From a pouch unseen, the Myrrh dropped a pair of rings, forged from steel and overlapping by mere inches. At a simple touch, the rings took hold of the ground with retractable spikes. Then, slowly, the two rings stirred to life, moving in alternate patterns to emulate a hypnotist’s spiral.
Lazarus clenched his fists so hard the knuckles were burning white underneath the gloves. It didn’t take a genius to know the discs’ placement was specific. Right over the Font. They were harvesting the Font for some nefarious purpose. But more maddeningly, more frustrating was the fact that those discs – Harvester Rings – weren’t supposed to exist in this era. Which meant a darker plot was afoot. The kind of plot the temporal laws were created to stop. The very thought of it made Lazarus’ blood boil.
The Myrrh’s head came off its shoulders with one swipe, then the second before the first one hit the ground. Below the blue-blood spread in a circle, eating at the grass it touched. “What? What’s going on?”
Lazarus came from the darkness; his khatars stained a dark black-blue. The rest of the lot was so easy the old Khatari almost laughed. Several steps forward led him to the boy, bound like a holiday turkey. “Lad. Lad!” Lazarus shook his apprentice by the shoulders. “Come on, you fool! Wake up!” He added a slap for good measure. “Lad!” Lazarus paused at a slight moan; the boy’s eyelids slowly stirred awake. “Lad, can you hear me?”
“I hear you, I hear you. Stop the shouting.” Mykel stirred up onto his elbows, then fell back as the limbs failed him. “I hate my life,” he muttered.
“There are worse paths than yours, librarian. Trust me.” Slowly he helped Mykel to his feet. “Do you remember anything, lad?”
The librarian groaned. “I remember the Font, then blackness. What happened?”
“You were kidnapped by a pair of rogues.” Seeing as there was no proof – yet – Lazarus forewent the exact details of the kidnappers. The lad went pale at the story; the Myrrh’s heads delivered the cold finality of the truth.
“What about the herb?” The lad beamed like a child when the Khatari raised the herb to the moonlight. “Good. Now let’s go before our luck abandons us.”
“Murder! Murder!” came the voice. The two whirled to see a slim figure ascend the mountain, punctuating every foot gained with a scream. “They’re free! Free! Wake up, you motherless jackals!” Down below the mountain stirred with the waking bandits.
“Come. We have to be away from here.”
Down the two danced on the mountain trails, circling in an eternal spiral. The mountains teemed with bandits. Every turn of a shadow brought their blades into the light. Blade and man met the same fate, the steel cracking, nose and teeth snapping in a spray of blood. Mykel and Lazarus hopped over them as they just began their fall. Sometimes they came in numbers, and more and more the duo had to hide in the shadows, changed their path of flight in the advent of pebbles crunching under leather boots.
“There! There they are!”
“Damn,” muttered Lazarus. He danced to avoid an arrow at his heel only to find himself scant inches from a just-sparked fire. The bandit goggled in surprise. Once did Lazarus strike, and the man sagged boneless to the ground.
More campfires flared to life. The duo raced past bandits who skidded to a stop once they realized their targets had run past them. Two hours they inched from one shadow to the next, careful not to leave even a sigh in their wake. When there was no shadow to hide and no stone to slip soundlessly the pair walked amidst the bandits within their own garb, growling nameless words to each other.
Then Lazarus stopped. Mykel grunted as he bounced off the old man’s back. Lazarus shifted to the side to let the boy see, saw the wide grin split across his face. The horses. They were within muted fog, but they were there, gnawing at the grass. Lazarus almost let out a whoop of joy. Together they dashed to the saddles with such haste that they failed to see the glint of steel till it was too late.
“Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. You’ll be dead before you hit the ground.” A knot of men emerged from the dark, each one outfitted with at least one kind of bow. Damn.
“So you’re the one who rescued the boy.” The archers parted to let a figure come to the forefront. Lazarus heard a pair of gasps loosed upon the air; numbly he realized one of them was his own.
