Shine: The Knowing Ones

by Amy Freeman

  “Keep going!” Sam commanded, trembling with pain—her own eyes wet with tears. A cry escaped the woman’s throat as she stabbed the spear firmly under the binding, blood oozing between the gold and the poker, and with one final push the rods parted. Sam pulled her wrist free—shaking, gasping. Her wrist fell to her lap, a significant wound bathing her gown in deep crimson.

  “Извини, не хотела тебя поранить...” The woman apologized over and over, through heavy sobs.

  From within the stairwell a decrepit cackle seeped through the space under the door. Sam’s eyes honed in, terror seizing her chest as the sinister chuckle morphed into a pitiful sobbing. The woman’s eyes wide with fear shifted to the entrance. Inhuman screams splintered the wooden frame—like that of a damned soul clawing its way to the earth’s surface. A stream of hysterical Russian fell from the woman’s lips as Sam focused on her wound—and Trin’s voice...

  It’s communication, Sam. Will it. A lustrous glow filled her eyes. The ragged torn flesh covered in arterial blood fused, the crimson vanishing...and the wound disappeared.

  The young woman stared, unable to move or speak. Sam, too gaped in awe. The door knob twitched, jiggled and rolled in smooth motion to the left. Sam grabbed the iron poker from the woman’s hands, wedged the tip between the golden tubing at her other wrist, and pushed up against the bedpost. Working to free herself at an impossible angle, she begged the woman, “Help me!”

  The woman blinked, jerking her head up. She grabbed the iron poker, thrust it upward and Sam’s hand fell free—a fresh wound desecrating her wrist. The feral sounds continued at the door. With intense focus, Sam healed the cut and scanned the small room, wondering how they would ever escape. A hand grabbed her arm, yanking her across the room. She turned to find the young woman dragging her to the corner.

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  T rin and Anvil reached the lift, flew into the car, and sent it up. As it ascended the disturbance increased. The car reached the top and Trin threw the door open, racing for the exit. The screams, the pain, the unspeakable horror could be heard long before reaching the mine entrance. Intense heat bathed it in crimson energy. The two warriors exchanged a horrified glance and raced to the door. Trin took position, and with a thunderous roar kicked it. Thick smoke rushed inward, billowing up through hot flames lapping at the edges of the door frame. Trin threw up his forearms, blocking the smoke from his face and pushed through it with Anvil at his back—the ear-splitting screams now right below them. They passed the threshold, clearing through concentrated smoke and stopped, gaping in horror at the scene below.

  Charred earth replaced snow and ice—the mountainside ablaze with flames as high as the towering forest. Explosive heat pushed in from everywhere suffocating the environment—burning trees, burning foliage...and burning men.

  Soldiers stumbled about in every direction. Some screaming in guttural agony as fire consumed them, some beyond screams—staggering in macabre silence, falling to the earth to burn like kindling.

  Trin and Anvil lurched into the chaos. Trin grabbed the first soldier in his path, pulling him up. He reeled as charred flesh slipped from the man’s arm into his hand.

  With determined resolve Trin laid him against the blackened ground firmly placing both hands to his chest. His irises erupted with light, gold energy pushing out from beneath his palms. The man’s body flooded in electric white—cells rejuvenating and reestablishing blood flow. Within moments the soldier, charred and burned beyond recognition, was healed; no injuries, not a hair out of place, not one ounce of evidence he had been anywhere near flames.

  The stunned soldier sat forward with Trin’s help—unable to speak, trembling in shock. He gaped wild eyed into the mayhem, and couldn’t respond when a regal blonde young man built like Hercules screamed Russian orders into his face. “Get to the top of the hill behind me! Now! Go!”

  The soldier was too stunned to obey. A shove from the large young man finally sent him in motion. He scrambled to his feet stumbling up the hill amidst carnage and death. Another stunned soldier scrambled up the hill away from the flames, healed by Anvil—in shock, but in perfect physical condition.

  One by one, from underneath the smoke, ash, and screams a bewildered, fully healed Russian soldier would appear, running for the same hill.

