" he observed, getting to his feet and signalling to his men that they do likewise and gather up the mugs.
Sarssen could only agree. He noticed the shade had shrunk a long way from Luton, especially since he walked with his brother. It wouldn't go near Bethel. Sarssen found that fascinating. Kher signalled to Luton.
"Come, boy," he called.
Luton and Bethel quickened their steps until they stood quietly in front of Kher. He looked at each in turn before addressing Luton.
"Have you any memory of your brother, boy?" He saw the shadow that crossed the young face, then the familiar shake of the head. Kher looked back to Bethel. "In time, Sorien, it is my hope he will know you. I believe he will." When he saw apprehension at the use of Bethel's new name, Kher saw a touch of the younger frightened Luton. Bethel remembered to lower his head as he responded.
"Yes, my lord." Kher turned to Sarssen.
"We shall meet again soon, Tempkar. May your journey prosper."
"Likewise, my lord," replied Sarssen courteously. "May the weather be kind to you and your travel easy." Kher swung to face his men.
"Mount!" he ordered crisply. "You, too, Luton."
Luton hesitated. His eyes met and held with Bethel's for a long moment. Then he put his arm briefly about his younger brother's shoulders.
"I'd like to know you as my brother, Beth. You're so very gentle and unlike what I'm used to other than with Kher. When you return -." He broke off and quickly walked away. Bethel called after him.
"Lute." Not turning round, Luton paused. "I'm so glad to have found you again, big brother."
Kher met Sarssen's look, then strode after Luton. He left the two warriors going south standing and waiting. When the six men rode northwards, without a backward glance, Sarssen put a strong hand on Bethel's shoulder and gripped him. Bethel put up a hand to hold Sarssen's for comfort. He couldn't speak.
~~~
Their journey southwards was uneventful for days to come, though Sarssen began to wonder uneasily why they found no trace of Menk's small company or any signs that the warriors had even been south. He was quite sure they should be close to an encounter of some sort, his watchful eyes scanning the plains ahead.
As time passed he knew they approached the desert. His sense of foreboding was heightened. Even though it was only very early in the summer season the heat was unpleasant, especially in such a bleak and unrelenting landscape. Soon there would be no shelter and Sarssen didn't like the odds of their vulnerability. He was uncertain about how much further they should travel, though the warlord's instructions were explicit and necessitated a deeper penetration south. There was no option to that if they were to make contact either with Menk's men Sarssen was convinced were captured, or contact with the captors themselves.
The horses had to be ridden quietly and rested very frequently so they could be watered regularly. At the moment Sarssen and Bethel had adequate water and supplies, but within two weeks they would not.
The two men changed their clothes, donning light desert garb and sandals, though they chose not to wear the flowing over-robe of the desertmen, choosing instead to wear the loose long southern tunics. They both wore the head protection from sun that bored onto them for hour after hour. While Sarssen sweated, he noticed that Bethel didn't, the slender figure soaking up the heat as though he was desert-born. They now headed directly south.
Their contact with the Wildwind tribes came nine days after they met Kher and only a day after entering the desert itself. Both men sensed the riders at the same time. They were unsurprised to recognise that riders approached, nor did the hostility they sense come as unexpected, Sarssen's look of warning and caution at Bethel unnecessary. Bethel was taut in the saddle as he mentally rehearsed what he'd say to those who came close at considerable speed. His eyes were wide as they stared into the heat haze that almost blinded he and Sarssen.
The desert riders were upon them. They were violently torn from their saddles before they opened their mouths. They had no chance to think. They weren't granted that. Bethel found himself sprawled on the sand trying to curl away from hands that held him down to undergo a brutal beating. It was indiscriminate. All he could do was try to close his mind to the pain of each blow, lash or kick that seemed to rain on him. He sensed hands laughingly strip him. He was beaten again. When he struggled to get away hands twisted in his now unbraided hair and wrenched his head back. As he was again kicked in the head and face, he knew his pain control slipped. Scarcely aware he knew jewellery was torn from about his throat, his bracelets were wrenched from his wrists and arms, and the seal from the warlord was contemptuously pulled over his head before the riders rode away.
There was silence. Bethel sensed he lay flat on his stomach, spread-eagled, his arms and legs tied to stakes driven very deeply into the sand that held rigid. He tried to move his head but found he couldn't. When he licked battered lips, he tasted blood. Quivering, he yielded to the pain and faded into unconsciousness.
He regained his senses to darkness and uncontrollable shivering. Painfully he opened swollen, cut eyes and tried to blink. His tongue felt enormous and dry. He knew he bled in
to the sand, his injuries crowding in on him in a surge of pain that shook him. He whimpered and tried to lift his head again. When he still couldn't move, he realised he was held down by his hair.