The ikadzu assassin. Save for the coloring of curly hair and the high-set cheekbones depicting an angular face, the old Khatari found himself gawking at the ikadzu assassin’s mirror. Then the wheels of his mind began to turn, clicking various possibilities together. Cause and effect tumbled like dominoes down one final, inevitable conclusion. Lazarus seethed as though he might burst into flame any minute.
Long and hard had he fought to keep that technology from the hands that would abuse its’ power. Sacrifices were made, the kind that scars the soul to make, the kind that pulls tight the spine of a man, stealing the fervor that made him a giant amidst mortals. A quick gaze about him, past the helms and the shadows that dappled the face, told him everything. Save for minute details, each soldier was twin to the man next to him.
And, just because there wasn’t enough insanity, the leader was an areku, master of Gale. Of course it’s a Weirwynd. Why shouldn’t it be?
“Ah. Where are my manners? You have the greatest honor of being kidnapped by Arthur Cedric, Lord of The Winds.” There, edging from the robe’s voluminous robe, were two thin bracelets shining with an unearthly aura, and there, on finger and ear and chest, were more shiisaa. Even if the whelp knew how to use them, he would be a dangerous enemy. Arthur, after long seconds of rejection, growled at the denying of his glory.
“Herbs? You risk all, for some herbs?”
Damn. Somewhere on the arrogant bastard was a shiisaa that allowed psychic abilities; specifically, the power of reading minds. That kind of shiisaa Lazarus never expected to see again; he himself had overseen its destruction. The shiisaa must have changed hands for countless years.
“Heh. You’re very good for an old man. Your mind is very strong.” There was a hunter’s grace in the areku’s eyes, glossed with the arrogant superiority common to all humanity. “In fact, I’ve never encountered a person that can block his thoughts so effectively. I shall enjoy breaking you.”
“Leave him out of this.” Mykel LeKym, stepping forward as to ward a deathblow. The boy is stronger than he looks. “What do you want?”
“Why do you protect him? Even blocked I can see the threads of his intentions. Do you know the secrets he keeps from you? Does he know the secrets you keep from him? If you did, you would be standing at my side against him. I can tell you. I know how it keeps you up at night. Wondering if he will ever trust you. Worrying if this night is the night he silences you for everyone’s sake. All the manipulations you think you know, and the manipulations you don’t know yet. Join me. Join me, and let the truth be revealed.”
The night was deprived of sound. Not a sword creaking from the sheath, not a boot scuffed in the dirt, not even the chatter of insects. Just a silence, thick as a castle wall, between the librarian and the Khatari. Funny, Lazarus thought. After all these years, after all the subterfuge, the deceit, the machinations, he would know his end at this place, at his own hands. Leaving so much work undone, the work that was changing him into a monster. Perhaps it would be better undone. Perhaps the whole damn thing was beyond exhaustion. To hell with everything else.
“I,” declared the librarian. “would rather be his pawn than your lackey.”
“Ah. You have some spirit. Interesting. Listen, boy. I’ll make a deal with you. If you defeat me in a duel, then you and your friend will leave without injury. If I win...both your weapon and your life will be forfeit. How about it, hm?”
Mykel didn’t miss a beat. “How do I know you’ll keep y
our word?”
Smart boy. Secretly Lazarus grinned. He’ll go far if he survives.
The areku staggered back in an actor’s rendition of being impaled by an arrow. “Such disillusion. And at such a young age too. Saddening.” The areku’s façade vanished like dew before the morning sun. In its place was the smug smile of the power-drunk. “You don’t know if I’ll keep my word. That’s what makes it interesting.”
Everything about the boy tightened. Lazarus could almost see the rage coiling in his gut, hungry for release. Demanding release. Yet the librarian mastered the rage when all too often soldiers would let the rage master them. Too many young men dead because of it. Too many young men dead in war, period. Idly Lazarus wondered of the dark isolation needed to develop emotional mastery at such an early age.
Arthur started. A blue-oval gem at his neck glowed an even deeper blue. Cloud-white fingertips shot forth, and a sword, writhing gray with the force of a thunderhead, formed out of nothing. It grew the teeth of a sword-breaker even as it darted to the attack.
