The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  Einar and Saen stared briefly at one another. The surprise on their faces brought a mirthful laugh from the man before he kicked the horse into a trot. As the horse made it two lengths away, Einar yelled, “How do you know them?” Quint offered no comment and the two companions watched the stranger spur the horse, leaving them behind. Einar thought for a moment and muttered, “The next sanctuary is nearly twenty miles. He expects us to walk that far.”

  “I suppose he does,” offered Saen, with a shrug. “Nothing to do but walk.” She grabbed the bowl Einar held and began cleaning the sanctuary; Einar could do nothing but stare after the man. A sharp poke at his side brought his attention to Saen. She had cleaned and packed everything. She began walking without him. “Come on.”

  Einar shook his head at an attempt to clear the confusion, then grabbed his items before running to catch up. When he could no longer see even the minute dust trail of the man’s horse, he gave a low growl of frustration. “He didn’t have to just leave us like that,” he uttered between breaths.

  “Einar, it’s obvious he’ll tell us what is going on when he’s ready to do so.”

  “But, my family, Saen. He knows what’s going on and didn’t bother to divulge anything.” He kicked a stray rock on the road. “Anything!”

  “As I’ve said, we will find them. With or without the help of a strange old man.”

  “Strange, indeed. You’re perceptive, as always. I’m not sure how I would’ve made it this far without you.”

  “Blind and stubborn stupidity, I’m sure.”

  Einar caught the sarcasm and let out a gentle laugh. “Good. That’s more like it. You need to be in good spirits, especially when we reach town. Alteration or its opposite are not tolerated as much, as we hit these southern towns’ borders. And yes, I know. I’ve been run out of North Sacclon once. I generally learn after just one mistake.”

  Confused, Saen glanced at Einar. Sadness slouched his face and shoulders, greatly diminishing the man’s normal tallness. Boots scraping on the still-frozen mud and the brisk morning wind silenced any future discussion as the two picked up their pace. They would reach the sanctuary and the stranger, only through quicker movement.

  Hours passed with no sign of the man. Hoof prints rose plain in the path and grew easily distinguished as the sun thawed the road. Sol had finally risen halfway to noon with only a few wispy cirrus clouds floating above, nearly too high to see. The Vespow flowed south, and a few birds, barely seen and indistinguishable, flitted above the slow-moving current. Within another hour, both companions had reached a steady pace with their eyes forward upon a hopeful glimpse of the town.

  They stopped only briefly at midday to eat rations prepared by Holli. Einar said, “I’ll have to thank Quint because we would have been eating all this yesterday. And I’ve not seen a sign of any living thing since we left this morning, other than a few deer too far away to even think about hunting.”

  Saen barked a laugh. “You hunt?” Saen laughed between bites and nearly coughed on a bit of dried meat. Taking a deep breath, she caught an expression of concern on Einar’s face before it changed to indignation.

  “I’ve hunted before with my dad. And during the war.” Einar turned from Saen’s raised brow, incredulity plain, then continued, “Just the once with him. Too many times, otherwise. That latter was enough for me.”

  “I suppose I don’t know the great Einar Amakiir as well as I thought,” Saen offered. Her raised eyebrows faded with her grin. Einar turned, and a slight smile rose unbidden on his own lips.

  Taking one last bite, Einar said, “We should get moving. Think you could run for a bit?”

  She stood and answered only by starting a slow jog. His grin widened, and he followed his friend.

  They ran in quick bursts as white clouds formed with each breath. Miles of open plain passed by and all the journey’s issues washed away with each passing stride. Looking at each other every few minutes and seeing only focus brought them a renewed sense of vigor; their eyes soon stayed locked on the path ahead. The few travelers who passed the runners could only look upon them with wonderment.

  Sol had barely dropped below its zenith when Saen slowed, then stopped. Einar ran a few additional paces before realizing she no longer matched his pace. Skidding to halt, he took in several deep breaths and glanced back at Saen. She held a hand above her eyes, squinting past the sun’s glare off the melting snow and various shallow puddles in the road.

