Artigal’s scowled deepened. “I don’t know.”
Frawnden opened her mouth to press, but he shot her a look that instantly had her fumbling with medical supplies.
Knowing that Artigal didn’t like to be pressed for information, Jargon placed his hand on the Igentis’ shoulder and searched the leader’s tired but oddly excited eyes.
“Are you well?”
Artigal’s hand strayed to his chest, and he nodded. “I think so, Jargon.” He gave Jargon a half-smile, hoping it would calm the healer’s fears, but it didn’t. “Just focus on Stephania.”
The black Centaur stared for a long time at Artigal, but Artigal only shook his head, implying that Jargon should drop it.
Jargon, however, wasn’t so easily dissuaded, but just as he opened his mouth to protest, Stephania groaned, and all of their attentions snapped back to her.
Jargon pressed a glass of a clear liquid to her lips, and she drank it before coughing. “I want—” She gasped in pain as Jargon dabbed the wound on her arm with a cold cloth. “I want my knife back.” Her little face hardened, instantly expecting someone to fulfill her demand.
Jargon pushed Artigal aside. “She’s going to be fine, and I don’t think I’ll need any help. Frawnden is more than capable of taking care of her daughter from here.”
Artigal stood and turned to leave, but Jargon stopped him again.
“Unless you want to tell me what happened between you both just then.”
Artigal paused before turning around slowly, his eyes cold. He had been inside Stephania’s mind, and it was a destructive place to be, not just because of the Eta poison, but because of the sheer amount of hate and anger she held inside of her. He felt responsible for her inner turmoil. He, after all, was the one who continued to teach her about the Etas, causing her to internalize her vengeance. He felt selfish for filling her with such malice in order to make sure she never joined Thaddeus. Was he really doing the right thing? He didn’t want to think about it, and Jargon was only making him even more irritable.
“I’m afraid I don’t even truly understand what happened, Jargon. Since I am not much help here, I shall leave.” Before Jargon could plague him further, he trotted out of the tent.
§
Jargon shook his head and grunted in frustration before turning to Frawnden. She was clearly just as worried and curious.
She drew her hand across Stephania’s feverish forehead. “How is she?” When her own emotions were involved, as it always was when tending to those she loved, she found it comforting to leave the healing to someone else.
“She’s going to be fine. Just a couple of small flesh wounds. She’s in too much pain though for me to clean her up while she’s awake. I’m going to sedate her.”
Frawnden nodded, and she and Trojan quickly left the tent so Jargon could concentrate. In only a few minutes, he came out, a smile on his rugged, plain face. “All done. Just make sure she doesn’t do anything too strenuous.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
The mother and son quickly disappeared back into the tent, and Jargon searched the crowd for Artigal.
The Igentis was standing a distance from the other Centaurs, his hands behind his back and his gaze trained on nothing in particular.
Jargon’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts and back into the present.
“Her knife is what pushed back the animal the first time. And Trojan’s sword is what stopped it the second.”
Artigal barely nodded his head at Jargon. “Thank you for letting me know, Jargon.”
Sighing in annoyance that he was now obviously dismissed, Jargon stalked away.
He could, of course, order Artigal to disclose information because whatever happened had affected Artigal medically, but it was always a better idea to leave the leader alone if he was this chafed by something.
§
Once he knew that Jargon was far behind him, Artigal allowed himself a long sigh and a small smile. So Stephania and Trojan had used their training to protect themselves. He was bursting with pride that the young creatures had been brave enough to fight against the demonic beast, but he didn’t let his pride show; he wanted to see how Trojan would react.
“Trojan.” Artigal called loudly, and Trojan ducked out of his tent and cantered over to Artigal. Bowing before his leader, the young boy held his breath. “Yes, Igentis?”
“Go. Retrieve your sword and your sister’s knife and bring them to me.”
“Yes, Igentis.” Trojan quickly hurried over to the carcass of the beast and pulled his sword out of its side.
Black blood ran out of the wound.
Trojan’s eyes narrowed in hatred as he realized it was an Eta. He retrieved Stephania’s knife as well and carried the two weapons back to his leader.
Laying them in front of the Centaur, Trojan stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fastened respectfully on the ground.
Just as Artigal began to speak, one of his personal guards approached him and whispered something in his ear.
Smiling broadly, the aged Igentis nodded and turned his attention back to Trojan as the warrior left.
“Trojan, you fought well today, and I understand that your sword dealt the beast a critical wound, one that it would have eventually died from.”
Trojan nearly smiled with pride but kept his composure.
“We will no longer be breaking camp due to this accident. I request that I see you before sunset when I call for you. Until then, you may return to your mother and sister and be in their company for the rest of the day.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, his cheeks flushed with pride, Trojan reached for the sword and knife, but Artigal held up his hand, stopping him.
“I will keep those for now.”
Cocking his head and frowning, Trojan bowed and mumbled his gratitude.
§
At his family's tent, Trojan was paid no more attention than a bug. Taking a long dagger in place of his sword and his bow and arrow set, he wandered off into the woods.