Being weapons not forged by hands of men, Ifirit and the Gale-blade did not crash as mortal swords did. The impacts were the mingling of fire and air, searing and screaming, howling and roaring. They traded the advantage; first with Fire resisting the gales that threatened to snuff it out, then the Gale retreating from the raising of temperature, making the air around the sword hot as molten steel. Back and forth. Back and forth. Life and death. Their katas screamed out the anguish for them.
Jagged Lightning. Boiling Rage. Weeping Heavens.
Dawn Scatters the Darkness. Stars Shine in Twilight. Threads of Sand.
Hammer of Rain. Angry Whirlwind. Bleeding Sky.
Salamander Crouches to Flee. Blossom of Wildfire. Scorpion Raises Its’ Tail.
Arthur wore open shock, now. Lazarus felt rather than saw the Gale-spells he placed around the librarian. The boy saw the areku’s thrust, turned to evade it...and started as the wind resisted him. Left, right...Arthur’s blade was heartbeats from the librarian’s chest. A tight grin curled the areku’s lips, and then fell in shock as Mykel dropped to his heels at the last minute. Ifirit easily intercepted the spell-sword, sent it twisting into smoke. The areku barely had time to gasp, and then Ifirit’s golden fingers became cold at the hollow of Arthur’s throat –
– and then the world was burning, choking, searing. Lazarus’ fingers clawed at his neck, only there was a solidness that barred his grasp. A Gale-spell. “Don’t...don’t do it Mykel...”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. We wouldn’t want granddaddy to end up in an early grave now do we...” Quickly as it had come the spell disappeared. Lazarus’ vision cleared to see the areku’s tunic spill free in the night, revealing a hint of crimson on his chest. At the same time, the Weirwynd archers staggered, their temples seized with clawed fingers. The sequence of events rattled the old Khatari so fiercely it took a moment to realize everything that had happened. He cut the shiisaa! The boy sensed the shiisaa responsible for the mirror-puppets!
“How did you do that? How did you sense it?”
The lad shrugged. “I didn’t have to sense it. The bastard doesn’t hide his shiisaa very well.” Around them the mirror-puppets groaned. Without the shiisaa, they were quickly regaining their wits. And, from the slitted eyes and knotting fists, they liked not being human pawns. “Come on. I don’t think we ought to be here.”
They were a few minutes down the mountain when Arthur’s voice pealed against the rock. “No...stop! Stop it! Stop!” The telltale sounds of ripping flesh followed until the areku’s whimpers died...and again the snarls and growls of starving predators bounced off the mountain rock like the bellows of church bells. “Are they...?”
“Yes. They are eating themselves.”
“Why?”
“They had naught any humanity in them. That was why the shiisaa was needed. A spell to capture the animal in them, a leash to twist them into his service.”
“Then he got what was coming to him.” Chuckling, the long, weary journey down the mountain resumed, though Lazarus wasn’t sure if the apprentice that had climbed up the mountain was the same as the apprentice who was climbing down it.
XXXVI
As soon as the horses cleared the town’s interior, the librarian leapt from the saddle yelling. Windows blazed with golden fire, and shadows with angry demand stretched villagers’ faces taut with annoyance. At the nearby inn curses fouled the air from drunken patrons half-asleep from dreams of personal glory. They went on unnoticed. At the door, he rapped like a madman till an exhausted Sasha opened the door, wearing a blue-cotton robe. “What is it, you-” The words died on the alchemist’s tongue. “You. Did you bring it?”
Lazarus fished the herb with care from the pouch he’d stored it in. “Is this adequate?”
Sasha furrowed her brow. “Yes. I think.”
“You think?” Mykel echoed.
“You seem to forget that your girl has been in a coma for most of the night,” said the alchemist with more than a little edge to her voice. “The poison has been working while you were gallivanting around the mountain.” Spinning on her heel Sasha marched back to the house, still speaking. “Just what the hell were you doing – No, don’t tell me. It’s probably moronic anyway.”
Mykel ground his teeth audibly. “Can you heal her or not?”
