He heard the jingling of bridles as the Outlookers came over the rise at his back. He dismounted and examined his choices on foot, hoping this more familiar perspective would help him recognize or remember something. The sound of men and horses grew louder as his pursuers drew near, and even in the dark, he knew he had only seconds before they spotted him.
Which way, Josarian? Which way?
Myrell was outside, issuing orders to another search party when he heard angry shouting from inside the command building. More annoyed than alarmed, he ordered two Outlookers to go inside and stop whatever brawl had erupted among his men when there were far more important matters for them to attend to.
It was only after he had issued the order that some vague alarm stirred inside him: nothing even as strong as suspicion, merely an uneasy feeling that something wasn't quite right. He finished instructing the search party, then turned to follow his men into the command building and put his mind at ease about the situation there. Faced with the excitement of pursuing Josarian, everyone had momentarily forgotten about the prisoners, who had been the focus of—
He stopped in his tracks, horrified beyond thought, as twenty shallaheen poured out of the big, elaborately carved door of the command building and raced down the broad stone steps, their shaggy black hair absorbing the light cast by the newly lit lanterns. Myrell barely had time to realize they had escaped before a new and even more appalling fact struck him: They were armed. Swords flashed in some of their hands, striking out at the first two Outlookers the mob encountered at the bottom of the steps.
Swords! Where, by the mercy of the Three, had the prisoners gotten swords? And how had they escaped? Josarian was somewhere out there in the mountains, with over half of Myrell's men chasing him. Who had freed the prisoners?
He drew his sword as the swarm of barbarians split up to attack, shouting in their thick-tongued native language, baring their teeth in savagery as they launched themselves at their astonished captors. An unarmed man flew into him, striking his sword aside with... No, not unarmed! Myrell had seen a weapon like this once before, a couple of sticks joined by a piece of rope. He struck at it with his sword as it swung toward his head, then made a thrust at his opponent. He missed, but then managed to slash the man's face.
The man jumped back and stared at Myrell with fierce dark eyes, circling him and swinging his childish weapon wildly between them in a series of loops. Myrell had removed such toys from a number of detainees over the past couple of years, including some of the prisoners he now faced in combat. It had amused him to learn the shallaheen placed great value upon their pathetic bundled sticks and seriously believed they could defend themselves, and even kill a man, with such a device.
It didn't seem nearly as amusing now, when the thing came flying at his face. If he hadn't ducked, it might have broken his nose! How had the prisoners gotten out of their cells? What had happened to the guards? He realized with a chill of shock that the prisoners must have killed everyone inside the command building. How else could they have gotten their hands on the swords that many of them carried? How else could they have seized the wooden weapons which had been confiscated and left carelessly lying around?
Only a few of Myrell's archers remained up on the ramparts. There was little they could do up there after sunset except act as sentries. Besides, in the confusion that had followed Josarian's escape, Myrell had ordered most of them to fill other posts left vacant by the men he had sent out after the outlaw. The archers who were still up there would be trying to pick off the prisoners, but they'd be reluctant to fire into the fray; the shallaheen and the Valdani were too closely intermingled for a safe shot. Even worse, the peculiar fighting style Myrell observed in his opponent made him a difficult target for an archer, even at this close range, for he kept circling and circling Myrell; if an archer got off an arrow, he'd risk missing the ever-moving target and perhaps even hitting one of his own men. If all the shallaheen were as slippery as this one, the archers wouldn't be of much help where they were. Myrell had to kill this man quickly so he could order the archers down into the combat area to fight.
He lunged hastily and missed. The swinging stick caught him on the side of the head. He was shocked at how much it hurt. When he looked up, another blow caught him right across the nose; he heard it break before he felt the pain. He backed away and stumbled. The shallah pushed him down, and the searing pain crashing down on his skull was the last thing he knew before he passed out.