He tried to call as he'd done to Sarehl cycles ago then send to Sarssen, but the warrior, like Sarehl, was unable to respond to the soft desperate pleas for help. Tormented by insects, thirst and excruciating pain Bethel relapsed into unconsciousness.
Hours later Bethel felt burning heat seem to consume him while he lay helpless. It was then, in one of his lucid moments, that Bethel resolved he'd let himself die at last. His mind refused to accept that Sarssen could be alive and he couldn't face the future without the warrior beside him. He struggled to live after Sarehl. Now he simply yielded to an instinct to finally let himself go.
He'd expected to die on the battlefield not in a desert but his mind was extraordinarily clear. He willingly, almost with relief that his trials were over, accepted his fate. He willed himself to die, not as Sorien, son of the warlord, but as Bethel youngest son of Alfar and Melas of Ortok. It was as a Samar that Bethel closed his eyes on a sigh and, as he did, he was unaware of the teleth he sent as he yielded. His last thoughts were of Sarehl. Bethel closed himself down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Malekim alighted from Harth, his bony hands summarily dismissing the dragon. Harth's eyes dwelled thoughtfully on the mage before he beat his wings to gain altitude and gracefully banked, winking from sight at breathless speed. Malekim remained standing where he'd alighted, the wind buffeting him and blowing his robes hard-pressed about him. Carelessly he pulled his cloak more closely about him.
He stayed unmoving his stance alert but unalarmed, his head then turning from left to right and back as if he sought direction. Finally, he swung west, his gait easy and relaxed though his long legs carried him very swiftly. He walked steadily for the rest of the day. He reached his objective in the early evening. He stood atop a hillock looking across at Halcyon, a smile twisting the thin lines that were his lips. It was a cruel smile of anticipation and triumph.
As he stood there he stripped away the illusions and camouflage that so fascinated visitors to Halcyon for hundreds of cycles. The Shadowlander city of rare beauty and scholarship, so ancient and venerated by her people, lay exposed and vulnerable.
Malekim hadn't forgotten the role of the Shadowlanders in his confinement and pain endured in the Second Age - the cries of their suffering then that assailed his ears and assaulted his mind for cycles, endless and remorseless, would be as nothing to what they'd now endure. He promised himself that, savouring the pleasure of revenge as he stood and stared. Bene would suffer too. Malekim advanced purposefully, his tread firm and assured. He approached the city up the wide avenue that led to its gates where he paused, waiting for the expected welcome that he quickly received.
Not for him did the city tilt or revolve nor did its streets stretch further and further away as they were approached. He had no time for that. He saw it as it actually was, delicately suspended in space, that's true, and fragile in its ornate build, but still, even without illusion, a magical city of spires and towers, of crystal architecture and elegant facades - a place of beauty. Every building was embellished with rare stones set into the crystal.
The city shone in the last gleams of a fading early spring sun, beams catching the angled crystals and making the city look as if it was on fire. As he entered it, the image appealed to Malekim, his eyes coldly wandering the broad, tree-lined streets that stretched from one end of the city to the other. Here nothing was crowded, there was no filth, no poverty and no pain. It was Halcyon.
That night as the city slept a sudden, virulent plague struck the people, unprecedented and terrifying. No one was untouched, either by the plague itself or by being kin to someone affected. None of the Shadowlanders had known illness such as this. They were stunned and none knew what to do. Worse was to follow. The water supply became tainted and undrinkable. Next, the food rotted without reason where it was stored. In a day the land around the city itself had become a blasted heath, trees blackened skeletons that glared malevolently at those who sought to flee Halcyon.
Within days the city was in chaos. The dead and dying outnumbered the living, the plague brutally contagious. The climate, instead of being balmy with cool evenings and pleasant breezes, was harsh and pitilessly hot, the sun burning down day after day without respite. The ground browned and cracked, opening into yawning cracks outside the walls of Halcyon. The plague was cruel. It induced fever, pain, and an unbearable desperate thirst. As people perished, the end to their suffering was agonising, tongues swollen to such an extent they choked. Soon there was no water and no food.
Malekim sat in his well appointed chamber, surrounded by food and wine that he relished to the last mouthful. It was long since he'd tasted mead either. While he monitored the death throes of Halcyon he smiled appreciatively, sipping gently at his tall goblet.
The heat hastened the spread of the disease because bodies were just left to rot in the avenues, the surviving Shadowlanders weakening and unable to cope with those who fell about them. There was no escape. There was nowhere to flee to. All round them was desolation. Those who managed to get outside the city perished as surely as those who were inside the walls. They couldn't even crawl.
