by Thomas Locke
She handed her canteen to Alembord and said, “I for one don’t need to know more.”
Selim muttered, “Milantian blood.”
“You’ve had your chance to take the emissary’s measure,” Meda replied. “Hyam will lead us. He will do his best to keep us safe. Our task is to be ready.”
Selim struggled with some internal discord, then asked, “Ready for what, exactly?”
The guards captain gave an easy shrug. “To fight. To win.”
“The six of us against a Milantian horde?”
Meda’s teeth sparkled astonishingly white in her sun-darkened face. “Exactly.”
38
The cave was an almost perfect circle, the rocks gnawed into furrows deep as the golems’ teeth. Hyam heard someone call for a mage-light. But he did not require it. He heard Selim complain that the tunnel was completely empty and knew the caravan master was mistaken, but did not bother to reply. A hunger guided him forward, into the pitch-black. When the light appeared, it merely clarified what he already knew lay ahead. Onward he continued, deep into the round tunnel. What had been a faint hint of power back at the mouth was as brilliant now as the desert heat. Then he rounded yet another curve and knew he had arrived.
The cave’s floor was blanketed with a deep layer of silt. The thick dust served as a nest for the amphorae. Their narrow ends were planted down, the mouths rising up to his ribs. Dozens of the stone eggs. Hyam walked slowly forward, his hands outstretched to either side. He graced the surface of each seal in turn. Until one sparked. A quick flash of mage-flame, invisible to all but him. He stopped and said, “This one.”
Selim asked, “How can you be certain?”
There was no way to explain without further troubling this renegade Elf. “Help me break it open.”
Meda unsheathed her sword, then held it up so all could see how the milky surface sparked and flickered.
“Careful, now.” Hyam pointed to the upper section, where the amphora narrowed like a vase. “Cut here.”
The blade sliced smoothly through the ancient clay. Hyam lifted up scroll after scroll, unfurling them far enough to read the first few words. He handed Shona one document after another, checked all the documents in that amphora, then stepped back and surveyed their armloads. “We can go.”
Selim demanded, “You’re certain you have what you need?”
“Yes. Let me help.” He cradled two of the fragile scrolls and felt the energy surge. Here in this moment, in this act, he accepted what he could now see had been his destination since casting his first spell. From battling the king’s relative in the oval field, Hyam had been aiming for this point. Where he would forge a bond. Not to any scroll or half-finished spell. To his heritage. The portion of himself he had always denied.
No longer.
They retraced their steps to the tunnel mouth and gathered around him, his meager company, as he unfurled one scroll after another. There were four in all. Hyam allowed them to peer as long as they liked. Shona stood to his left, Fareed on his right.
Shona asked, “Do you see anything?”
“Nothing but the crumbling parchment,” Fareed replied.
Meda drank from her waterskin, handed it to Alembord, and said, “There’s something that’s bothered me.” She surveyed the cliffs and their myriad of circular caves. “Why did the Milantians come here at all?”
“I have an idea,” Hyam said. He heard himself as from a great distance. Separated from these people who had trusted him with their futures. Isolated by who he was. “I think these hills were once another city.”
Shona said, “Like Lystra.”
“Exactly. I also think this place is far older than Alyss. The harbor city was built as a human settlement beside a Milantian metropolis.”
Selim stared at him. “Humans and Milantians—friends?”
“Perhaps.” Hyam hoped desperately this had indeed once been true. He hefted the two scrolls. “Remember what the Lystran queen told us?”
Selim nodded slowly. “There were two strands to the Milantian mages.”
“Right. The mages of Lystra lived in peace. I think these hills were originally a place of Milantian learning and power. For eons Alyss served as the human gateway to the Milantian empire. Theirs was a privileged position, and they became incredibly rich as a result.” Hyam turned to the unseen east. “But the other Milantians lusted after the ability to unleash death and destruction. Gradually their power grew, and the city we see here waned. Something happened, some event lost to time and Milantian lore. The city died. But by this point, Alyss had grown in strength and stature and for a period served as the human empire’s eastern port. Even after their Milantian allies vanished, Alyss continued to thrive.”
Meda said, “So the golems . . .”
“The golems are not the issue,” Hyam chided, but gently. “The question you need to ask is, why did the dark lords return to Alyss a thousand years ago? Why did the attack on the human empire begin here?”
Fareed breathed, “These scrolls, and the spells they contain.”
“It is the only logical answer,” Hyam agreed. “The dark lords’ power was on the rise. They sought what they did not have—the ability to transform normal Milantians, those with no supernatural abilities, into mage warriors. So ten centuries ago, they attacked and destroyed Alyss.”
Selim’s nods had become a gentle rocking that took in his entire upper body. “Then they created the golems. And they searched.”
“They found the scrolls,” Meda said. “And they attacked the realm.”
“But we survived,” Shona said.
“Barely,” Hyam said. He pointed to the tunnel and asked Fareed, “Can you seal it?”
Fareed showed genuine relish as he drew the wand from his belt. He gestured to Shona, who hesitated before joining him.
“The lightning spell.” Fareed pointed with his wand to a stone outcrop twenty paces above the tunnel entrance. “You strike the left side, I’ll take the right. On three, yes? One, two . . .”