Josarian was the last man to escape the fortress, fighting awkwardly with the sword he held in one hand and more skillfully with the yahr he held in the other. Somewhere during the fighting, he had taken the yahr from the gutted corpse of a shallah, then set the dead man's clothing on fire with the same torch he'd used to ignite the supply depot next to the shrine. He prayed that the shallah would burn, the fire purifying him for the journey to the Otherworld.
Knowing that he must escape now or die here, too, he fled through the main gate and into the darkness beyond. He kept to the shadows, eluding the Outlookers who were already regrouping from the battle to hunt down the escaping prisoners. Seeing that his wounded cousin was in no shape to fight, Josarian had ordered him to get outside the fortress walls before anyone else. Now he was startled to hear Zimran's voice in the shadows.
"Josarian! Over here!"
He found Zimran in the dark. "Damn you! I told you to get away!"
"I didn't want to go all the way to Dalishar without knowing if you'd escaped," said Zimran.
"And if they catch me now, they catch us both."
"Then I suggest..."
"Let's go!"
Since Zimran's legs still worked well enough, they were able to cross the open ground around the fortress fairly quickly. They heard thundering hoofbeats behind them, but the direction kept changing, and the riders' shouts gave clear evidence of their confusion. On a twin-moon night, he and Zimran would have been easily spotted as they headed for the lemon groves east of the fortress, but no one saw them tonight. Once they reached the trees, full of shadows and hiding places, they were safe.
They didn't pause to rest, however. They needed to be well away from here by morning. They moved silently through the night, always alert for any sounds of pursuit. After they believed themselves to be well out of reach of danger, exhaustion kept them quiet, and only their will kept them going.
They had gone east upon leaving the fortress and must now circle to the south to reach the Dalishar Caves. Josarian wondered if Zimran, with his injuries, could keep up the pace. Before long, his question was answered. Zimran started losing strength, moving slowly and stumbling often as they ascended through a heavily-wooded forest in the dark.
"We'll rest here," Josarian said upon finding a fallen tree trunk to lean against.
"No. I can..."
"No, you can't."
Josarian saw the vague shadow that was his cousin suddenly sink to the ground. Unable to see his expression, he reached out to touch his skin, checking for fever. Zimran's forehead was burning hot and drenched in sweat.
Zim slapped his hand away. "I'll be fine in a moment."
Josarian said nothing. He followed when his cousin, breathing harshly, rose and continued their trek through the syrupy darkness of the forest. As he expected, it wasn't long before he heard Zimran stumble and crash to the ground, crying out sharply and then falling silent. Moving with mountain-born instincts, Josarian found his cousin's still form in the dark. Zimran had fallen on his injured arm, and the pain had apparently combined with the exhaustion and the fever to push him over the edge into unconsciousness. While this certainly didn't make matters any easier, it at least relieved Josarian of the burden of hearing him suffer so.
Cursing the Valdani who had done this to Zimran, Josarian hauled his cousin's dead weight off the rough ground and slung him over his shoulders. His legs quivered briefly in protest as he continued his steep uphill climb, then they obeyed his will with weary resignation. Doubting that he c
ould carry Zimran all the way to Dalishar, at least not without more rest than he had time for, Josarian started trying to figure out where he could safely deposit him between here and there. The nearest Sisters were in the other direction, and with Zimran on his back, he couldn't go there and still reach—He stopped abruptly when he heard a noise up ahead. There shouldn't be anyone up here, especially not at this time of night. Every nerve in his body tensed as he strained to hear another telltale sound. He'd been crashing through the forest noisily, convinced he was well beyond the reach of the Outlookers. He hadn't considered the other dangers he might face tonight: bandits, mountain cats, a lone assassin or waterlord on some secret business...
He listened intently, silently cursing the darkness, praying that Zimran wouldn't groan or gasp. After a moment, his patience was rewarded: he heard tentative footsteps, moving stealthily. Whoever was here knew that he was here, too, and was coming for him. He was just about to deposit Zimran's body on the ground so he'd be ready for combat when a torch appeared out of nowhere, flaring in his face, startling and momentarily blinding him.
