Guardians Watch

by Eric T Knight

  It was almost dark by the time they reached the pass. It was only a few hundred paces wide, with a ruined tower on the south end and the crumbled remains of a stone wall stretching across it. The north side of the pass was littered with huge blocks of black stone that had fallen from the Plateau long ago. Shakre stared at them, wondering if the tower on the south side had a twin on the north, buried now under rubble. Were the people who manned it able to escape in time?

  “So you are still with us,” Rehobim said as they approached. “I thought you had given up and turned back.”

  “Will you wait here for Kasai’s men?” Shakre asked, ignoring his comment. “It is a strong position.” The land on the far side of the pass sloped steeply down a rock-strewn slope, then plunged into thick trees.

  “You know nothing of war,” he said dismissively. “We would not hold it for long. Our only hope is to catch them sleeping and kill so many they do not threaten us again.” He did not seem as angry as he usually did, so that his barbs were flung more out of habit than malice. “See there,” he said, pointing. Far down in the valley below dozens of campfires burned, their smoke snaking lazily skyward. “We can be there in only a few hours and catch them while they sleep. We are lightning and thunder. We arrive like the storm and we leave as fast.”

  Shakre felt doom on her heart and wanted to argue with him further but she knew it would do no good. It was as Elihu said. She would have to follow along and hope there would be a moment when she would have an opportunity to divert them before they went over the cliff.

  They left the pass once the darkness was complete and Shakre marveled at how quietly the Takare could move. They made no more sound than shadows as they slipped between the trees and the rocks. Up ahead the flicker of the enemy’s campfires drew steadily closer. She walked at the very rear, close enough to avoid losing the Takare forces, but far enough back that she could not give them away. She had refused Werthin’s offer to stay with her and sent him on ahead. He had done enough for her already and she did not want Rehobim to turn against him.

  Scouts sent out by Rehobim when they first reached the pass had returned, confirming that the camp held at least a thousand of the burned ones. They had set up their camp in a large, flat meadow beside a stream. Their sentries were careless and noisy. They could approach without being noticed, slip in and kill the enemy before they could react. If they made a mistake, they could melt into the forest and disappear. It was perfect. The only unusual thing, the scouts reported, was that the meadow Kasai’s forces were camped in was dotted with tall, stone columns that looked to be manmade, probably some structure built during the Empire that had crumbled away, leaving only columns as tall as trees.

  Now they were nearly to the enemy camp. Through the trees Shakre could glimpse campfires that had burned down, blanketed shapes lying around them, and some rough tents here and there. It was not a very orderly camp. Shakre paused and quested ahead with her inner senses, as she had done a number of times already. Had it been a normal army she would have been able to learn quite a bit this way: a good idea of their numbers, whether they were asleep or awake, a sense of the overall mood of the camp. But the Song flowing from the camp was raw and confused, as it always was from those who bore Kasai’s mark. Muddying it further was the fact that at least a handful of blinded ones accompanied them. They were completely opaque to her inner senses, like dark spots at the edge of vision. She could neither determine their location nor their number. Everything looked quiet, but her gut told her that something was terribly amiss. Unfortunately, she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Shakre came upon a pile of huge stones that were too regular to be natural, probably part of whatever structure had yielded the columns in the meadow. She climbed up onto the pile and from there she could see much of the meadow and the camp. The stone columns encircled most of the meadow and one, taller than the rest, stood in the center. They showed white in the faint light and seemed to be flat on top. Something about them made her uneasy, though she was not sure why and there was no time to ponder it now, for the Takare had reached the edge of the camp and were spread out around it, waiting. She could not see them, but she could sense them, vital flows of clean Song amidst the muddiness that spread outward from the camp.

  Then the Takare charged into the camp, their racing forms visible in the light of the flickering campfires. Blades stabbed into sleeping forms and screams rang out. The Takare were swift and implacable. The enemy had no chance.

