The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  If the latter, then my dreams contained a remarkable semblance of reality, for the trout sizzled in the pan she set on the fire and I could smell their flesh crisping, feel saliva in my mouth as I realized I was very hungry. She sprinkled them with herbs and dropped leaves into the boiling kettle, then looked at me and smiled.

  “Forgive me, I had forgotten.” She gestured toward the tree. “You’ll want your clothes.”

  I followed the direction of her eyes and saw my gear set out, neatly folded. Undergarments and shirt, tunic and breeches, my boots, even my sword and shield—all was there, and I pulled them on, too grateful to wonder what magic delivered them.

  Shara said, “I am sorry I could not bring you a horse, but that’s too large a burden to carry.”

  “Carry?” I laced my breeks. “You carried these from Eryk’s camp?”

  “Not as you mean it.” She shrugged, laughing. “I brought them by other means.”

  I frowned and her smile faded. “Of course, you are Devyn, no? And you Devyn mistrust magic.”

  I was no longer so sure I did, but still I asked her, “Who are you? What are you?” I felt mightily confused. “Am I alive or dead?”

  “Alive,” she said. “Can you not feel that, not know it?”

  I reexamined my body. I set my hands against the tree and felt its bark. I saw the marks I’d left there, red against the grey. There were still insects making the last of their feasting. I ducked my head. “I feel alive, but I do not understand.”

  “Eat.” She passed me a platter. “Eat and listen, for we must soon be on our way if we’re to rescue Ellyn.”

  Her voice was mellow, but I heard beneath its softness an urgency that matched my own. I nodded and took the plate and set to picking at the fish as she spoke, explaining what she’d done, with me interrupting as I failed to grasp the wonder of her magic. This was such stuff as baffled and befuddled me, and gave me hope and left me wondering, all at the same time.

  “Two days you hung on the tree before I understood what I must do,” she told me. “I took another five to bring you back to life.”

  “So I was dead for seven days?”

  “I think only five; you clung hard to life, Gailard.” She smiled. “You’re strong, and your sense of honor supported you. I’d suppose that’s why you clung so hard to life—because of that geas.”

  I shrugged, still anticipating that such a movement must bring me pain, and felt none. It was an odd feeling to have died and been resurrected, as if I could no longer be sure who I was, or who owned my life. I had owed debts before. Men had saved me in battle, but that was a thing of clashing swords and support of comrades—a thing warriors understood—whilst this was … I could not tell.

  “You accepted Andur’s geas,” she said, then paused to delicately extract a bone from her mouth, “and Ryadne’s wishes. You did your best for Ellyn.”

  I choked on what I ate. “Poor best with her taken by Eryk.”

  “We’ll catch them up,” she said. “My word on that. But …”

  “But?” I asked.

  She sipped tea and looked me in the eyes. “There are things you must accept, or reject. Perhaps things you’ll not much like.”

  “Such as?”

  She set her cup aside. “Likely the first is that I am a Vachyn sorcerer.”

  I reached for my blade and Shara smiled sadly.

  “Ah, is that not ever the reaction? Because of what my people have done—would do.”

  I held the sword above my head. I had not known I rose, only that I stood above her, poised to deliver a cut that should strike her head from her shoulders and cleave her to the waist.

  She only went on smiling. “Shall you kill me, then?”

  I hesitated, afraid of some trick. “You gave me back my life, so I’m in your debt. But you’re a Vachyn?”

  “I am. Or was.” She nodded, seemingly unperturbed by my threatening stance. I wondered if I could kill her. “Do you sheathe that sword and hear me out?”

  I could not possibly owe her less, so I nodded and settled to the ground. But I held my blade naked across my legs.

  “I was born Vachyn,” she said sadly, as if telling an old, regretted story, “and I owned—own—much power. What do you know of the Vachyn, Gailard?”

  “Not much.” I did not shake my head, for that would have taken my eyes from her face and I’d be ready to strike her if I must. “They—you?—inhabit the mountains north and west of Danant. They’ve a temple there—more, it’s said, that none know of—from which they send their sorcerers out on hire. Talan hired one—Nestor—and he delivered Andur to that bastard. Delivered Talan his victory, and likely Chorym.”