  After the last dying soldier was healed, muted thunder rumbled above the clouds of black smoke that now covered the night sky. Within seconds a torrent of rain descended from the heavens, saturating the scorched and burning forests below where two magnificent young men stood unharmed amidst the earthen carnage.

  The glorious blonde gazed upward, commanding the skies, crystal eyes gleaming like blue fire. The powerful monsoon continued until every flame was out. Not a single swirl of smoke could be seen.

  Trin released the skies as Anvil stood silent and drenched at his side. Turning to face the hill of astonished soldiers Trin smoldered in rage—droplets of water streaming down his masculine face. He formed a message. This was a distraction.

  Yes, Anvil replied.

  Trin pushed a firm hand through wet bands of sun-streaked hair, clearing his face and eyes...And we are utterly exposed.

  Anvil held Trin in a somber gaze. An entire Russian platoon had just witnessed several miracles—miracles Trin and Anvil couldn’t run from. Miracles Ashbel had known they would have no choice but to perform. An audience of soldiers stood shell-shocked at the top of the hill. Awe, confusion, and fear singed the environment around them.

  After several moments, a soldier in front came forward, a forced movement—hesitancy in his eyes. “Are you flesh?”

  Neither Trin nor Anvil spoke. Of all the diversions Ashbel could have created this was by far his most damaging.

  “We are,” Trin finally replied. A young soldier stepped forward. “I told you,” he said. “I told you the legend was real.”

  The soldier began pushing his way to the front looking directly at Trin and Anvil. “The Veduny exist...and you are they.”

  Anvil watched him through dripping wisps of black hair, emerald gaze shining. “How do you know of the Veduny?”

  Excitement ignited the man’s eyes. “My great-grandmother,” the man said. “She told me and my brother stories of a people high in the mountains...miracle workers, she called them...transported here through giant stone guardians.” He gazed at his healed hands and body. He looked to the others who had been saved. “This is a miracle,” he said. He looked to the sky, trembling. “The fire,” he said. “It came out of nowhere. We were camped here...and suddenly everything went up in flames. We didn’t see what caused it.”

  Anvil stared at the man; his jaw tight, desperately trying to read what had sparked their search. Trin, too, worked to uncover the reason for the soldiers’ presence. Locating the platoon leader, he asked “Why are you here with your men?”

  The man hesitated to answer. Trin pulled the information from his aura, stunned by what he found.

  “We are here on watch,” the leader said, fighting to remain calm. “There have been reports of unexplained activity in this area.”

  Trin watched him. Beneath his composed façade, the soldier was terrified.

  Anvil stepped in. “We will lead you back to where you’ll be safe, where you’ll have access to help.” The men looked to one another as Anvil turned. “Follow me,” he said.

  The platoon fell in step behind him, crossing the charred stretch of land into the snow-filled forest.

  Trin caught up to the platoon leader, lowering his voice. “You must forget what you’ve seen here,” he said. “As impossible as that seems, you can’t fathom the danger you face if you don’t.”

  The soldier breathed in. “We were sent to confirm reports of a man in the villages with mystical powers,” he said. “There are speculations of wizards, warlocks, witches...that sort of thing. No one paid any attention until seismic activity was detected up here, where there shouldn’t have been any.” He looked at Trin. “Ou
r people mine up here,” he said. “There are excavations all over this range. I’m sure you are privy to that.”

  Trin said nothing.

  The soldier continued. “A great amount of resources for our country come from these mountains. Our villages and cities employ hundreds of men, men with families. When this unnatural movement occurred in conjunction with reports of the supernatural, people began to panic. We were sent to investigate.”

  Trin held his gaze. “So, you’re hunting Veduny.”

  The soldier stared at him, not knowing how to respond.

  Trin stared back a moment, and then looked away. “The movement,” Trin asked, “when did this occur?”

  “About six months ago,” the soldier replied.

  Exactly the response Trin had expected—Anavi’s cry to Anvil for help.

