by Ann Lawrence
She vanished.
The Tolemac Wars title shredded apart, leaving only the turquoise moon behind.
Neil took off his wristwatch and set it on the control panel where he could see its face. When he looked up again, three other moons were rising slowly through a sky now filled with stars.
The view shifted, spun, turned.
Terrain sped before him on the screen, taking him deep into a landscape of forest, an ancient night-filled forest, so dense it looked like a maze. Finally, the dizzy kaleidoscope of movement halted and he was back on the mountain meadow, now bathed in the luminous greenish blue of the four moons.
Tapping a few keys with practiced ease, he chose the character he wished to play. The Unknown. A man with no face, owing allegiance to no one, taking part in the Tolemac wars if he wanted, fighting for good or for evil if he wished. He could go either way. His choice. Not someone else’s.
Thunder reverberated overhead, and Neil smiled his satisfaction.
His watch said 8:03. Lifting the headset, he put it on.
He pressed play.
Chapter Two
Ardra separated herself from her escort with orders that the men make camp at the base of Hart Fell before full dark descended, and then walked swiftly through the trees. Above lay the hut of Nilrem, the wiseman. At the sunrising on the morrow, she would seek what wisdom he could offer in her quest. She held little hope of much more than kind words and expressions of sympathy.
Honor and duty required her to make the journey.
She had a long night of waiting ahead. As she moved to higher ground, she quickened her steps. She did not want her party to know she was about to indulge in an ancient ritual, a ritual of the old gods, one practiced by old women.
Her serving women might nod in understanding, but they would also be quick to deny any belief in the ritual. Men would smile and nudge one another with their elbows. But at this time when she most needed help, she would appeal to any god—ancient or otherwise. The folly of her superstitious belief might result in ridicule and contempt, but follow the old way she must.
The ground beneath her feet was cushioned with pine needles, a handful of which she put in her waist pouch along with her flint and eight small candles. The occasional tiny woodland flower gleamed white in the gathering dusk, filling the air with a soft, hopeful fragrance. She gathered dry twigs as she walked along. A snap made her pause. She listened but heard nothing more. No animals stirred. With a shrug, she moved on.
She came out onto a high meadow, her arms full of dry twigs and branches. Despite the windy conditions, she gathered rocks and built a fire, using the dry pine needles as tinder. It was a small fire, stubborn to light. The eight candles she set out within the ring of stones were even more troublesome.
Fearful the flames might die in the capricious breezes before the sun set, but doing as tradition bade, she rose with a handful of dirt and faced the red orb. It sat on top of a distant mountain. It appeared impaled on the peak, its glow like blood oozing down the steep slopes. She shivered. With great impatience, she waited, eyes on the horizon.
Despite the sun’s gleam, the sky was an angry purple, the air heavy with expectation. Low murmurs of thunder came across the far plains. Flickers of lightning traced paths between mountaintops.
When the perfect moment came—the moment when the sun was just ready to set—she held her dirt-filled fist over the struggling flames and slowly sifted the dust from her palm. The fire died. Next, she walked around the ring of stones eight times. With each round, she sifted dirt, extinguishing one candle in each circuit.
Breath tight in her chest, she then turned her face to the heavens and awaited the coming of the conjunction—the first in fifty such conjunctions—when all four moons would rise together. The ancients had believed it was an augury—of what, she knew not.
They came. The first of the four moons, blue-green, smaller than the sun, but magnificent in color, cast a green glow into the heavens to mingle its cool color with the purple and red.
The rest of the moons rose. Legend said they were sisters, holding hands to kneel before their mother, the sun. They brought a blessing, some ancient prophesies said; a warning, said others. Some feared seeing both the sun and the moons at the same time, in such a precise row. Others marveled. Ardra felt only empty.
It was time to complete the ritual. She knelt, struck her flint, and nurtured a new spark in a handful of dry needles and shredded cloth, blew into the embers her wishes—prayed to the ancient gods just as women had done since the beginning of time.