  “Chorym’s fallen,” she said, “and Ryadne’s dead. And Nestor’s set hunters on Ellyn’s trail, which is also yours.”

  My hands tensed on my sword’s hilt. She said, “I was born into the Vachyn, but I left them when I saw what they’d do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Own the world,” she answered. “The Vachyn possess powerful magicks, and they’d use that talent to dominate. They’re a small clan, Gailard, but possessed of such magical abilities as make what the Dur know seem nothing. And they’re ambitious. The gods know, there cannot be more than a few hundred Vachyn—and the strongest remain in the temple, lending their wills and their powers to those who go out into the world, like Nestor. And …”

  “You?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No! I left them, and like you was banished. I saw what they’d do and did not like it, so I quit them and went away. I wanted only to be alone; away from the temptations of magic—away from what my folk want.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Vachyn,” she said, “would seat councillors with every kingdom and satrapy and empire this world knows. They hire out their talent because the rulers of this world understand only power, and their power is augmented by Vachyn magic. Vachyn sorcerers make men like Talan great; they conquer where honest strength of arms cannot. Would Talan have defeated Andur had it been a test of honest strength?”

  I shook my head. “I think we’d have beaten Danant, had Nestor not sent his magicks against us.”

  “And there are Vachyn sorcerers advising the rulers of Serian and Naban; those lands to the north and south and east and west—to lands you’ve not heard of. They work their magicks and whisper soft promises of conquest into the ears of willing kings and queens. And deliver those promises with magic, so that the rulers believe they cannot survive without their Vachyn sorcerers. Who all the while are bleeding away their will, so that the kings and queens and emperors and satraps cannot make a decision of their own, but turn to their Vachyn advisers to ask what they should do.

  “And does it go on like this, all the world will be ruled by the Vachyn.”

  “Why did you quit them?” I asked. “When you might have ruled with them?”

  “Why did you refuse to marry Rytha,” she gave me back, “when you might have been chieftain of the Devyn and the Agador like your brother?”

  I shrugged and shook my head, confusion layered on confusion. I thought of Ellyn taken hostage to Mattich’s Dur, to be traded off hostage, or in bits and pieces as my brother had threatened.

  “I could do naught else.”

  “Nor I,” she said. “And so—like you—I am banished. So let’s go find them and upset this plan.”

  “What plan?” I asked. “How shall Eryk’s war with the Dur upset your Vachyn’s plans?”

  “Because he’ll deliver Chaldor’s last hope to Nestor,” she said. “He’ll use her to conquer the Dur, and then raise all the Highland clans in support of Talan of Danant—which shall deliver all the Bright Kingdom to Talan’s rule. Save Talan shall not know that it’s really Nestor who governs, only that he thinks he owns both shores of the Durrakym and can dictate all passing trade.” She shrugged and smiled a wan smile. “But he’ll not know that when Nestor whispers in his ear of further conquests, other Vachyn are whispering in Naba
n and Serian and those other kingdoms, all talking of conquest.”

  “But that,” I said, frowning, “should bring all the world to war—bring it all down into chaos.”

  Shara nodded. “Which is what the Vachyn would have happen. Who emerges from the ruins, Gailard?”

  I stared at her, not knowing the answer, still not entirely sure I trusted her. Perhaps she’d returned me to life for reasons of her own—some subtle Vachyn reason.

  “The strong,” she said when I did not answer. “The Vachyn! They’ll survive; they’ll not be part of the fighting, but sit safe and watch men die, until the survivors turn to them in search of peace and salvation—and the Vachyn shall rule all the world, bit by bit.”

  I thought on what Eryk had told me of his grandiose plans and saw the pattern in what Shara told me. But still …

  “Why did they let you go?” I asked. “Are their plans what you describe, and their power such, why did they not hold you, or slay you?”