  He turned back to the platoon leader. “You and your men need to stay as far away from this as you can. You are powerless to stop it. When you return to your base you tell them you found nothing. We will handle what happened here today.”

  “What did happen here today?” the soldier begged.

  Trin kept moving. “Keep your men quiet. Pray you never know the answer to that question.”

  With Anvil’s guidance the platoon reached the isolated road. Without the warrior’s help they never would have made it out alive.

  Anvil turned to the platoon leader. “Where is your nearest base?”

  “At the bottom of this crest.”

  Anvil nodded. Both warriors trained their focus on a base they could not see, then turned to the men. “Help will be here for you shortly,” Anvil said. “Forget you saw us. All of our lives depend on it.”

  Trin and Anvil turned to leave before being seen.

  “Sir,” the platoon leader called, grabbing hold of Trin’s arm. “What do I tell them? All of our gear and supplies...”

  Trin stared. A valid predicament—everything had been destroyed. He glanced to the snow-filled peaks behind them toward the area from which they had come. His irises lit. A deafening rumble sounded off of the high ridges above the burned camp site.

  The men turned in alarm, glancing about and covering their ears. Soon the thunderous noise ceased—fluorescent light leaving Trin’s eyes. He glanced over his shoulder to the platoon leader. “Avalanche.”

  The soldier stared, unable to speak, his shock broken only by the sound of approaching vehicles. He quickly nodded and took Trin’s hand. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, glancing back at his men who shared the same awed expression of gratitude.

  Trin nodded once. “Take care of yourselves.”

  The platoon leader shook Anvil’s hand, and both Keepers disappeared into the snowy pass right as the military vehicles rounded the bend.

  CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

  T he young woman pulled Sam to the corner of the room. Nothing but a solid stone wall stood before them. The woman stopped in the corner, pressing her hand to the surface. A rumbling ensued. The wall trembled and cracked; fragmented pieces of stone chipping and drifting downward. Within seconds the wall crashed to the floor in a pile of mortar and debris at their feet. Sam squinted, holding a hand up to her eyes. As the dust cleared a dark, narrow stairwell came into view, feeding down through the inner structure of the castle wall.

  Sam turned to the woman–stunned. She grabbed Sam, whispering a foreign command, pulling her inside. Once both women were through, she turned back, sealing the wall just as the large wooden door swung open across the room.

  In pitch darkness they ambled down the dilapidated stairwell, groping at the icy stone walls for guidance and support. Sam placed each step carefully against each crumbling ledge—the narrow passageway unforgiving as claustrophobia set in. Sam edged in as close as she could to the young woman who seemed to know where she was going. The walls began to shake as a howl of anger ravaged the room above them.

  “Faster!” Sam ordered. The young woman picked up speed. Met with another wall at the bottom, the young woman raised her hand again and the wall dissolved in front of them as moonlight and biting cold wind swept in through its opening.

  “Пойдем со мной!” The young woman grabbed Sam’s hand, pulling her out into the cold. They trudged through the snow to a horse-drawn carriage hidden at the side of the dilapidated castle. She motioned frantically for Sam to get in.

  Sam obeyed.

  The young woman got in on the other side and pulled at the reins. The horse took off through the cold down the narrow winding road. Sam peered out the small window. The crumbling castle loomed in dark malevolence at the edges of the sea, the water stretching out for an eternity. Sam turned with a shudder. With the horse in full gallop the ancient ruin was ultimately swallowed up by endless pines of the receding forest.

  Sam glanced at the woman out of the corner of her eye, unable to count the number of questions she had with no way to get any answers. She cast her eyes to the back seat where several pieces of make-shift luggage bounced and shifted with the speed of the carriage over the snow covered, rocky path.

  Sam drew a deep breath, trying to calm her harried mind. Something shifted in the trees up ahead. “Stop,” she said, throwing out a hand.

  The woman slowed, pulling on the reins. The horse came to a stop as Sam watched movement up ahead, scanning the energy. Muted voices filtered through the twisted branches—men, approaching the path, pushing through the snow and cold. Human, and upon looking more closely—soldiers.