  “What do you see?” Einar asked between gulping breaths.

  “Not sure, exactly. But I think we’ll see Quint before reaching town.” Her tone, laced with hesitation, caused Einar to scan south along the roadway. The running had warmed him, but the chilled wind bit against any exposed skin. Wiping away perspiration, he had slowed his breathing and focused on what appeared to be a figure on horseback. The figure, about a mile off by Einar’s estimate, slowly became overshadowed by a wide plume of black and gray smoke rising into the clear sky.

  “Too big for a chimney.”

  “Agreed. But what could have caused it, Einar?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Without waiting, he strode forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the mounted figure. He heard no reply other than Saen’s familiar footsteps a pace behind. Within a few moments, the figure waved in recognition and spurred the horse into a gallop. Even from their distance, they noticed large clods of mud being thrown up behind the rider.

  Within moments Quint reached them and reined his horse to a stop. Smirking, Quint said, “You two look rough.” His smile changed to a grimace as he saw the mud-spackled companions glare up at him.

  “You may be carrying mud a few more days. We’ll be staying nowhere near town this evening, if it’s up to me.” Pointing a thumb over his shoulder eliminated any confusion on what he referred to. “First things first.” Quint paused to take a deep breath. “We can’t circle round. Xavad’s Guardians will surely see us and suspect us of something, if they see us. We don’t need to risk that. Better to go straight into the den and face it straight on, my old grandpa used to say. Of course, that was the last thing we heard from him before he was mauled to death by a great cave bear.” Quint’s laugh, clear and seemingly careless, released some tension from Einar and Saen; he looked at Saen and a smile etched her lips upward. Nodding to the two, Quint spurred his horse around, saying, “We’ve no time to waste.”

  Einar shrugged, feeling oddly relieved at the older man’s reaction to the Guardians. With little choice but to follow, Einar and Saen trailed after the horse. Nearly in a whisper, Einar said to Saen, “Not sure what Guardians are doing this far north. They should know the Lord Mayors won’t appreciate their meddling.”

  “Probably nothing good. But I’d guess our new friend will tell us.”

  “Aye. I will, but not now,” Quint said over his back. “For now, do be quiet and let me do the talking. We’ll stop at the tavern and get a better sense of what they are doing here. Then we leave. They’re hunting something, I reckon, or they wouldn’t be here. The Chancellor must’ve ordered them this far north.”

  Saen reached over and attempted to calm Einar. She saw his face flush and eyes narrow. “We’re not children, you know,” she called out to forestall anything Einar may regret later.

  “Aye, but I’ve known you since you were children. Does that count?” Laughing again, he turned and put a finger across his lips.

  19 — The Last of the Olst

  Melek strode forward and nearly stepped on the burnt human husk in his haste. Without previous experience with Alterators he would have stepped on it unconsciously. But by now, after years of interacting with alterations, he had trained his body to avoid anything touched by an Alterator in such a violent manner. Gods only know what may assault me. He had seen corpses, slain by a scribed rune, explode violently when the next person came along. Even innocent bystanders had been killed by the aftereffects. Sometimes, the indirect effects of a rune held more power than t
he initial attack itself. As much as I think I know, Melek thought, Malkari would probably laugh.

  Melek paced cautiously around the body by watching every footstep. As he moved further into the room, the pungent odor from the burnt husks brought bile to his throat. It was all he could do to keep his body from moving back the way it came. His throat burned and the irritating feeling matched the effect upon his eyes. Tears welled and fell freely, blurring his vision. Melek paused momentarily to wipe his eyes with the back of a sleeve. He cursed breathlessly when he felt the stickiness of drying blood coat the middle of his face. Frustration blazed in his mind, tossing aside any other inhibitions that the room may throw at him.

  Malkari’s dead. I’ll try to save the outsider. I can’t do any less. Melek desperately wiped his eyes with two fingers from each hand. A semblance of focused vision returned, and he stumbled forward, all the while trying to avoid debris and dead bodies. Despite his methodical movement, Melek stumbled on pieces of the wooden bed. Before almost falling several times, he felt his right foot kick something soft. An audible grunt came from below and he felt ready to jump from his boots. Thank the Ancients, Melek thought. He is alive. A long sigh escaped, relief almost overwhelming Melek. The world around him flooded back as he inhaled. The room’s stench struck his nose and eyes with a renewed vigor.