  “It’s hard to slay a Vachyn,” she answered, “but there were more subtle reasons, also. Perhaps it was as it was with you and your father. Why did he not have you slain?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose he still felt some kinship, and believed I’d be gone from the Highlands. It must be hard to slay your own blood kin.”

  “The same for me.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  And she said, “Because my father was leader of the Vachyn, and I suppose that when I renounced his aims and said I’d live solitary he supposed I’d be no threat.”

  “But you are now, do you take the part you promise.”

  “Yes.” She ducked her head. “But I’ve lived alone far longer than you can imagine, offering no harm to their plans—only watching. So perhaps they think me no threat. Or perhaps they even think me dead.”

  “And only now you take a part? Why?”

  “Because I cannot deny my magic. It’s …” She gestured around, at the grass we sat on, at the tree with my blood staining its bark, at the stream. “Can the water stop flowing, or the tree stop growing? No. They must do that, to survive. It’s in their making …”

  “Men might dam that stream,” I said. “I could find an ax and chop down that tree; I could dig up the grass.”

  “But it would come back. Sooner or later, the water would find a way past your dam; the tree would grow again; the grass would sprout after a while.” She shook tea leaves into the fire and smiled at me. “Could you lay up your sword? Shall I offer you the chance? Listen, I’ll take you away to a land where the Vachyn have no power as yet, and set you down there. There’ll be no wars, nor any warriors—only farmers who till the land in peace. You could be a farmer, Gailard; you could grow corn and raise mild-mannered sheep and fat pigs. Shall I do that?”

  I shook my head, knowing the truth.

  “And it’s the same for me.” She gathered up our emptied plates and scrubbed them clean like any normal woman. Unthinking, I cleaned our cups and the kettle, stamped out the fire—at which she chuckled and said, “You see? We’re not so different? I own magic I can use—for good or ill; you’ve a sword, and the skill to wield it—for good or ill. We make our choices.”

  I said: “I pledged my blade to Andur. Now it’s pledged to Ellyn.”

  Shara said, “So help her, and let me.”

  “Save you seem to know me, while I know you not at all.”

  “We’ll learn along the way.”

  I said, still wary: “Even so, how can I trust you? A Vachyn you say—but opposed to Vachyn magicks. And come to resurrect me and save Ellyn that she gain her rightful kingdom?”

  “That was not my promise—only that I’d endeavor to do that. I make you no sure promises. I saved you because I felt …” She hesitated, her eyes on mine like … Suddenly I remembered Andur’s when he laid that geas on me; and Ryadne’s as she asked me for my promise. And Ellyn’s when Eryk’s men had come to take me away. “I felt that you and I stand at a crossroads. I think that’s how I knew you: that fate—the gods; whatever—come together here, and you are a part of it. And me, and—surely—Ellyn. I cannot explain it better, Gailard—only that Ellyn must survive, else the Vachyn shall conquer all the world.”

  “Ryadne said as much,” I murmured, “save not so clear: that Ellyn is Chaldor’s only hope.”

  “And you,” she said, looking into my eyes.

  “Me?”

  She nodded. “I think you’ve a destiny for the choosing, Gailard, do you accept it. How say you?”

  She seemed to be clad in armor that shone in the rising sun. It seemed to blaze golden, as if afire, and a shield was strapped about her shoulders and a sword hung at her waist. Then she was robed in white again, and I stared at her, not properly understanding or entirely trusting her. Even then I wondered at her Vachyn ancestry.

  I looked into those marvelous eyes and lowered my head. “You can take us to Eryk’s camp?”

  She nodded.

  “And rescue Ellyn?”

  “I believe so. I hope so. I shall do all I can, but much shall depend on you.”

  “And then?”

  “We go to my stronghold and teach Ellyn what she must be. When the time comes, we’ll bring her back to Chaldor and, all well, defeat Talan and Nestor.”

  “All well? Only that?”

  “I can offer no better,” she said. “I believe we can rescue Ellyn, but she needs time to come into her own power—to learn its use. And remember that Nestor’s set hunters on your trail.”