  But something was wrong. Shakre crouched on the stones, trying to figure it out. All at once she understood and a moment later the warriors did too.

  The screams were too few. A warrior flipped back the edge of a blanket with his sword. Underneath was piled dirt. The Takare slowed their onslaught, looking around in alarm, weapons raised to meet the enemy they could not see.

  And then the trap sprang shut.

  On each of the columns around the perimeter of the camp a cloaked figure rose. Shakre knew in an instant what they were.

  Blinded ones.

  They raised their hands and coronas of gray flame sprang from them. As one they slammed their fists together.

  Sheets of gray flame shot from one column to the next, wrapping around the meadow in an instant, cutting off escape. Several Takare were in the path of the flames as they spread and they screamed horribly as the flames engulfed them from head to toe.

  Then new flames shot out from each column, lancing toward the center column on which stood a waiting figure, a sharp blade of a man.

  Achsiel.

  The gray flames struck him and instantly doubled, then doubled again, the flames coalescing into a writhing, burning web that began to settle earthward.

  With a wild cry, Rehobim flung his spear at Achsiel, but it caught on fire as it passed through the burning web and turned to ash before reaching its target. Arrows flew at the other blinded ones but they were just as useless.

  One Takare raced to the central column, his knife clenched in his teeth, and started to climb. He hit the flaming web and lit on fire. Somehow, with a superhuman effort, he fought his way through the flame and actually made it to the top of the column. But he was a burned husk of a man and as he raised his knife weakly Achsiel merely kicked him in the face and he tumbled backward and down.

  A few Takare charged the wall of flames around the edge of the camp, but those that managed to make it through fell dead before they’d taken a half dozen steps and lay there burning. The rest could only watch helplessly as the flaming web settled down onto them. In less than a minute they would all be dead.

  Shakre watched in horror. What the destruction of Tu Sinar and Landsend Plateau had failed to accomplish was happening here, right now. It was the end of the Takare as a people.

  And then she snapped.

  Her hands curled into fists at her sides and she flung her head back, a bizarre, unearthly cry breaking from her.

  But this was no ordinary cry. It was the sound of a storm breaking, of winds that could level forests. It was the sound of the hurricane.

  More than that, though it was a summons, a demand, delivered in a language never meant for human lips.

  She did not consciously choose the words. They came from deep inside her, left over there from her time lost in the wind. They came pouring out of her, driven by her need and her fear.

  And the aranti answered.

  In a heartbeat it howled around her, its cry matching her own. With a strength born of despair and fear Shakre took hold of the aranti with an iron grip.

  Obey me, she shouted at it in its own language.

  Then she flung it at Achsiel.

  The aranti shrieked across the meadow and struck Achsiel with gale force. He was thrown from the top of the column. With a cry he plunged into the fiery web.

  There was a concussion as energy fed back on itself and exploded. The shockwave knocked the blinded ones off their columns and tossed the Takare like leaves. The flames went out.

 
Silence descended over the meadow, broken only by the moans of the dying. Slowly the Takare got to their feet. The first to act was Pinlir. He walked to the nearest blinded one who was still moving and methodically chopped off his head. Then he proceeded to make his way to the others who were still living and do the same.

  By then Shakre had climbed down off the tumble of stones and made her way into the clearing. She felt dizzy and lightheaded. Worst of all, her vision kept switching between her own eyes and the aranti’s perception. She had to keep looking down at her own feet to see if she was still walking on the ground.

  “What happened?” Jakal asked.

  “He just fell,” someone answered. “The one on the middle column fell and then the whole thing exploded.”

  There were other voices raised then, a confusion of theories and explanations. Shakre said nothing, but she felt Werthin’s gaze on her, though she did not look at him. Her relief was overwhelming. Her people were still alive. Only moments ago she had been sure they would all die. Shakily, she sat down.

  “It was the wind!” cried someone else, his voice rising above the din. “I saw the trees shake!”