  Choking on the stench, Melek quickly, and without fully thinking, reached down, feeling for the stranger’s body. Blinking his eyes furiously to clear his vision, a blurry visage of the stranger lay at Melek’s fingertips. He unceremoniously placed his arms under the man’s neck and legs. Melek lifted the man off the floor in one swift motion and turned to move out of the room. He vaguely noticed his feet give out and the crashing sound underneath him, until a stabbing pain in his left ankle forced him to cringe. Stifling a cry of pain, Melek hobbled to the doorway, then stumbled back down the short hallway to the flight of stairs. A modicum of vision had returned to Melek’s eyes, yet the darkness of the hallway and the stinging pain in his leg forced his slow pace.

  Melek took one step at a time. He halted once when the leg’s pain flared, like fire enveloping his ankle. White, hot pain swathed his vision, and he nearly dropped the man in his arms to grab his leg. Clamping his teeth together, Melek pushed the pain to the back of his mind. The pain lingered on the edge of his consciousness, intensifying by the moment. I must move or I’ll not keep him safe, Melek thought just before he willed himself further down the stairs. With each step, the pain blossomed further, and Melek numbed himself to all external feelings. I can mask the pain, but not the damage. His eyes stared forward, unblinking and unfocused, as he simply moved his body onward.

  His daze continued while he walked clumsily into the meeting room of the clan leader’s home. Melek gingerly laid the stranger upon the table, then a noise brought him back to his senses. He shook his head to help clear his vision. He realized the mistake as soon as the pain returned with an agonizing force. Melek dropped to his knees; bright flashes of light flickered before his limited vision. Beyond the points of light Melek noticed the man fully alert and staring at him with eyes full of astonishment, intermingled with dread. The stranger still lay on top of the table, but he held himself erect with his left elbow. He seemed to be in perfect health to Melek’s estimation, which brought a laugh of near-hysteria from Melek’s lips. If anything, the man’s shocked eyes grew larger. Then he spoke.

  “Who are you?”

  Only one answer came to Melek through the near-blinding haze of pain in his leg. “I’m your savior.” The stranger’s eyebrows shot upward, and at the edge of his awareness Melek noticed the stranger moved off the table while extending a hand outward. To Melek it seemed to be a gesture of help. That’s strange, thought Melek curiously, as blackness overwhelmed his vision. Melek felt himself falling before his head struck a hard object. A loud call of distress echoed in his ears. Blackness brought relief.

  Melek awoke with a jerk. He attempted to open his eyes, yet they would not cooperate. His limbs seemed to be dead weights attached to whatever it was he laid upon. He heard a voice. Despite its vague familiarity, Melek could not place its source. The words sounded muffled to Melek’s ears, as if the voice were filtered through a thick curtain. At least they sound calm, soothing, Melek thought. He tried to lift his head, but he could barely open his mouth to mumble an incoherent word or two.

  The feeling of a warm, wet cloth swiped across Melek’s face, and the comfort of the tiny gesture, swept Melek back into unconsciousness. Dreams took him for an indeterminate amount of time.

  A young Loken and Melek played along the Kings’ River. Just boys now during a much-treasured free day from toil and training, they splashed along the river’s edge, throwing and skipping rocks as far as their young arms could manage. The dreaming Melek remembered this as one of the happiest times in his life. Laughter and gaiety had become commonplace to the boys despite the rigors of adult life impressed upon them by their masters. Specifically, one master offered the deepest impression. They were to be the protectors of the Olst, or so they were told day in and day out. Every day, Melek and Loken became stronger, more knowledgeable, and more skilled than the previous day.

  Loken’s laughter had always been infectious. As they sat along the river, eating fish they had caught when hunger became apparent, Melek laughed again at some long-forgotten joke Loken repeated for the twentieth time. They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled wider. Melek blinked, and the scene faded to black.