Cheerfully, he began to trot as his spirits began to soar again. But only too soon, his joyful mood began to sink as the forest got quieter and quieter, and seemingly darker. For a moment, he thought he might be lost, but he spotted a little stream ahead. Their company had stopped by it before proceeding to where they were currently camped. A nervous sigh left his lips. He wasn’t lost, but he had wandered farther away from camp than he had thought. Even despite the acoustics of the canyon, he could no longer hear the echoing of the camp’s sounds.
Nervously, he slowed to a walk, his footsteps crashing through the fallen leaves and snapping numerous twigs, despite how hard he tried to move silently.
Pulling out his dagger, he held it in front of himself and slowly made his way out of the thick trees and into the clearing adjacent to the stream.
Just as he decided to retreat to the safety of the Centaur camp, some movement further down the mountain pass caught his attention.
Narrowing his eyes, he waited motionless, trying to catch a glimpse of the movement again. He noted how it was becoming increasingly difficult to see. The clouds were suffocating any bit of sunlight that made it through the trees, and the heavy fog hung thick in the low canyon. Taking a deep breath, he assessed his surroundings. If it came to a fight, he would be at a disadvantage because of the low visibility. His best chance would be to attack first with his bow.
He cocked his head to the side, spotting a hiding place behind a large boulder. He drew his bow and fixed an arrow to the string, another in his mouth and ready to fire.
A voice, which seemed so familiar, cut through the fog. “Trojan?” The voice was deep and rough, obviously belonging to an older male.
Chills ran up and down his spine. How does this creature know my name?
He was fairly sure that it was a Centaur, or at least an equine-like creature; he could hear the clop of the creature’s hooves on the rocks. It could’ve been a hum
an riding a horse, but he had never met a human and doubted one would know his name. Though he knew many Etas were intelligent and evolved enough to understand language, he wasn’t sure rogue Etas had ever been known to talk this well. Unless it isn’t a rouge.
He swallowed, taking deep breaths to steady himself. How did this creature get past the perimeter warriors and the scouts? Dread filled him as another thought occurred to him.
“Trojan! Trojan, where are you?”
Even though the mysterious voice, which belonged to whoever was moving quickly toward him, had called his name, Trojan dared not come out from behind his vantage point.
His breath was quick and panicked. What if the warriors simply hadn’t been able to see this creature? Too many times he had heard legends about ancient demons that could morph into your worst fears by simply reading your mind without you even realizing they had tapped into your thoughts. Only the person they were targeting could see them, and it eventually turned them insane. Sometimes, though they might be exaggerated, rare stories came back that these creatures were still alive and walked the land further north.
He waited and waited, the creature continuing to call him. Now he could make out a silhouette through the fog.
Yes! It was a Centaur!
Trojan was just about to reveal himself when he realized that this Centaur wasn't wearing the armor of a Trans-Falls Centaur. Its chest was completely bare, except the straps for its quiver and belt.
The Centaur was limping; if it came to a fight, Trojan would at least have the advantage of mobility.
Suddenly, taking a risk just as the Centaur called his name once more, the young boy leapt out from the behind the rock and quickly galloped down the small side of the ravine. His arrow was ready to be fired at the slightest movement.
“Stop.” Trojan’s voice was deep and carried well through the pass. He sounded much older and much more confident than he was. Though his eyesight was poor in the dark fog, it was just good enough to see that the Centaur had stopped.
“Under command of the Igentis, I order you to state your name and business, Centaur.” Trojan kept his arrow trained on the Centaur's chest.
“Trojan, my boy, haven't you grown up to be such a fine warrior!” The Centaur smiled warmly, tears pouring down his face. He stepped closer until he was only about twenty feet from Trojan and almost clearly visible. His voice was hoarse and beaten, as if he had been yelling for a long time and hadn’t drank enough water, and yet there was something about it that was familiar and comforting.
“I thought I would never be able to find you.”
Trojan gasped, slowly letting down his bow as he finally recognized the voice. “Father?”
Chapter 9
She’s doing just fine.” Jargon stood up from Stephania, who was still sleeping soundly. He had come back to Frawnden’s tent under the pretense that he was checking on Stephania. He knew that Frawnden was just as capable as him at taking care of her daughter. Covertly, he had come to see if he could get any information from Stephania on what had happened to her and Artigal. He had found out nothing so far. Apparently, she had no recollection or knowledge of anything strange happening.
“What is the worst of her wounds?” Frawnden lightly covered her daughter with a blanket.
“Well, they’re not bad. They weren't very deep, but because of the Eta's poison, of course, it was burning into her flesh. It was stopped before it turned septic. However, she will be very sore, and possibly cranky for the next few days.”
Frawnden nodded. Eta poison was nothing to laugh at. Most deaths weren't caused by the wound itself, but by the shape-shifters’ venom.
However, something about what Jargon said didn’t make any sense to the mother.
Frawnden’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by ‘it was stopped’? What stopped it?”
Jargon quickly surveyed the opening of the tent to see if anyone else was near before moving closer to her, their foreheads almost touching, and lowering his voice to where even she could barely hear it.