39
When they returned to camp, Selim and Meda prepared a meal. They ate in silence and watched as Hyam stretched the scrolls out and crawled along their length, reading silently. Hyam finally ate because Shona walked over and ordered him. At first he did not respond, but Shona stood where she blocked his path. He looked up and did not seem to recognize her. There was a chilling edge to his gaze. Then he blinked and smiled, and the frigid fear she had known was gone.
All afternoon Shona and Fareed practiced with the wands. Fareed had trained with the Falmouth orb, and now he walked her carefully through the stages of binding to the wand and extending out. There was a unique thrill to each act, drawing the power, connecting with the wand, shooting fire at hillsides that were soon scored with their strikes, then recharging the miniature orbs and starting over. The desert-born lad was a natural teacher and was as delighted as Shona when her spells succeeded.
Hyam kept himself isolated farther down the valley, practicing his spell casting. He weaved his arms in complex patterns and droned in a voice too low for her to catch. Time after time he halted in what seemed to be mid-flow, stepping back from whatever forces he had almost unleashed. Standing and breathing and thinking for a time. Then starting over.
They kept at it until the only light in their valley was the mage-fire. They stopped and drank more tea and spoke a few idle words. Twice Meda asked what the plan was, but Hyam merely shook his head and replied, “Not yet.” When they unfurled their pallets, he bade them a good night and climbed the eastern ridge. Up to where he could gaze out over the yellow plain.
Shona sat upon her pallet and stared at Hyam’s silhouette against the wash of desert stars. Meda said sleepily, “Just like a general.” She then rolled over and sighed into slumber.
A movement at the camp’s perimeter caused Shona to glance over. Tired as she was, she knew one further task needed seeing to that night. She walked to where Alembord sat on a stone shaped like a narrow bench.
The mage-light cast his features in stark vigor. He watched her approach with unblinking intensity. Up close Shona thought she glimpsed a furtive hint of animosity, the sour hostility of unrequited desire. She was glad she had not put this off.
She asked, “Can we talk?”
Alembord responded by shifting over and making room for her. Shona seated herself and said, “None of us knows what is going to happen tomorrow. But I would like to think that Hyam is preparing a way for us to survive.”
“Shona . . .”
“Please, Alembord. This is hard for me. Allow me to finish. Please.”
She could feel the heat in his gaze, the longing. She went on, “If we survive, what comes next? That is a question I have carried with me since Lystra.” She pretended to think for a moment, then asked, “Do you remember the witches’ song that night? How they drew you away from yourself?”
Alembord wanted to deny it. She could see the flickering gaze, the desire to focus upon her and the promises he wanted to offer. But in the end he said, “I remember.”
“So do I. I was trapped inside a pillar, just like Meda and Fareed. But unlike them, I remember everything. I saw you struggle against the witches’ lure. And I saw you give in.” She held up a hand, halting his protest. “It was on our return to the caravan that this idea of mine began taking shape. What I want to speak with you about. Because you have seen the power of magic up close. You know as only one can who has stared into the cauldron and survived.”
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“I am not explaining myself well. Forgive me. This is the first time I have tried to put this into words.” She pretended to wipe away confusion from her forehead. “Alembord, if I survive, I am to become Bayard’s heir. Before, this was a childish notion. Now I see it as reality. And I know that moving forward, if I am to succeed, I need allies.”
“I want to be that and—”
“Wait—before you speak, please, hear me out. It is vital you understand fully what this means.” Her words carried enough force to halt his entreaty. “The instant I accept that position, I will be consigned to death. Think on this, Alembord, I beg you. I break a thousand years of law by accepting this position. I will become the countess mage.”
For the first time that night, Alembord pried apart his raging desire. And saw her. Fully.
“This role is strictly forbidden. What I am to become cannot be. And yet we know that these laws are already cast aside. The darkness is not just ahead of us in Alyss. It is everywhere. If the realm is to survive, we must accept this as fact. And we must prepare.”
Alembord licked dry lips. “You want me . . .”
“I want you to become the leader of my private guards. This warrior troop must accept me for who I truly am. They must guard me against those who would seek my destruction.” She could see the rank bitterness cloud his vision once again. And knew she had to stop it before the fury was able to take hold.
Shona did what was required. She formed a shield. “My first challenge as an acolyte, put to me by Fareed and Connell, was to create a shield and pick up a candle’s flame. Then I was required to apply the force in a controlled manner. Do you hear what I am saying, Alembord? Control is everything.”
His features were taut with an ire so bitter it seemed he could scarcely hear her, much less fashion a response. Shona rose to her feet so she could tower over the warrior and repeated, “Control, Alembord. Control is everything.” As she spoke, she turned and reached out one hand, the fingers that had first known the power.
Shona drew a slender thread of golden flame from the campfire. She wove it about her, binding the force to her shield. The heat built, and with it the illumination, until Shona was rimmed by fire.
Still she strengthened it, adding to it her own frustration, her own desires, her own rage, building and tightening until the light she cast was so fierce Alembord was forced to cover his face. And then the skin of his hand began to blister, and he cried aloud as he stumbled from the rock and fell into the sand. His ire was lost now to the shock of what he beheld.