“I think so.” From a dozen different shelves Sasha plucked out bowls, liquids, grinding spoons. For over an hour she ground herbs together in one bowl, gathering liquids in another. Then she would combine the two; let the liquids seep into the mush before adding more herbs. The plant the two had strived so hard to gain got not a whiff of her attention. Only at the last did she add the herb, and then only its leaves. Stalk and stem she placed within a glass jar for safe-keeping.
“I’m done.”
“That’s just great – Wait. What?”
“You have wax in your ears? I’m. Done.”
In her hands she carried the bowl, more liquid than solid. As one the duo followed her to Shayna’s side. “Tip her head, LeKym. She needs to swallow this.” Mykel did as he was told, and Sasha prepared herself. “Here goes nothing.” And with that she dipped the bowl to her forced lips. For long seconds, the liquid poured down the Companion’s throat, and then it was gone. Nothing happened.
“What’s wrong?” Mykel demanded. “It’s not working!”
“Wait a moment.” Sasha advised. As if on cue the blood rushed through Shayna’s face, and she twitched slightly. Something warm bubbled up in the librarian as he watched Shayna slowly rise on her elbows. “Mykel?” she asked, eyes blinking. “Where are we?”
“In a safe place.” Shayna slumped, which made the librarian jump to catch her. “You’re tired. Rest now. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“Okay.” Exhaustion stole over her as quickly as it had disappeared; within moments she slumbered in the librarian’s arms.
“All right you. You have to let her rest.” Sasha untangled Mykel from Shayna, and carried her to bed.
“I’d like to stay here, if you don’t mind.” Mykel knew he looked sheepish, but his face could not hide a lie from this woman’s glowing eye. From a woman who rose no higher than his chest, too. Sasha relented, and Mykel pulled up a chair next to the bed, and waited.
The hours stretched long in the night. What am I going to do? The impossibility of his quest bore down on his shoulders. He was not a soldier, a fighter, a rebel or any other damn thing other people forced him to be. He didn’t want this stupid odyssey. He just wanted to go home. That was all.
Then he chanced upon Shayna’s face, and all the tension washed away. Something warm rose in him, spread throughout his body in rolling waves of
sensation. I love her.
What about Caryl? Mykel started at the fact that he’d nearly forgotten about her. He loved Caryl. She bore a child that could be his – but you know of her other clients. Abruptly Mykel was shocked at his own thoughts. I love Caryl. I do. Only there was no longer a spark at seeing her curves. So there it is, then. Your love comes from lust. Sharp like an advancing arrow he remembered the dream: Caryl, buried amidst a mound of men, fucking her. You don’t love. Do you even know how to love? Mykel wanted to deny it –
“Mykel?”
– He knew it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t get rid of the thoughts; he couldn’t –
“Mykel.”
The librarian started. “Shayna?”
The Companion groaned with restlessness. “Mykel? Is that you? I’ve been having this most horrible dream –”
“It’s over now. You don’t have to worry.” He frowned as Shayna pulled herself out of bed. “Are you sure you want to walk around? A lot has happened.”
“So I imagine. I prefer my feet.” Daintily Shayna pressed her feet down upon the floor and almost fell as her knees abandoned her. Mykel rushed over to her side, then stepped back at the girl’s stare. Slowly Shayna rose to her feet. One step, then another, and another still. By the time Sasha returned to check her patient Shayna was pacing, half in joy, half in deep thought.
“You recover fast, girl. Good.”
“We do not have time,” Lazarus said curtly. “Girl, get dressed. We leave as soon as you are saddled.”
“You risk her being hurt again!” cried Sasha. “You might force her into an even worse state than before!” Her voice held a quavering note. “Please. Just for one night. I’ll pay for the inn, I promise.”
Both eyes settled to Lazarus. From his stony face Mykel could almost hear the rejection from his lips. Then the stone softened, and the old man nodded. Sasha smiled as though the answer was already decided. She led them within a squat, two-story house, to a squat, hunching little man at the bartender’s counter. The sounds of ripping sail told everyone who listened – and to the many drunken patrons who weren’t – the man was asleep.
Chased By War Page 36