  Sam froze, anxiety shooting up like flames. She watched them pass below—her anxiety turning to astonishment as the two men leading them came into view. “Trin,” she whispered.

  The young woman gazed at Sam in wonder and then back to the men. Lowering her head, her eyes locked in on Anvil.

  Stifling the desire to jump from the carriage and run to Trin, Sam waited, keeping close tabs on his energy. The last thing they needed was for more Veduny to show up. Sam turned to the young woman, gaging her reaction. The woman remained focused on Anvil.

  Sam stared. Overcome with a need to know, she nearly voiced his name in an effort to illicit some sort of answer. Instead she heard her own name being called. Heaven sent, unmistakable. She sprang from the carriage, taking to the snowy ground, stumbling through the deep drifts of white.

  Trin appeared in the distance, his massive frame all in black dashing up snow as he ran toward her—Anvil not two steps behind him. Closing in, his body connected with hers, wrapping her in a fierce embrace, crushing her tiny frame to him. “Sam!” He pulled back, his hands encasing her face, raging blue eyes searching for signs of injury or ill-fated encounters of any kind. “You’re all right?” he begged.

  Tears of relief streamed down her face. She nodded as he pulled her back into his arms, burying his face in her neck.

  “How did you get out here? Why are you out here?” He begged questions, refusing to release her to receive answers. Behind them Anvil’s attention fell to the shadowy carriage in the trees. Staring at the driver, he moved toward her—stunned.

  Trin raised his head. Sam followed, gazing at the woman as Anvil approached her. Anxiety, insecurity, and shame spun within her, dropping her gaze to the floor of the carriage as he approached. She would not meet his eyes.

  He reached out to her. “Не бойтесь меня.” Do not fear me... His eyes filled with a soft command, stepping closer. “You ran from me in the village,” he said. The woman remained still, paralyzed.

  Trin and Sam watched in unnerving silence, unable to hear their words. Anvil’s energy spiked in alarm as the muffled conversation continued and Trin began digging. Without warning, Anvil’s cloaking activated. Trin’s inclusion was blocked. He looked at Sam, taken aback. He turned in time to see the woman departing into the forest. Anvil made his way back to Trin and Sam. “We must get Samantha to safety. We are running out of time.”

  Trin turned to Sam. “Who was that?”

  Sam shrugged, shaking her head.

  “You were just with her.
”

  “I don’t speak Russian.”

  Trin scanned Anvil’s energy, but he was still cloaking. “Anvil,” he called. “Who was that? You know her?”

  Anvil walked forward at a steady pace. “Ashbel does.”

  “Hold up,” Trin replied, grabbing Anvil by the arm. “She knows Ashbel?” he demanded. “Why are you shielding against us?”

  “I am not shielding against you,” he said. “We must get to safety, now.”

  Trin and Sam glanced at each other, and then followed after Anvil in the bitter darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

  In a ruined castle on the edge of an isolated polar lake a light shone in the darkness. One hour remained before midnight, the onset of the winter solstice. He worked with methodic efficiency, a master of the elements. Golden cuffs coated in the Oracle’s blood lay in a glass dish atop a small stone table.

  The kindjal lay beside it, glinting erratically as clouds passed in front of the iridescent moon. His hollow eyes focused on the blood stained rings, energy surrounding them, intensifying. The metal softened, melting, losing continuity as the rust brown stains liquefied—separating from the gold.

  The gold liquid pulled to the left, the blood to the right. He pulled heat from the gold, turning it solid again, a hapless lump of precious metal, the blood remaining wet. He held the dish over the kindjal, the blade glowing a sinister crimson.

  Gazing upward he checked the position of the moon, then tilted the dish, pouring the blood over the menacing blade. Faded illumination glinted across the smooth gem surface. He looked again to the moon. Its energy quivered in temporary disturbance, then settled again into a smooth radiant white. Back to the blade, he watched its deep color return as the glow dissipated into nothing.