And still she drew upon the flame and her own internal cauldron. “Observe and remember, Alembord. I want you to see fully. I need you to understand. I need an ally who has glimpsed inside the deadly force, seen the true peril of magic in the hands of the despised. How our foes can wreak havoc with a song. Because there is a difference here, one that many soldiers would prefer to ignore. They will see my power, and they will fear me, and they will want to count me as an enemy. I need you to be my spokesman. Do you understand what I am asking?”
Alembord had no choice but to crawl crab-like backwards, scrambling away on three limbs while his blistered hand continued to guard his eyes. She tracked him, but slowly. Bathing him in a heat that would have killed the man had he not moved away.
“Only an officer who has faced the true enemy can serve as my ally here. Only one who knows the real difference. Who can look at me and see me as a protector of our realm.”
Shona stopped. She cast aside the shield and the force both. And stood there before him. Cloaked in the night. “I ask that you think on this, Alembord. I understand if you are unwilling to accept the challenge. But I ask that you at least consider being my champion.”
She turned and walked back over to her pallet. Only when she lay down and drew her covers up to her chin did she realize Meda was watching her.
The guards captain murmured softly, “Truly, you have the makings of a queen.”
40
Hyam climbed away from the camp, drawn by the same wisps of an idea that had flittered about his brain for much of the past two days. Trying to knit them together had proven enormously taxing. His strategy relied on so many assumptions. The unknown swarmed like a dark cloud, consuming every idea as soon as it was forged. So he left the company and climbed toward the stars. Determined to put his fears and his doubts behind him.
A flash of some brilliant light rose from the valley floor below. Hyam assumed Shona or Fareed still practiced and did not look back down. He reached the summit and focused upon the eastern plains. The dark desert floor was flecked in places by the moon’s pewter reflections. One worry after another rose before his gaze. He examined each, worked out a solution, set it aside, and barred it from reentry. Moving on to the next one. And the one after that.
There were three key issues.
The first was, what form would the Milantians’ assault take? Hyam had one chance. Just one. To see around the bend of time, anticipate, and prepare.
The second, how could he turn their meager numbers into a shock wave of such force to clear a route to the dragon and the sea? Because this was not about winning or defeating every Milantian foe. This was about survival. And rescuing Joelle. And readying for the battle beyond this one.
The third issue was the most troublesome of all.
Where was the bird? Hyam had dismissed this issue when Selim had raised it because there was nothing he could do or say to change things. But this night was made for examining such doubts. What did the eagle’s absence signify? Even if they made it to the port, would the dragon know to come for them?
Finally fatigue fashioned weights to his thoughts. Hyam lay on the ground and slept. The ridge was covered by centuries of loam and dust. He was comfortable enough. He dreamed of Joelle, her gentle gaze, and the way she spoke his name.
Hyam woke to the full light of day. He sat for a long moment, pushing aside his hunger and thirst. He examined the decisions he had made the previous night, one by one. Then he pulled the crystal pipe from beneath his shirt, blew, and waited. He would not understand what the ghostly warrior would say. But hopefully that would not matter.
When the general appeared, Hyam explained what he had in mind. As he made his request to the translucent ally, his plans finally crystallized. That in itself made this contact a success.
When he was done, the general stood and studied him. Hyam waited through long minutes, feeling the sweat gather and trickle. F
inally the warrior nodded, once. And allowed the smoke of his form to drift away.
Hyam did not realize he had been holding his breath until he was alone again. He turned and stared eastward, trying to pierce the shimmering heat and study the unseen foe.
Then he started down into the valley. Where his companions waited.
Hyam related what he had in mind as he ate a quick meal and drank cup after cup of tepid tea. The others stood and listened in silence. Alembord stood slightly removed from them. His face was flecked with odd blisters, as though he had rolled into the fire. But no one else said anything, so Hyam did not inquire.
When he was finished speaking, Meda started to ask something, then focused beyond him and said, “We have company.”
The general had elected to walk toward them down the valley’s length. As though he wanted them to come to terms with what they saw. Which was a good thing, Hyam decided. Because the ghostly officer brought a horde with him.
He was joined by seven other leaders. Five were men, two women. Six wore crowns. The former rulers were flanked by soldiers from a multitude of armies and epochs. Hyam walked toward them, motioning for Shona to join him. To the young woman’s credit, she did not hesitate, not even when three of the men drew translucent swords. Instantly a trio of skirmishes formed opaque confusion to either side. Hyam knew the forces gathered here represented a thousand years and more of enmity.
Hyam lifted his empty hands and shouted, “Fighting old battles between yourselves will gain you nothing!”
Perhaps it was the fact that he spoke the words in Milantian that halted most of them. He yelled the same words in Elven, then in the human tongue. By the time the echo of his voice faded, the threat of conflict had subsided. All watched him.
Hyam pitched his voice to carry and spoke each sentence in all three tongues. “I am Milantian. I am also human. My wife is half Ashanta. We represent a future that the foes in Alyss want to deny us. Not just of peace. But of joining.”
