Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

“Where is it?”

  The girl shook like a wayward wheat stalk. “At Gemesh Mountain, southwest of here. It’s called the Pripet. It grows at the top of the mountain.”

  Mykel forced himself to breathe, in and out. Fingers clawing about her arms like iron bands loosened. “What is your name?”

  “Sasha,” said the girl. “My name is Sasha.”

  “Sasha, will you care for Shayna while I get the flower?”

  “Of course I will. But it’s not that simple.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bandits. They’ve taken the mountain these past few weeks.”

  Bandits. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. “Doesn’t matter. I still have to go.”

  “Good luck.”

  With one last look at Shayna’s pallor, Mykel turned and marched out the hut. When he saddled his horse, he heard a rustle at his side. Lazarus was already in the saddle. “What are you doing?”

  “You don’t expect you’re going alone, do you? Can’t let you die until you get back home.”

  “How wonderful you must think of me.” Viciously he tore away from the old man’s gaze. “Stay or go. It doesn’t matter to me.” Kicking his horse savagely, the librarian started towards the southeast. Lazarus chuckled, and then followed his apprentice.

  XXXV

  The Gemesh Mountains were named after the king who ruled its once-vast realm. Gemesh, home of the rock-men, the mountain-men, where the stoutest of warriors and heroes spent their youth. Gemesh had made itself into a prominent power of the world through the riches of their mines, for there nothing so pretty than Gemesh’s flawless diamonds, round jade balls, pendants crafted from blue sapphires, and always the rubies that glowed like bits of the sun. Now, all there was left was the mountain, cold and desolate since its exorable fall.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” the librarian mused.

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.” Lazarus dismounted, freed some saddlebags by the horse’s flanks, and tossed one to Mykel, who fumbled it twice before setting it quietly on his hand. “Pick only the essentials, boy. We’ve a long road ahead.” Mykel, slinging a knapsack over one shoulder, sighed and began the very long ascent up the mountain-side.

  The road that spiraled about the mountain peaks were hewn from the rock itself. Stone statutes lined the path, each one helmed with a grate-mask, hands clasped swords downward. Mykel was wary of the statutes. Even though he knew they were only stone, unbidden came the stories where a simple statute became possessed by a wizard’s dark magics.

  “Stop it,” said Lazarus.

  “W-what?”

  “Just stop it.”

  Mykel growled slightly. It was unnerving how his fears played with him. Did the old man have to remind him with his odd mysticism? Suddenly he realized Lazarus had taken quite a lead. “Hey! Wait up!”

  The path ended at a gaping mouth of an entrance. It, too, was hewn from the rock. Mounted atop the entrance was a circlet of dry-bone white, twisted with horns that crossed each other twice. It helmed the skull of a mammoth dragon. There was no door below, only blackness, the stuff of an abyss.

  “Cozy,” said Mykel. “If you’re into bandits.”

  “Don’t take this lightly, lad.”

  His temper crackled softly. Who do you think you are, you old bastard? I’m not your ward! The librarian was tempted – very tempted – to scream right now, just to spite the old man. His wits were not totally gone, though, and so he marched along with grinding teeth.

  Lazarus was still wrong, though.

  The mountain’s inners were not at all impressive. Hollow, packed with a thousand holes of various sizes, with dozens of aging rope bridges connecting slab to slab. Not a surprise, being the relic of a stone-mason’s ancient civilization.

  “Where do we go?” Mykel asked.

  “Here.” Mykel turned to catch a medium-sized rock. Following Lazarus’ example he used the rock to scratch an X into one of the bridge’s thicker wooden staves.

  “This will never work,” Mykel said. “Who would see a marking on a rope bridge?”

  “You would.” Lazarus grunted. “Mark your path so you won’t get lost.”

  “I will. Good luck.”