"A shallah?" It was the voice of a man, surprised and suspicious.
Keeping his sword between himself and the stranger, Josarian stepped back and twisted away. He heard the stranger gasp in surprise as the light fell on Zimran's unconscious face.
"Who's that? What's wrong with him?"
"My cousin. He's been injured."
"He's been beaten." There was a pause. "Outlookers?"
"Yes."
"Of course." The voice sounded more assured now. "If it had been an assassin or another shallah he'd be at home with his wife or mother, or perhaps in a Sanctuary. But not being hauled up the side of a mountain in the middle of the night."
"A good guess," Josarian said cautiously, squinting against the glowing light, unable to distinguish the dark form beyond it.
"And you, I see, have killed an Outlooker." The voice sounded educated, but not foreign. "Unless you're going to claim some Outlooker simply handed you his sword?"
"Who are you?" Josarian stepped to one side, trying to see past the flames.
"Not a Valdan." The voice was dry now. "Don't worry."
"Your torch is in my eyes," Josarian said tersely.
"You still haven't told me who you are, shallah."
Even as the words were spoken, Josarian's vision finally adjusted enough for him to see that the light came directly from the man's palm, flames soaring up from human flesh.
"A Guardian?" Josarian asked, relieved.
"Yes. And if you've brought Outlookers upon us for some petty crime..."
"They haven't followed me here," he said with certainty. "And my crimes... aren't petty."
"What have you done?" the faceless Guardian demanded.
"I've just freed twenty prisoners from the Valdani fortress at Britar."
He heard the Guardian's sharp intake of breath. "You're him, aren't you?"
"Word spreads fast," he observed cautiously.
"Josarian."
"Yes," he admitted, taking the risk. "Can you help me?"
The flame wavered for a moment, then the hand holding it swept to one side. Josarian looked into the stranger's face. The firelight flickered and shimmered on Silerian features: about his age, but aristocratic-looking. The man's dark hair was braided in the intricate style of a toren.
The two men gazed curiously at each other. It took Josarian a moment to realize that the flame-colored glow of the stranger's eyes was no illusion of torchlight, but the glowing fire-gold gaze of a demon.
Chapter Nine
Remembering Mirabar, the half-mad but harmless girl from the Guardian encampment on Mount Niran, Josarian held his ground, smothering the superstitions of his kind.
"Who are you?" he asked evenly, his gaze dropping to the silver broach—the Guardian insignia of a single flame within a circle of fire—that the demon wore on his cloak. Silver. Like everything else about the man, it suggested he had come from a wealthy family. He was no shallah, that much was clear.
"I am Cheylan. My circle of companions is not far from here."
"Why are you alone out here?"
"Messages from the Otherworld," Cheylan said vaguely, "telling us we must be ready."
"For what?"
"We don't know, but we've been posting sentries in the woods. We thought it might be an attack by the Society..." The demon flashed a smile. "But here you are."
"Then you'll help me?"
Cheylan nodded. "Of course."
"I need someone to care for my cousin until I can return for him."
"Come with me."
"I must warn you..."
"Yes?"
"Outlookers will be searching for him," said Josarian.
"Naturally."
"They'll want him back. They'll want him very badly."
Cheylan glanced at Zimran's unconscious form. "I promise you they won't find him."
There was a fierceness in the vow that made Josarian believe him. He nodded, convinced. "Then take me to your circle, Cheylan."
Water, water, a house of water.
Weary and bewildered after another sleepless night, Mirabar wandered away from her circle of companions early in the morning to stare into the depths of the spring they had camped near a few days ago. Indeed, since coming to this site, she had done little but stare into the depths of the cool spring, transfixed by it, pulled here by the Beckoner—and desperately frustrated by the calm, unspeaking surface of the water.
Fire in water.
Fire and water.
Could the Guardians and the Society really unite? After a thousand years of enmity, was it possible?