When the small coal was glowing, she scooped it up and lifted it reverently to the orbs, then cast it onto the kindling as legend demanded. She held her breath, leaned forward, willed the flames to survive. The small fire crackled, took, ate the twigs, fought the errant gusts of wind. Now she must light the candles anew.
A sound behind her made her look up.
Three men stood there. Dirty men. Outcasts.
Her throat dried. With unsteady legs, she rose. The men held rough sticks loosely in their filthy fists. She stumbled back, putting the fire between her and them. They came at her slowly, their intent gazes skimming up and down her like touches.
One grinned. His tongue licked along his lower lip. The gesture sent a flood of fear through her.
She glanced over her shoulder, to the trees and the way down to her guards.
The outcasts leaped over her fire.
She whirled around, but a man blocked her way.
A man afire.
She screamed. He stood bathed in the last of the sunlight, rooted in flames of red and gold, his eyes black holes in his white face.
She danced to the left, stumbled on her hem, went down on one knee. The outcasts fell upon her from behind. Pain flashed through her shoulder from the harsh blow of a stick.
They tore at her jewels. One grasped her hem and tossed it up.
The flaming man swayed and shimmered.
She fought grasping hands, kicking, clawing with her nails, wordlessly begging the stranger for help.
The red and gold man staggered forward, clasped his hands together, and smashed them down against the filthy head of the outcast now questing beneath her skirts.
With a howl of anger, the outcast turned to the man. Another outcast, his feral smile a gap-toothed sneer, raised his stick and signaled his friends.
In an instant the outcasts had abandoned her and swarmed the man. Suddenly free, Ardra scrabbled backward on her hands, then with a sob forced herself to stand up and run.
The trees seemed so far away, her feet like iron weights. Breath on fire in her chest, she hurled herself into the shelter of the pines and scrambled up the trunk of a tree.
The vision of the red and gold man still danced in her mind’s eye. The sense that he had been conjured from the air made her tremble. Nay, her eyes had deceived her. It was just his scarlet and gold robes aflame in the remaining glow of light that had made it seem so.
As she gripped the rough bark and pressed her head to her hands, she could not forget his sudden appearance. He had come just at the conjunction to save her. How she wished for some means to fight the outcasts as he had fought for her.
Help. She must find help. Her heart pounded, her breath seared her chest. Her men were at the foot of the mountain. But she must pass the outcasts to reach them. Only Nilrem was near, and he was but an old man.
From her perch she could see nothing…but she could hear. She wanted to press her hands to her ears and block out the terrible noises, but doing so would deny the man who, barehanded, had come to her rescue.
She must find a way to help him. Cautiously she slipped from the tree branches and crept to the edge of her shelter. The outcasts were like scavengers on prey. They had stripped the man and left him sprawled on the ground, his arms and legs outflung as if beseeching the orbs overhead for mercy. Was he dead? Her eyes filled.
The three filthy men crouched with their backs to their victim, argui
ng over his robes, his belt, and his pouch.
One of the men cried out. He shook his hand, flinging something away as if it burned his fingers. The others peered at the object, then also backed away, their arms filled with the man’s clothing. They darted into the trees with their booty and disappeared.
Her first instinct was to go to the man. But she forced herself to pause. Perhaps ‘twas just a ruse by the outcasts to draw her out. When the crash of their progress down the mountain grew faint, she tiptoed from the shelter of the trees.
They had left their victim no dignity in death. Drawing off her cloak, she knelt to cover him, tears rising in her eyes. “If I had been a man, I would have killed at least one of them.” With a hesitant hand, she touched his chest.
His heart beat strongly beneath her palm. He rolled his bloody head from side to side and groaned.
“By the gods, you are alive.”
There was hope.
She cast her cloak aside to examine him. How terrible it would be if the man bled to death while she fetched help.