  “Luck to us both. We’re going to need it.” With that the old man sprinted to the opening in the east. Mykel, after a moment of decision, walked through the northern rent. When finally the rope bridges led him outside, the librarian found himself on a misshapen slab clutching to the mountainside like a fold of flesh. The slab, bristling with a bed of green grass, curved about to end at yet another opening. Mykel crossed the threshold and gaped. An earth-brown vein ran crookedly from Mykel’s boots to the chamber’s center, pooling together with other earthy veins sprouting everywhere in a fountain of earthy green. Leyline, whispered Lazarus’ voice. Source of all magic.

  Ifirit quivered hungrily. Mykel walked towards the pool, but it was not his will that moved the boots. His eyelids suddenly felt as they each weighted a ton. He stumbled, and when a tiny rock over-turned, he fell completely. The dead fingers twitched, almost as to struggle to get up.

  Ifirit. Thinking was immersed in honey, thick and slow. Ifirit. Somehow the gauntlet was at the heart of it. No. The enchanted khatar held onto only the scraps and vestiges of emotion, but now it was much more. There wasn’t a sentience from the weapon, merely a primitive instinct to survive. It flourished on reaction, on emotion, on desire. The instinct to survive. The hunger of bloodlust. It wanted food. It wanted magic.

  No...don’t...The words disappeared into the growing void, overwhelming him. Mykel fought his descent, fought it tooth and claw, but in the end, it was inevitable. Inside his head was a cackling laughter; cruel, mocking laughter. Ifirit. It’s enjoying this!

  He was awake long enough to realize he was being dragged away into the shadows.

  The man without a name, the man now called Lazarus, stared into the distance with unblinking eyes. One would think he was gripped by some seizure, but in truth it was the mystical instincts that allowed him to see across vast distances, telling him what normal senses could not. Power. Too much not to be noticed. It was not the boy, he knew that instantly. No, this was something he’d felt before, a long time ago.

  The path he walked suddenly ended, forking in two directions. Lazarus marked his way at the mouth of the intersection, paused a moment and furrowed his brow. Too many choices and too little time to explore them all. Growling he took the left-hand path.

  The doorway opened not in the outside world but a series of broad pillars, molded by centuries of rainwater. Sharp blackness caressed the stone edges, sometime making thick lines of shadow between them. Rope bridges connected pillar to pillar, but these were even more ancient. A tap of a footfall and the damn things would collapse right under one’s boots. Lazarus sighed and cautiously approached. He cut a curving, zigzag trail across the room, for some bridges were lost to the dark void below for some time. Lazarus thought there was a good chance he would be forced in choosing those bridgeless slabs, but for now he tended towards those paths that were safe. For now.

  One path led him to a small treasure, a box long robbed for fool’s gold and silver. Another path led him to an armed skeleton, bleach-white head with a lopsided helm on his brow. He wore no sigils or signs, so Lazarus could not tell what kingdom the man had belonged to, even what era. Lazarus moved on.

  He kept to the shadows and kept his trail hidden with ridiculous ease, though the silence added an inch of worry. There should have been some sort of animal life. That there was none meant naught existed. Only predators reigned here, and they were keeping a silent vigil.

  Finally, Lazarus looped back to
the chamber where he parted ways with the young librarian. “Lad?” Silence answered. That was odd. The boy was not the fastest of pupils, but a full two turns of the glass had passed. He should have made the complete circuit by now.

  Then he felt it. A sense of filling. He knew what it was the second his mind registered it. A Font. Intersection of two Leyline streams. There was one here. Not surprising, since there was no harvesting of the wilderness here, no man to steal the life from nature. Lazarus cocked his head to the side. There was something else, so alien a feeling he had to hazard a guess on what it was. The boy’s shiisaa. Ifirit. There was no other explanation.

  The weak threads of manna took Lazarus northward, spiraling into and out of the mountains, across ravines and tunnels, and upwards; always upwards. And always the silence. There was something wrong. Lazarus could only hope he would find out before it killed him.

  The boy’s trail was easy to find. Scuttled with the prints that pulled him into the dark, a rage ignited within the Khatari. A necromancer’s needs would have retained the use of limbs and organs for his undead magics. Mykel might have been the next victim. There was no blood mixing with the scuff-marks, but Lazarus did not see that as a victory. The librarian could very well be dead at this very moment. The old Khatari forced the conclusion from his mind. This was a heavy matter, this, one that needed all of one’s wits to ensure survival.

