by C S Marks
***
The leader of the caravan, a tall, bearded man named Mathis, summoned everyone to the evening fire as we approached the western boundary of the Stone Desert. It wouldn’t be that much longer until we would arrive at the Sandstone, and the closer one gets to civilized lands, the greater the likelihood of trouble.
“I have called you together because the lands we are about to travel through are perilous,” he said. “Word has spread of a gang of bandits who roam here, and they show no mercy to travelers. They don’t merely take valuables—they take lives, and I will need every man willing to fight. If you have weapons, hone them. If you do not, see me and I will make sure you are well armed. That’s all I have to say.”
Plague had swept through these lands nearly thirty years ago, and lawlessness had been on the rise ever since. They were times of relative plenty, because the number of people had been slashed, and there were far more resources to go around. But those who did not want to earn their wealth by honest means had taken to a darker, easier road, and they would take whatever they found from anyone they could.
Mathis came to see me after the others had dispersed. It was the first time we had spoken. “Well, El-morah, we are bound to run into bad people here. The question is, where do your loyalties lie?”
I stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Your reputation is none too savory. You consort with that woman, and the circumstances in which we found you are suspicious at best. You have never really given us a satisfactory explanation.”
“No one has asked me for one,” I said, feeling my hackles rising. “Do you now regret your hospitality? I am grateful and indebted to you for saving my life, and I will fight to defend you should need arise, but if you would feel better about it, give me a few provisions and I will try to make the rest of the journey on my own.”
“That would mean sentencing you to death,” said Mathis. “We are not prepared to do that…not yet. And you’re right. If bandits should attack us, we’ll need every available man.” He turned to leave, bowing his head briefly in a curt gesture of farewell. I bowed in return.
“The Wheel turns,” I said. “I will do what I can to aid you.”
“Yes,” said Mathis. “The Wheel turns.”
I had never been in an actual battle before. I had trained as a soldier and had become skilled with various weapons, but apart from quelling minor civil unrest, that was as far as I had gotten before Corvyn took me under his wing. We were not entirely unprepared, as we had heard one of the bandits’ horses calling to one of our own, but we didn’t have much time to brace for the attack. They came pouring out of the hills just to the north of the road—nearly a hundred of them—and I knew the Wheel would not be turning in our favor that night. We should have known better than to travel under the full moon.
We were easy targets, though the men fought hard to protect their brothers and sons. Only two women traveled with us—Fythia and an older woman named Kashma, who, I had learned, was Mathis’s sister. She had been the first to give me water. I never knew what happened to her.
I killed a lot of men that night, casting whatever blades I could find at any rider who passed. I’m agile and I know how to stay out of the way. I say with some pride that if there had been ten more of me, things might have gone differently. But the men of the caravan relied on swords, which cannot be hurled and require close contact with an enemy. When that enemy is mounted on a swift horse in the dark, a swordsman has little chance.
We had a few archers of worth, but they had more, and only a few of our folk were mounted. Those who stood on their own feet were soon peppered with arrows from the short, stout horse-bows of the mounted bandits. The Wheel was turning, all right, and I knew the caravan had no chance.
I called out to Fythia, but did not see her. Perhaps she has fled to the hills…made her escape…I could do that, too. I certainly know how to disappear. The battle is hopeless, and whether I stay or go will make no difference in the end.
But I realized something about myself in that moment—that I am a man of courage. I could not abandon these innocents to their fate, though I did not know them. I would atone for some of the sorrow and death I had wrought. I defended them, even though they held no love for me. I took arrows for them—one in my shoulder and one in my right thigh—though they had not trusted me. I would prove myself now, and I didn’t care what happened.
I could almost hear Corvyn’s voice, laughing and calling me a fool, but I didn’t care. I am responsible for my own destiny! No one else—only me. I fought now for something greater than myself, and it felt good.
I battled like a lion until one of the wounded dromadin crashed down on top of me, driving the arrow deeper into my thigh, forcing the breath from my body, and causing unspeakable pain. I ground my teeth together so hard that I felt one crack, just before blessed darkness took me.
I don’t know how long I lay trapped beneath the dead dromadin before my senses returned—I knew only that the sun had risen. The pain was simply exquisite, radiating from arrow wounds and broken bones. I could tell several of my ribs were cracked, and I could barely breathe for the weight of the beast. A wave of nausea flooded through my innards and I fought it back, knowing that if I tried to vomit, I would die.
I couldn’t move, and I had no water. I was finished.
“You understand now, don’t you?” said a soft voice. I tried to turn my head, but I couldn’t see who had spoken.
“Fythia? Fythia, is that you? Come here, where I can see you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “I’m dying, you see, and I haven’t the strength to move. But I can at least die in my right mind, beside my friend.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hoped you had gone to the hills…that you had escaped.”
“Escaped to what? Dying alone in the desert, or raving mad with Blight? My life was over a long time ago. Yours, though, is just beginning.”