His hair was not bloody. His face was, but ‘twas not blood that made his hair so dark. She wondered at the deep brown color, but could waste no time on the matter.
Quickly, fearful the outcasts might return, she examined the rest of him. He was young, his battered body as strong as a warrior’s. None of his wounds looked mortal.
With a whispered prayer of gratitude to the gods, she stood up and gave him a final look. Blood ran down his inner thigh, a thigh hard with muscle. His stomach was ridged with muscle as well.
Then her glance fell on his right arm. She reached out to assure herself that what she saw was real. Aye, ‘twas the flesh of a strong man but painted with a serpent. It coiled three times about his arm. She rubbed the tips of her fingers over the paint, then sat back to think. “This is a terrible omen,” she whispered.
Gently she draped her cloak across the man’s body. He was taller than the common man, though not as tall as some of her guards. If she covered his feet, her cloak would come only to the middle of his chest. She tugged the cloak up far enough to conceal the symbol on his arm, leaving his feet exposed.
His eyes flickered open. “What happened?” he asked. He licked his lips.
Ardra stood and backed away. He tracked her movements and lifted a hand.
Nilrem, she thought. I must fetch Nilrem. He will know what to make of this man and the strange symbol painted on his arm.
Something glinted in the dirt. A broken chain. She bent and retrieved it. The outcasts had thrown it away, fearful of it for some reason.
Then she understood. Dangling from the chain was…nay, it was impossible. It looked like glass, but glass could not be shaped in such a manner. The flames of her meager fire flared a moment, illuminating the small object. A rose. The personal emblem of Tolemac’s high councilor.
There in the dirt was another rose. She threaded it on the broken chain and knotted it. Two perfect red roses created of an impossible material.
She folded her hand into a tight fist about the token and forced herself to go for help, when in truth she wished to abandon her savior to the cold night.
Chapter Three
Ardra set off up the mountain to Nilrem. ‘Twas said the old man’s wisdom included healing. The wind whipped her skirt about her legs and stung her cheeks.
Ardra found the wiseman sitting outside his hut, eyes raised to the conjunction. His long gray beard reached his knees.
She thought of the man naked in the cold, bleeding, and took a deep, steadying breath. Sense had replaced fear on her run to the wiseman. Whether the stranger served the high councilor or not, she owed him her life. “Nilrem. Please. You must help me.”
The old man started. “Ardra of the Fortress of Ravens! What are you doing so far from home?”
“Please, my reason for coming must wait. I need your help. A man is hurt…quite badly.”
“Hurt?” The old man staggered to his feet. “How so? Fallen from a horse?”
“Nay.” She shook her head and swallowed. “Beaten. By outcasts. Come.”
The old man lifted a woolly brow but asked no more questions. He retrieved a satchel from his hut and gestured with his walking stick that she precede him.
Overhead, the spill of light from the rising turquoise orbs lit their way to the mountain meadow. She glanced over her shoulder every few moments to make sure the wiseman was still behind her.
She moved cautiously, ever mindful of the possible return of the outcasts. Without being told, the old man did likewise.
The man was not where she’d left him.
Then she saw him, lying by the fire near the candles she had never relit. “Nilrem, he’s moved.”
For a moment, she only stared. The man had pushed off her cloak. She had seen enough of men to know that many women would appreciate this one. His body was strong, his muscles honed by war or hard labor. His face was comely too, but she had known comely men before—and been betrayed by one as well.
The glass roses bit into her palm and reminded her that this man was not some innocent victim. “Look,” she whispered, indicating the man’s painted arm when Nilrem panted up beside her.
Nilrem handed her his staff and knelt. He paid no heed to the mark on the man’s arm, but instead ran practiced fingers over the stranger’s brow and jaw, probed his skull. “You say outcasts did this?”
“Or rebels.”
“Filthy creatures. He is more likely to die of their vermin than of his injuries.” Nilrem searched his satchel. He drew out a twist of linen and a tiny flagon stoppered with wood. “I see the candles here. You were practicing the ancient way?”