  A less joyful time unfolded within the dream.

  Deep in the forested hills close to their home Melek and Loken stood before each other with quarterstaffs. Despite the sheen of sweat coating their bodies, they fought savagely. An onlooker would have thought the boys swung the staffs to kill, yet no blow landed. Their movement, fluid in tight circles around each other, matched blow-for-blow. The clacking of the staffs filled the woods. The staffs became blurring arcs as the two friends moved in tandem with one another. Even through the duel the young men noticed the sweet smell of pipe smoke hanging in the air of the tiny glade surrounded mostly by Durik maples and post oaks.

  Their faces bore total concentration, but a sudden, unexpected upward swing from Melek brought a flash of surprise to Loken’s eyes which Melek had been waiting for. With a yell of anticipated victory, Melek struck his friend in the stomach. Hard. Loken doubled over despite his hardened stomach and gasped for breath. Melek had mustered his entire strength behind the blow, considerable even among the hardy Olst, then a sideways blow across Loken’s head flipped him end over end until he landed in leaves and grasses near an ancient gold maple. Before he landed, Melek stood over Loken with the staff to his throat, ready to jab downward.

  The fear of death flashed across Loken’s face. Only the sharp call of “Stop!” ended Melek’s movement.

  The word brought Melek back to his senses. His eyes widened at the full realization of what he had been about to do. He peered at the quarterstaff’s end pressed into Loken’s taut neck, then threw the weapon to the ground. Melek saw his friend swallow, and it took all of Loken’s willpower to not rub his neck. Without a word, Melek extended his hand to Loken. Loken took it without hesitation. As soon as he was on his feet, he smiled at Melek, which brought a smile to his face.

  The sleeping Melek blinked.

  A scene Melek had buried deep within his sub-consciousness long ago had come back to him in full force. A piece of bamboo struck Loken’s back. The slap upon the young man’s flesh brought an immediate welt of redness across his back, wiping Melek’s smile away. Their master, Arstle, held the arm-length bamboo rod and struck. Again. Again. And again. Their master was an ancient man to the young men’s reckoning, yet his guile and skill was unmatched by any other Olst. He taught the clan’s youngest men and women to wipe their minds of fear.

  Loken did not flinch as each strike brought a new stripe of redness. Surprising to Melek, Loken did not yell out in pain. While Loken did not flinch, other methods to control
the pain became evident. Melek noticed that Loken gritted his teeth with lips parted. His eyes were shut tight as if he was trying to close himself off from the pain. He gripped the trunk of a young wych elm tightly enough to make his knuckles white. With each slap, Arstle continued his lecture against fear. His words still brought dread to Melek’s now sleeping mind.

  “You know, boy, fear will kill you.”

  Slap.

  “Fear could be the slayer of this entire clan.”

  Slap.

  With the last slap, several of the welts opened, issuing rivulets of blood down Loken’s back and legs. Arstle’s gravelly voice continued, “Perhaps, this lesson will show you part of what you face when fear enters your mind.” With that, Arstle threw the bamboo shaft at the young man with apparent disgust twisting his face. Loken spun with grace, unhindered by the wounds upon his back, to grab the weapon in midair. He rushed at Arstle, who stood unmoving and apparently unfazed by the sudden attack. As the shaft sang through the air at Arstle’s legs, he simply leaped a foot in the air. Before Arstle landed, Loken felt one powerful fist connect with his face. Loken’s momentum was deflected by the fist and he tumbled headfirst onto the ground. Loken lay seemingly unconscious on the hard soil; Melek noticed Arstle nearly spat on his fallen friend.

  “He will be the end of us all if I cannot mold him,” Arstle muttered faintly. “He does have some fight in him. That may be enough.”

  Loken lay unmoving for a few more moments while Arstle waited. His face bore a patient expression for Loken to rise, yet he did not move. Sighing heavily, Arstle turned to walk back to the village. Consternation etched itself upon Melek’s face, and he moved to check on his fallen friend. As Loken started to move, he blinked.