  For many of them, newcomers who had barely heard of the Windrider, that meant nothing and they continued talking. But those from Bent Tree Shelter knew and they turned to look at Shakre, who avoided their eyes.

  “It’s time to go,” Werthin said, bending over and placing his hand on Shakre’s shoulder. She did not resist while he helped her up. “There may be more of them nearby.”

  He was speaking to Shakre, but others heard. Some went to their fallen comrades, who were burned beyond recognition, and they were wrapped in blankets and picked up. Others gathered what weapons they could find. Awareness of where they were had returned and there was no more talking.

  As Werthin helped her out of the clearing, Shakre looked up and saw Rehobim. He was standing by himself, his head down, his arms hanging at his sides. He had not spoken or moved since the attack ended. Once again his rashness had nearly doomed his people. What would become of him now? she wondered.

  They slept in the pass that night. When Shakre awoke the next morning the camp was stirring, preparing to move out. Her sleep had been deep and she had heard nothing during the night, barely remembered even walking back up the ridge. But clearly the Takare had been talking, those who knew her sharing information with the newcomers. She knew it was so by the way they treated her. A day before she had been someone to be tolerated, perhaps even overlooked. A skilled healer, but an outsider and therefore not quite trustworthy. Now they looked on her with awe that bordered on fear, but only when she was not looking. When she turned to face them, they turned away or looked down. They were not obvious about it, but they moved out of her way and were careful to make sure she did not touch them.

  The exception was Werthin. He stayed by her elbow, anticipating her needs. Before she could pick up her pack he darted in and snatched it up. She shrugged and did not argue with him. The fact was that she still did not feel like herself. On the first downhill she tripped twice and nearly fell down. Her legs seemed to belong to someone else.

  Rehobim didn’t speak at all on the walk back to the main camp. When Jakal approached him and tried to speak he snarled at him and the young man didn’t try again.

  Youlin was ready for them when they walked into the meadow the next day. She was standing with her arms crossed, her hood thrown back to reveal the fire in her eyes. On the ground around her feet were the broken shards of the clay jugs that had once held liquor.

  Forty-three

  “We should make it to the Haven tomorrow,” Netra said one evening after they’d stopped and made camp. “You’ll finally get to meet the people I’ve been talking about so much.”

  Shorn looked at her, then down at himself.

  Netra nodded. “You’re wondering how they will react to you. I’ve been wondering the same thing. When we get close, it will probably be best if you let me go on ahead and prepare them. I imagine they’re a little nervous with everything that’s going on and seeing you at the front door might send them stampeding out the back.” She grinned at the mental image this produced. “Just give me a few minutes with them and then I’ll come outside and call you.”

  Shorn pondered this for a while. “And then?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You will go to Qarath? Where your order prepares to fight?”

  “I think so. I mean, that’s what I think we should do. I can’t make them go there, of course, and Brelisha can be pretty stubborn.”

  “And if they do not go? You will stay with them? Or go to Qarath?”

  “Well, naturally I’ll…” She frowned. “I don’t know. Honestly.” She sighed. “Do you have to do this? I just want to be excited about seeing them again. I don’t want to figure out what’s next.”

  “But you will not hide from this fight?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t see myself doing that. I don’t think I could do that. No, I think if they don’t want to go to Qarath, then you and I will go on alone. I mean, if you want to come with me. If you haven’t changed your mind.”

  The look he gave her told her exactly how unlikely that was. Netra was relieved. She’d had a tiny fear in the back of her mind that he would leave her once they reached the Haven, and truth be told, she wasn’t ready for it. She’d grown accustomed to having him there, as solid and steady as a mountain. Somehow, with him around, the world just didn’t seem so big and scary.

  She leaned across their tiny fire and patted his arm. “I’m glad,” she said softly. “I don’t want to do this without your help.”

  He looked at her hand—small on his thick arm—then back at her. She pulled her hand back. Once again her heart went out to him, wishing there was something she could do or say to ease the massive burden he carried.