  Suddenly there were voices coming around the bend. The old Khatari flattened against the shadow of the wall, waiting. If they chanced a look –

  “I don’t know what the master wants with that scrawny kid. We should feed him to the wolves.”

  “As long as we get what’s ours, I don’t really give a shit.” said the second voice. Footfalls joined the coming voices, cutting into them, overlapping. A few more steps. A few more...the voice-bearers came around the bend, never seeing the shadow that sped towards them and left them sprawled on the rocky path. Lazarus cursed himself. He’d meant to stun the bastards, not send them to sleep. It could be remedied quickly, but that was not the point. The point was – Lazarus banished the nagging little voice and bent down to examine the unconscious duo.

  The first thing Lazarus noticed was their age. They looked ten days away from ten and six. The faint scruff of beard-hair curled from the root, polished with cream so they would be better seen. The armor they wore was a ragtag assortment, almost random, of oddities. Helms from the army of Arscape, far to the west; shoulder and chain-mail from Orin, farthest of the Eastlands; tunic and leggings and boots of boiled leather, all from the island kingdom of Kre. Even their weapons were a strange sort, jeweled scimitars that knew no place save for Scolax, a land past the southern deserts. It made for an odd appearance.

  Sasha’s famous bandits. Odd. These fools looked nothing like the townsfolk. Usually bandits culled their ranks from the local populace; after decades in the countryside doing nothing, most boys would jump at the chance to escape. Even if it meant thieving and looting from the same people that called them kin. But these people...definitely not from around here. Odd. Very odd.

  Lazarus hog-tied the young soldiers and hid them in the shadows where he had launched his attack. Stealth was needed here on out. There could be a dozen bandits hiding, or twelve dozen. Lazarus knew not. He just hoped they wouldn’t do anything stupid.

  It was easier to spot the bandits now that he knew what to look for. A flash of color where there should have been shadow, a rush of air where there shouldn’t have been breathing. Amateurs. A group of greenling dragoons would have ambushed them by now. It was laughingly easy for the old man to glide not an inch from their faces and remove them from consciousness. Fools. Within moments Lazarus came to the path’s end; greeted by a sight that didn’t surprise him.

  There was the boy, all right. Thick cords of rawhide pegged him to the ground. He seemed asleep, but it was the sleep of a lion, ready to attack at the slightest disturbance. Of the khatar there were no sign save for the lad’s bracer. Good. They haven’t taken the thing yet. They couldn’t take the weapon away from its bearer, though Lazarus had no doubt the bandits would settle for cutting the arm off to get the prize.

  The real trouble was how to reach the boy and slip away unseen. There were more than a few bandits, dressed in turbans, robes, cape and cowl. A quick sweep of Fire would take them out...and then Sutyr would come down upon them like the hawk to a mouse, courtesy of the flare of spell-casting. Damn. There had to be another way. The quick clap of foot-falls gave him one, if not so mismatched.

  Lazarus waited till the bandit turned the corner, and then grabbed him by the Adam’s apple. The bandit squirmed in terror but made no sound. Lazarus increased the pressure, and the bandit became still. Lazarus quickly stripped the bandit and donned his clothing. It was a tight fit, all these clothes one size or two larger or smaller, and it stank like a cesspool. Lazarus took a few moments to remember the bandit’s shambling, too-quick steps, hunched to disguise his height, and stepped into the gambit.

  The path quickly narrowed to a thin curve of rock and dust, peppered with a dozen openings, which undoubtedly led to other chambers. A maze. Always mazes. Just once Lazarus wished for a tyrant not saddled by the obvious or folktale. To make matters worse, there were more bandits here than he expected. Light exposed them in clefts of rock, carrying crossbows and throwing knives and who knows what else. Lazarus hurried his pace without seeming to increase his speed.

  “Hey, Mallen,” a drunken voice called. Lazarus did not know it was for him till a meaty hand spun about by the shoulder. “There you are. Where’d you been? We’d been waiting for you at the dice tables.”