“You might be wrong about that, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’ll be lucky to see another moon-rise.”
“It’s all right. You understand now. You chose to die defending the caravan, though the people did not love you. You chose to save their lives, even as you chose to take life before.”
“Yes, I chose,” I said. “And there is no one else to blame.” These words were very hard for me to say, and I thought I was going to weep. I felt hollow inside. “I am what my choices have made me—it has always been so.”
“So it is with all of us.” She drew a deep, sighing breath, and I knew I wouldn’t have her company for much longer. I waited, hoping she would speak again.
“El-morah, have you accepted your guilt? It seems you have.”
Tears welled in my eyes—tears of pain, regret, and relief. “Yes. Yes I have, though it burns my soul. How does anyone bear it?”
“It just takes time. You’ll see.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s been a long time since anyone loved you, hasn’t it?”
I thought for a moment. The only person who had truly loved me in the last thirty years was my sister Salina, and I had abandoned her. “I’m not worthy of being loved.”
“Yes, you are. Preserving life—celebrating it—is so much more satisfying than taking it. They taught you to close your heart to people…you were forbidden to form attachments to anyone. Now you will have the chance to love, and be loved in return. It’s a chance you deserve—your sacrifice has earned it. Now you must stay alive, so you can take it.”
I wanted to see her, to touch her hair…to comfort her. I struggled, trying to free myself from the wretched animal, to no avail. Darkness roared in my ears, and drew a black curtain over my eyes. I neither saw Fythia nor heard her gentle voice again.
***
I would like to tell you that all the bad dreams went away after that, but I can’t. In fact, I spent several weeks in various states of wakefulness. I was unconscious for the most part. No one came to visit me in my dreams, for which I was mostly thankful, but
I heard their voices as I had heard them before.
You did this! You took me from my wife and children! You didn’t even know me!
Yes, I did. It was wrong, and I’m sorry. I will never take a life again on the bidding of another.
No, none of you is ever guilty…
Yes we are. I am. No one bears this burden but me.
He held on to his humanity—to the things his father taught him. Didn’t your father teach you that it’s wrong to kill?
Of course he did. Please stop! Leave me in peace.
It would be quite some time before that peace would come. I was dimly aware of being lashed to a horse-drawn sledge, being dragged over the sandy ground, and being in a great deal of pain. I heard voices, but didn’t recognize any of them. I remember being given water. I tasted blood sometimes, and that would shock me awake for a few moments, just long enough to view the stars.
Then I woke up in a room bathed in fire-light, and I knew I might actually have a real chance of living. A woman held a water-vessel to my lips, speaking soft words in a tongue I knew well. Her eyes—glorious, dark brown, and filled with intelligence—held no judgment of me.
“What’s your name?” she asked, gently cleaning the sweat from my forehead.
I didn’t know whether I could speak. And what should I tell her? I have forsaken the man who was Beltran, and I’m not worthy of Glennroy—the brave boy who protected his sister. “My name is…El-morah,” I whispered.
She threw her head back, tossing long, soft black hair across one shoulder. I caught the wonderful scent of a young woman unmarred by sickness, heard the laughter of a free spirit unfettered by guilt. “My name,” she said, “is Mohani.”
Mohani. The name means “beautiful.” Never has a woman been named so well. As I looked into her eyes again, her clear gaze reflecting the purity of her spirit, my eyes filled with tears of shame. She thoughtfully dabbed them away.
“Well, El-morah, I think you’re going to live,” she said.
I was going to live. Not just exist, but truly live. I raised my right hand from the coverlet, and she took it, as if to lead me out of the shadows. I had been given another chance.
“The Wheel turns,” she said, smiling down at me.
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Book List
Tales of Alterra (The Elfhunter trilogy)
Elfhunter
Fire-heart
Ravenshade (coming spring 2014)
Alterra Histories
The Fire King
Fallen Embers
The Shadow-man
Undiscovered Realms
Outcaste (2015)
About C.S. Marks
C.S. Marks has often been described as a Renaissance woman. The daughter of academic parents, she holds a Ph.D. in Biology and has spent the past two decades teaching Biology and Equine Science. She is currently a Full Professor at Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College in west central Indiana.
She began writing shortly after the untimely death of her father, who was a Professor of American Literature at Butler University. A gifted artist, she has produced illustrations and cover art for all three books. She plays and sings Celtic music and a few examples of her songwriting may be found within the pages of Fire-heart. She enjoys archery, and makes hand-crafted longbows using primitive tools.
Horses are her passion, and she is an accomplished horsewoman, having competed in the sport of endurance racing for many years. One of only a handful of Americans to complete the prestigious Tom Quilty Australian national championship hundred-mile ride, she has described this moment as her finest hour.
She has been happily married for nearly three decades. She and her husband, Jeff, share their home with ten dogs (predominantly Welsh Corgis) and five horses. They live deep in the forest, where there are miles and miles of trail riding to be had.
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