She flinched when she heard voices approaching, then relaxed when she realized it was only Derlen and his son. She had never felt much warmth for Derlen, a fussy, perpetually worried man. She liked him even less now that he had convinced the others to exclude her from the Callings, making no secret of his fear that her visions came from an evil source. But despite disliking him, she had to admit that he was an attentive and patient father to his inquisitive son—a duty which seemed to be aging him fast.
"But why did Marjan betray Daurion?" young Turan now asked as father and son approached the other side of the spring. Mirabar sat in thick, high grass with her knees close to her chest, her head bowed, and her gaze fixed on the water, hoping they wouldn't see or bother her. "Weren't they both Guardians? Weren't they bloodbrothers?"
"Yes, that's right," Derlen said, coming to the water's edge and sitting down. He had brought a fishing pole with him, some elaborately carved thing acquired from the sea-born folk. As he spoke, he baited the hook and tossed it into the water. "Marjan and Daurion were brothers in blood and brothers in the circle of fire. They were raised together, initiated together, became men and warriors together."
"Then why did Marjan betray him?"
Today's lesson was an important one, Mirabar realized as she sat quietly in the tall grass and listened.
"The Yahrdan died, and when the Council of the Guardians met in Shaljir, they chose Daurion as the new Yahrdan."
"To hold Sileria with a fist of iron in a velvet glove."
"Yes," Derlen said, clearly pleased. "And Daurion was a great Yahrdan, a man of wisdom, courage, and conviction."
"What about Marjan?"
"He served as Daurion's right hand, as the Yahrdan's most trusted servant and advisor. They were as close as they had been all their lives. But..." Derlen frowned and continued, "Secretly, Marjan was discontent with his position. After all, he had served Sileria all his life, just as Daurion had. He had always fought as bravely as his bloodbrother. The Otherworld welcomed his Call as warmly as it welcomed Daurion's."
"So why had Daurion been chosen by the Council instead of him?"
"That's exactly what Marjan wondered." Derlen checked the fishing line, then shook his head. "When the Guardians chose a Yahrdan, they didn't chose him just by the length of his service, the strength of his arms,
or the brightness of his fire. The Yahrdan was the most important, powerful man in Sileria, the ruler of all the people of this great island. He must not only be the strongest and most able of men, but also the wisest, able to rule with ruthlessness tempered by great compassion, able to judge all matters impartially regardless of his own personal needs and desires, willing to put the welfare of even the lowliest shallah before his own comfort and safety."
"Even a shallah?" Turan repeated doubtfully.
Mirabar rolled her eyes. Now that's the spawn of a merchant family talking, she thought derisively.
"Yes, Turan," Derlen said. "The Guardians knew that in order to lead the disparate peoples of Sileria, a Yahrdan must love each one of them more than he loved himself; and Marjan loved no one more than himself."
"But Daurion..."
"But Daurion was such a man. Daurion was everything a Yahrdan should be."
"But he failed," Turan protested. "A Yahrdan should be a great warrior and powerful—"
"He was," Derlen said. "He repelled the Moorlander invasions again and again, slaughtering those barbarians as they fled for the open sea, holding this island as he had sworn to do, slaying our enemies without mercy or fear."
"Until Marjan betrayed him."
Derlen sighed. "Yes, until then. For Daurion loved Marjan dearly, and so he didn't see the evil right in front of him. Marjan knew that he could never defeat Daurion in single combat or with fire, but there was another element even stronger than fire, one over which Daurion had no control."
"Water."
Mirabar could hear the eagerness in Turan's voice. They were getting to the bloody part of the story now. Little boys were all such savages.
Derlen told his son how Marjan stumbled across the ancient mysteries of water magic, an art previously lost in the mists of time and only vaguely recalled in the ancient cave paintings and cliff carvings of the Beyah-Olvari, the strange race which had peopled Sileria before passing into legend eons ago. Somehow Marjan discovered the secrets of those long-dead half-human water wizards, and he used every spare second of his time to study and secretly practice this powerful magic, forsaking fire magic entirely in favor of the new force he had discovered.
In Legend Born Page 15