  The man’s breath was poison. It took all of Lazarus’ effort to not grimace. “I must seek the leader. He has summoned me.” Hopefully the man was too drunk to remember the bandit’s tempo in voice. “Perhaps later.”

  “I’m gonna hold you to that,” the giant bandit said woozily. He teetered on his balance before falling; the crash cut off when a score of men came from adjourning chambers to carry the giant into his bed. The precision of their movements told Lazarus the soldiers were formed specifically to aid the giant when drunk. A team formed out of necessity, and possibly in reluctance. Who wanted to play butler to a fool constantly in a drunken haze?

  So intent was Lazarus upon the boy’s safety he almost passed that what he meant to take. Two bandits, rags filthy, squatted in the shadows of a doorway, taking long drags on their wooden pipes before blowing out blue rings that floated for a time before dissipating. Lazarus blinked. The herb they were using. It was the one the girl needed! Without breaking stride Lazarus made his way to the two bandits, coughing to get their attention. “May I sit with you?”

  “Of course,” said the first one. “You have a pipe? No? Then here.” Reaching into his pouch the bandit tossed a pipe of inferior wood to Lazarus’ hands. Sliding down to sit, Lazarus gestured for one to light them, and when they did, took on a long drag. The taste of it was cool, but that was the herb used to produce the smoke. Patiently Lazarus blew out rings for the amusement of the others.

  Enough of this. “Duty calls,” he said, tossing the pipe back. He left before they would ask what duty. The Khatari waited till he was out of sight to feel a pouch nestled within a layer of his own clothing. Good. The mules had not seen the fingers that robbed them so swiftly. Now to find the boy and escape. Again, his gaze swept about the chamber and winced. The odds did not favor him. He couldn’t wait for morning. Daylight meant more than four score of bandits to fight through. He couldn’t count on the boy to be of aide. The night was still young, but Lazarus knew how deceptive time could be. One moment time was infinite, and the next it was slipping like sand from the hourglass.

  It was thus he came to the side of those guarding the boy. Slipping to the ground unbidden Lazarus waited. The bandits were playing dic
e. The loser growled as his money was taken away and stormed off before he thought of a better use for the tulwar at his hip. The winner laughed before noticing Lazarus’ presence by the wall. “Whatta you want?”

  “Nothing, brother. I just wanted a look at the country scum.” The other’s sneer split his mouth in twain; Lazarus adopted it as best he could. “Tell me, when are we going to take this codless jackal for the ransom?”

  The bandit growled in such a way that said he already thought of that outcome. “The master will tell us if he deems it important.”

  Lazarus excused himself and wandered the adjourning chambers. He’d have to know the possible exits of the area for when escape came. After a time, he returned to Mykel’s side, dismissing the guard for a shift. Mostly he waited. He had waited much in battle. Victory was nine parts waiting for the right time to strike.

  Hours later, when twilight had descended into the holes and vents of the mountain, when the last guard had fallen sway to slumber, Lazarus rose and, turning aside to the librarian –

  – and he was not there.

  The Khatari jerked awake. He’d been asleep for no more than moments, and yet somehow these mountain dogs had snatched the boy right under his nose! Growling Lazarus sent his senses to sweep and find the librarian. There. Outside. Up went Lazarus, climbing from crag to crag. Once he wished vehemently to use his Fire, but the shiisaa would destroy any possibility of a bloodless escape. The moon shone a pale white in the sky, a bleached skull grinning malevolently.

  Finally the Khatari’s head popped from the ridged angle of the mountain’s tallest slab. There were voices, guttural voices. And a single soft one. Human. Lazarus crouched low into the mountain’s hand-and-footholds, not even breathing.

  “Is this what you required?”

  “Yes.” The voice was a serpent with the ability to speak, long and low, the lilt of an educated man. “You have done well, holy man.” A thud sounded the landing of a pouch bursting at the seams with coin. Ruffles in the grass betrayed a short rush to the pouch and back. Jackal, thought the old man. Then his eyes goggled to the size of dinner plates.