“Did you see what happened between Artigal and Stephania?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of course. What happened?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea, but if I were to guess, I think their minds connected, and, somehow—” He bit his lip. It was inconceivable, but there seemed to be no other explanation. “It healed her.”
Frawnden frowned. “But that’s not possible. How could you even know that? Duvarharians can’t connect minds with each other, let alone a Centaur.”
The black Centaur ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. “But they could do it a long time ago.”
“Who did what?”
“The Duvarharians. They could connect minds with each other a long time ago.”
Her mouth parted but no words came out for a moment.
Jargon nodded, and she shook her head, a smile of disbelief crossing her face. “Okay, maybe, but that doesn’t explain anything. They can’t anymore, and definitely not with a Centaur. And how could Artigal heal her that way? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Jargon stamped his hoof excitedly, and his whisper became even more conspiratorial. “I know, I know. But the legends speak of a time—an end time, mind you—when the powers of the world will flow together and act as one, channeling forces in ways we cannot even imagine.”
“So you think—”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t be sure. Artigal won’t tell me anything about what happened, and I can only assume.” He nervously shifted his weight and clenched his jaw. “I could give him an order to tell me what happened since it affected Stephania’s health but—”
“That wouldn’t go over well.”
“No, it would not.”
Silence filled the tent for a while before Frawnden broke it, her voice a low, quivering whisper. “Aeron mentioned something about an End.”
Jargon’s eyes snapped upwards from his hooves and fixed themselves steadily on hers. “What. What did he say?”
She shook her head. “It was a long, long time ago. Just after Aeron and I became mates. He said something that Artigal had mentioned to him as a child. Something about the stars and the End or something.”
Jargon’s face paled. “The stars. The legends.” His mouth hung open. “The Prophecy. Of course.” A lopsided grin spread across his face. “Yes. It all makes sense. Thaddeus is channeling Kijaqumok, and the Shushequmok is shifting strangely. The powers are moving.” He began furiously pacing the tent. “Surely Artigal can feel it. The whole balance of the world is swinging, as if it were on a pendulum, and there has to be some sort of mediator to balance it, Stephania of course, and a helper—the one mentioned in the prophecy—to help her channel it! By the Emperor!”
Frawnden placed her hand on his shoulder to try and calm him down, but he merely grasped her hand in his, crushing it in his excitement.
“Stephania and the helper! They must be able to channel both kinds of Sleshqumok. Good gods.” He stumbled, feeling lightheaded with shock, completely ignoring whatever Frawnden was trying to say to him at the moment. “Others must be able to as well, we just don’t know about it. What else shall happen, then, if this is truly the End? Who else would be given this power? It could be anyone.”
“Jargon, what in the world are you talking about?” Frawnden lightly shook her friend’s shoulders. He had sunk to the ground.
He turned his slightly glazed eyes up to hers, a strange smile spreading across his face. “The End, Frawnden. The return of the Great Emperor. ‘And there shall be, in that time, a great shift. Forces shall be awakened and shall move once again among the creatures of the earth. The realms shall become one under the Ruler. The great beasts who shaped the land shall arise again and create a new world, one that shall be as it had in the beginning. The serpents of the deep shall move and part the oceans and shape the waters of the land. Magic will flow freely among the creatures of the world, and none shall be devoid
of understanding. And they will know by this that the last battle and the end of time draws near’.”
Frawnden’s heart raced in her chest. “The legend of the end of the world. But that’s just myth. You don’t think—” She swallowed. “You don’t think it’s actually, you know, real, do you?”
Jargon’s eyes were bright with joy and hope. “I don’t know, Frawnden, but maybe. Just maybe.”
A loud, desperate voice suddenly pierced the air and shattered the thoughtful atmosphere in the small tent. “Mother! Mother! Come outside! Quick!”
Alarmed, Frawnden quickly stepped around Stephania and rushed outside to Trojan, who was hopping from one hoof to the other in agonizing anxiety.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
Too excited to give her an answer, he simply grasped her hand in his and dragged her along with him until she was galloping beside him.
“You are never going to believe this!” He squealed with excitement, their hooves pounding into the ground at an incredible pace. It never ceased to amaze her how fast her son was.
It was obvious to Frawnden that whatever Trojan wanted to show her was very important; usually he was extremely quiet and controlled in everything he did, but now it was as if he was once again only three years, pulling her along to watch the adult Centaurs train.
Just as they broke out of the woods and into the small open land in front of the small stream, Trojan ground to a stop, his eyes misting with tears.
Frawnden was alarmed. “What is it, Trojan? Are you okay?” She cupped his young face in her hands.
He merely grinned through his tears, his eyes straying to his right.
Her gaze followed his, and her eyes landed on the burly gray Centaur that was standing only fifteen feet from them.
“Da me koyuwuk.”
Tears clouded her vision, and her hand flew to her mouth, the words escaping her.
The Centaur opened his arms, his own tears spilling down his face and onto his chest. “Frawnden.”
Child of the Dragon Prophecy Page 12