Ardra nodded. “I would prefer that you not tell anyone. I never completed the ritual.”
She held the man’s head while Nilrem waved the flagon beneath the man’s nose. With a groan and cough, he opened his eyes and began to flail his arms. Nilrem, in a move surprisingly agile for one of his age, leaped to safety.
Ardra scooted away, but when the man’s energy expended itself and he fell back with a groan, she edged closer to get a better look at his face. His eyes remained open this time. Their color tempted her nearer. She had not seen eyes so dark before, as dark as the hair on his head.
“Who are you?” Nilrem asked. “From whence do you come?” The man said nothing, just stared wildly about.
Ardra knelt by the fire. “He spoke before. Just briefly.” She put a hand on the man’s bare shoulder. His skin was as cold as the rising wind. “Who are you? What do you want here?” she asked.
“He does not seem to hear us. Build up the fire, Ardra, whilst I determine his injuries.” Ardra did as bade while Nilrem began to examine the man in earnest.
“Are you able to sit up?” Nilrem asked, and she could not resist a peek to see if he responded. His bare back was inches from her, a strong expanse of brown skin…skin that knew the sun. The valley of his spine was lined with hard muscle and descended to… Only warriors looked so very…able.
“Thank you,” the man said to Nilrem in a hoarse voice. The sound reverberated low in her belly. A splendid voice. Then she looked at the coiled art upon his arm. A serpent. A mark of evil. Shame that she had stared overlong at the naked man made her shift her attention away.
Her fire, lit for ceremonial reasons and badly done at that, flamed as if she had built it with care and fed it with fatted pine cones. It was strange, and somehow as unsettling as the man’s sudden appearance at the conjunction. She glanced overhead. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon.
“Ardra—” Nilrem held out her cloak, “I have several robes I keep for pilgrims that may be of use to this young man. Fetch one. Your cloak will be little protection, I think, when the winds rise.” The winds had risen already. Trees around them lifted their boughs in nightly exaltation. Nilrem followed her glance. “Aye. It will grow colder every hour. With our help I believe this man may walk, and once settled in my hut, answer your questions.”
Ardra ran up the mountain. The old man’s hut needed a good cleaning. It smelled of spoiled apples and clothing not washed often enough. On a hook she found several long robes of undyed wool. She snatched one up.
In a trice, she was back with the wiseman. “Here,” she whispered. “Clothe him if you must, but we should take him to my men. I would feel better with their protection.”
Nilrem lifted one woolly eyebrow.
“He wears a mark of evil,” she explained.
“Then let us take him down the mountain, Mistress Ardra. I’ll not tend him ‘til you decide I should.”
“Look.” She held out her hand to Nilrem, the two roses sparkling in the firelight. “Why would this man bear the high councilor’s personal emblem?”
“Even more reason to let him lie right here.” But Nilrem made no move to let the man fall back to the ground.
Blood stained the ground where the man had lain—in several places. She saw again in her mind’s eye how he had come to her defense, an unarmed man against three. “Nay. Deny him no care.” With a sigh she handed Nilrem the roses.
Nilrem held out his walking stick, but it was quickly plain that although the man’s eyes might be open, he had no awareness of where he was. She hurried forward and with Nilrem managed to get the stranger to his feet. Strong he might be, and certainly the arm beneath her hand was as hard as the weapon master’s hammer, yet he stared through her unseeingly, moved only when prodded, took no steps on his own. They stumbled along like a three-legged mule.
“How much did I drink?” Neil sat up and rubbed his head, then groaned. His jaw hurt, his nose hurt, in fact, everything hurt. With a glance he took in the hut made of mud and sticks. Sky showed through a gaping hole in the roof. “Where’s the little pig? And how fast can I move to the brick house?”
An old man snickered, then bent over him. “Ah. You recover quickly. It is a good sign.”