Finally, the ground opened into fissures. They turned into clefts and crevices as the city that was Halcyon split at the very base of its suspended axis and inexorably collapsed in on itself. Shards of crystal splintered as spires and towers crumbled, crushing everything beneath them. The roar of the city falling into ruin could be heard many miles away. The crash was deafening.
Malekim stood in a distant grove, silent, his face a mask of unutterable and implacable hatred. He was unmoved by the sounds of destruction, barely conscious of the fading screams of the dying lying trapped or impaled by masonry. He only recognised, with infinite satisfaction, that no one escaped Halcyon. With a contemptuous flick of his fingers he set the Shadowlands alight, the trees and grass burning with a ferocity that delighted him. Flames and sparks flared about him, but he was untouched.
~~~
Indariol saw the ruins of ancient Floronderiel only half a season later. He was with a small party, among them a healer Adept, a very young woman with her two children and a steppeman. Fifteen miles from Halcyon Indariol stopped, his hand raised sharply signalling a halt. They'd travelled hard for many miles through forest, canopies so thick the sunlight barely filtered through. This world was silent and at peace with itself. It was now mid-spring, the ground lush and pleasant for the bare-footed. Indariol had only just told them they were close to refuge, rest and relaxation in Floronderiel. Now something urged extreme caution.
He thought back to weeks past when he'd been called, but very briefly, by his brothers. Their thoughts were unusually unclear and their mental touches vanished almost immediately but Indariol was concerned because he'd had no responses to his calls since. He was alert now and alarmed though he couldn't explain why he felt something was very wrong.
Signalling to one of his brothers they ran on ahead while the others settled against the trees. The two Shadowlanders only had to cover a few miles before they came across a landscape that brought them to an appalled stop. As far as they could see in all directions was a blasted vista, blackened and lifeless. Malekim's fire had destroyed everything in its path, devouring all and leaving nothing, not even the outline skeletal remains of trees. There was an utter desolation and silence that screamed at the two men struck dumb.
Indariol thought back to Bene and the Archmage's distress and haunted eyes, how Bene had urged the removal of valued things to Shadoliokel and he knew, that if ever the elkin needed Burelkin, it was now. He shivered at the premonition that gripped him. He and his brother looked at each other, consternation and apprehension overlying dread as they ran forward, even afraid, as they approached the cradle of the Shadowlands. Malekim's fire had barely touched Floronderiel. It was as he left it. Shoc
k and grieving disbelief shone in soft grey eyes as the men stood at the approach to what was their home.
The Shadowlanders were a unique people, courageous and intrepid when required but gentle. They were cherished by the Unseen for their intelligence, perception and sensitivity. They could be fearless and frightening fighters but this hadn't been asked of these people for hundreds of Ambrosian cycles. Now, Indariol stood staring at the devastation that was Halcyon. It was a large and prosperous city though most of its people were absent, either roaming or away, especially with all the trouble south and west. The wanderers who shifted about seasonally were well gone, but even so, hundreds died.
As they walked up to where the gates had been, past twisted, rotting corpses, the brothers saw how terrible the carnage was. They saw horrific faces distorted with suffering, the stiffness and disfigurement making the men realise that something more than a collapsed city had occurred. The ugly truth dawned on them when they finally saw the tongues in macabre faces that glared up at them. It was gruesome and grotesque.
The brothers tried to choke down bile and tears from the stench and backed from their once beautiful city, a repository of knowledge and tranquillity now become a frightful monstrosity. They felt fouled and soiled as they turned and fled, their breathing so rapid it was almost sobbing. They didn't stop until they reached the sanctuary of the forest. Nausea and loathing wracked them while they crouched, unable and unwilling to speak. They stayed together, silent, for some time.
When they joined their fellow Shadowlanders and spoke haltingly of what they'd seen there was a silence, so intense and profound it was painful. Sickened faces turned away. Leontok placed his arm about a shivering Soji and led her and the children away, his eyes stricken. Soji couldn't cry. Her eyes were disbelieving and deeply sad. She clung to Jonqi and Carok as if she was terrified to let them go.
It wasn't much later that she and Leontok heard the bone-chilling keening as it cut through the early evening air. It lasted for hours, the sound rising and falling, before it changed to a lament, the voices mournful and plaintive. It made even Leontok shiver. He understood why Soji was so white and frightened. When the voices died softly away they heard the single pipe, the music poignant and haunting, followed by another silence so complete Soji wondered if they'd been left alone.