  “These hunters?” I asked, for her expression suggested we did not speak of mortal men. “What are they?”

  “Abominations of Vachyn magic,” she replied. “Men and dogs melded by Nestor’s magic. They’re strong and tireless, and will not give up their hunt until they or Nestor are slain.”

  Instinctively, I looked about at the pristine landscape. There was no sign of threat, only grass and bright-blooming heather, birds singing and a blue sky painted with white clouds in which, if I squinted my eyes, I might see fantastical beasts such as those she spoke of.

  “Are they very dangerous?”

  “Yes.” She nodded solemnly. “They are hard to kill, and remorseless in their pursuit.”

  “Then how can we escape them?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps we cannot; perhaps we’ll need to fight them. But my stronghold is very hard to find. I think we shall be safe there, until we go out again.”

  I noticed that hesitation again and asked her, “This stronghold of yours, is it so impregnable?”

  “It’s an old place,” she said. “A city from before our time, forgotten now—even by the Vachyn—and thus lost in old legends. I found it by accident, as I wandered seeking solitude. I do not think it allows many entry.”

  “And does it refuse me entry?” I asked. “And Ellyn?”

  “I doubt it shall,” she answered. “Surely I hope not; but if it does … then we shall find some other place.”

  “Safe from these hunters? Safe from Nestor’s magic?”

  She shrugged. “I can only do my best, Gailard. Like you.”

  I nodded. “But you’re confident we can take Ellyn from Eryk’s clutches?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me one last thing: how do you know so much of Nestor?”

  She looked me squarely in the eyes and answered, “Because he’s my brother.”

  I started, my sword again poised.

  She laughed sadly and said, “Are you such friends with Eryk? Must siblings always follow the same path?”

  “No.” I shook my head, reluctantly lowering my blade. “But Nestor’s your brother?”

  “As Eryk’s yours—and as you’d slay Eryk, so I’d slay Nestor.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  I gave myself up—to seduction, or promise? I was not sure. Only that this was my final hope, and I could see no other choice. I gave my hand to Shara as we both rose, and she smiled.

  She gathered up the cooking gear as I stamped out the l
ast sparks of the fire. I wondered how we might catch up with Eryk—seven days gone now—without horses, and watched as Shara stowed plates and kettle in an entirely prosaic leather satchel that she set on her shoulder. I checked my belt, settling my sword firm in the scabbard, and belted my shield to my back. Then Shara faced me. She was suddenly dressed in that golden armor I’d glimpsed before, and a blade hung on her waist. She reached for my hands, and when I gave them to her, she said, “Trust me, eh?”

  And the world shifted around me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ellyn felt afraid. Indeed, she could barely remember a time when she had not. Since leaving Chorym it seemed her life had become filled up with fear. She could see no way to escape. She was surrounded by the thousands of Eryk’s two clans as they rode northward, and even then guarded. Her ankles remained lashed to her stirrups as they moved, and when she was allowed to dismount she was hobbled and constantly watched. The humiliation of bathing and performing her natural functions under the leering gaze of Rurrid and the others was a refinement of her torment. Nor did the nights bring surcease, for then she was fed and ushered unceremoniously to her lonely tent, aware that Rurrid lurked outside. She thought perhaps he only stayed his hand for fear of damaging Eryk’s prize. But when the Dur were conquered—she could not imagine her grandfather’s clan defeating so great a horde as Eryk led—she thought her value must be diminished and Rurrid have his way. Talan, he assured her, would have no qualms about taking a sullied bride—even did she live so long.

  She shuddered at the thought. She had feared Gailard might press himself upon her, but he had acted always the gentleman. Perhaps sometimes roughly, careless of her status and dignity, but now she could not envisage her guardian performing such acts as Rurrid described. It was as if, day by day, all vestiges of the civilization she had known were stripped away to expose the awful reality of her fate.

  She could hear the great encampment noisy about her tent. Torchlight made the leather walls glow, and she smelled the myriad fires that fed the massed ranks. She could hear dogs barking and horses nickering, men shouting and women calling to one another. And she was alone.