  “You know, since you showed up, I don’t feel nearly as afraid. I don’t feel as hopeless either. I still don’t have any idea what to do, but I feel like if we just keep moving forward, sooner or later we’ll know. What do you think?”

  Shorn looked at the stars overhead, then nodded, the movement barely visible in the firelight.

  Netra didn’t spend much time stopping or resting that last day as the two approached the Haven. In her mind she pictured the reunion with her family over and over. She apologized to them all, even Brelisha. She hugged them. She cried with them. She sat up late with Cara, sharing everything that happened. She would be back with her family and everything would work out somehow. She would never turn her back on them again.

  It was mid-afternoon when the first faint sense of unease intruded on her happy fantasies. It was there and gone quickly, like catching a whiff of a dead animal rotting in the distance. She paused, a frown on her face. Then it was gone and she shrugged. The taint was here, too. That’s all it was. At least it wasn’t as bad as it was to the north.

  However, she sensed the wrongness several more times during the next couple hours as she and Shorn made their way around the edge of the Firkath Mountains and approached the Haven. Something was definitely wrong. Something had passed through here.

  It was nearly sunset and Netra was practically running when she topped the last high ridge separating her from her home. From here she could see the stone buildings of her home nestled at the edge of the broad valley below. What she saw stopped her cold, a small cry escaping her.

  “No!”

  Her home was a heap of rubble. It looked like a giant fist had come out of the sky and smashed it flat.

  She took off running.

  Gasping, tears running down her face, Netra stood before the wreckage of her life. The massive stones that had formed her home lay in a shattered tangle. Not a single wall still stood. Even the trees that surrounded the place had been torn down, their trunks snapped.

  Tharn. Nothing else could have done this. The Guardian had followed her back to the Haven after all. There was the sound of heavy footsteps and Shorn
came up beside her, but when he touched her shoulder she moaned and pulled away, folding in on herself. She would not allow herself to be comforted. She had led the monster here. She had left her family alone to face it. Her family was dead and it was all her fault.

  She saw something then, in the midst of the ruins, something that was not stone. On unsteady legs she climbed up onto the ruins, fearing what she would see, but knowing she had to see.

  It was a hand, sticking out between two broken stones. Most of the flesh was gone, picked off by the carrion eaters.

  With a cry, she fell to her knees. She couldn’t breathe. The world tilted crazily around her.

  Then she started clawing at the stones in a frenzy, as if whoever was buried under there might still be alive. She moved one stone, rolling it off to the side. The next one was too large for her. Her fingers slipped and part of her fingernail tore away. She welcomed the pain—it was only what she deserved—and shifted her grip, trying to get leverage.

  Then Shorn was there. With his help the stone moved easily. Wordlessly, the two worked side by side and the pile of rubble slowly shifted. Some of the stones were too big even for Shorn to move with his inhuman strength. He had to pull timbers out of the wreckage and use them as levers to shift those stones.

  There were two bodies underneath. Netra stood trembling in the darkness looking down on them. They had been rotting for some time, but Netra knew instantly who they were.

  Siena and Brelisha.

  “Why didn’t you run?” Netra asked. The cold stones had no answer. The night sky didn’t care. The women who had raised Netra lay broken and staring at nothing. The sky pressed down on her everywhere and she could not breathe; she was choking on guilt and sorrow. She had done this. She’d left them to this fate.

  Shorn acted first. The two women lay sprawled on the old rug that had long covered the floor of Sienna’s quarters. Drawing a blade, Shorn cut the rug in half, then swiftly rolled each body into a square of rug. More gently than Netra would have thought possible, he picked them up one at a time and carried them out of the rubble. Nearby were the remains of what had once been the Haven’s garden, the plants shriveled and dead now. An ancient spade was stuck in the ground at the end of one of the rows and Shorn took this and began to dig.