by Tim Marquitz
The wolves charged at his movement, voicing their fury at his attempt to defy them of their meal.
Cael’s hands latched onto the limb and he swung his legs up behind him. He felt the muscles in his injured shoulder tear the moment his full weight was in the air. He had no chance to hold back his pain.
His scream filled the air, burying the growls of the wolves beneath it. He felt his left hand go numb and slip. His other shoulder, suddenly bearing the entire burden creaked in its socket, but his hand held strong.
His legs, already moving with the momentum of his jump, continued forward. Feeling his fingers beginning to slip, he swung his legs with desperation and wrapped one around the limb just as the wolves leapt at his exposed back.
He felt the grazing sting of teeth and pulled hard to move clear, his weakening arm straining against even his slight mass. With the last of his energy dwindling, his reserves long ago spent, he wriggled his leg around the groaning limb and managed to climb on top of the branch. He heard a rubbery creak as the branch wobbled underneath him. Clutched near the center of it, he dangled more than five feet from the safety of its thickest part.
The wolves leapt at him, howling furious, but their flashing fangs fell short by several inches. Fearing the limb would break and drop him to his doom, Cael inched forward. His left arm hung lifeless and he could feel the hard, cold metal of the relic grinding into his hip as he dragged himself along the branch. Every movement threatened to break his tentative grip and cast him down amongst the wolves.
Minutes dragged by in an agonizing blur until he reached the relative safety of the tree trunk. The wolves, having given up their attempts at dragging Cael down, now circled below. They growled their fury, wanton hunger visible in their glowing red eyes.
Cael felt his body tremble as he hugged the tree. His left arm was on fire and he didn’t dare loosen his grip to try to pull the relic out to heal it. With it wedged between his stomach and the limb, it was an uncomfortable reminder of how close he was to the means of being healed, yet so horribly far, all at the same time.
He pressed his cheek against the rough bark of the trunk and tried to get comfortable. The only thing he could think to do was to wait the creatures out until morning. He didn’t know how long he’d slept before being woken up, but he felt certain it was a long way from dawn. Even then, he had no way of knowing if daylight would chase the wolves away. Little more than fresh meat dangling helpless in a tree, they might camp out until his strength gave out and he fell. Both he and the wolves knew it was only a matter of time.
The throb of his arm brought tears to his eyes. He watched the skeletal wolves through blurry eyes as they paced below, settling in for the long wait. He bit back a sob as the weight of the day fell over him. Death had reaped more than its fair share this day and he couldn’t help but believe it was not yet done. He didn’t want to die.
“Ree damn you!” he screamed at the wolves, riling their fury. Angry howls rose from skeletal throats.
A sudden stirring the bushes cut the wolves’ howls short as their collective eyes whipped as one toward the noise. A silvery shape leapt from the foliage and landed beside one of the wolves without a sound. The wolf let loose a tiny whimper as it was yanked into the air by its head. Its bright eyes illuminated the surprise on its skeletal face.
A sharp crack echoed through the darkness as its head was spun free of its body, its spine splintering like brittle driftwood. The silver shape, now recognizable to Cael as the concealing fabric of a cloak, an unknown figure hidden inside, flung the wolf’s head away as its body dropped limp to the ground.
The remaining wolves bared their fangs as the cloaked figure lashed out so fast as to be almost invisible. One of the wolves was kicked in the snout and was catapulted backward to slam into the trunk of the tree Cael clung to. He felt the impact as it vibrated the branch beneath him, a hollow snap sounding below as the creature crumbled into a heap at the base of the tree.
A silvery arc streaked through the air before the figure and the last of the wolves stumbled, its torso severed in half.
The wolf loosed a piercing howl as its two halves tore apart with a wet rip and it crashed to the ground. Its teeth gnashed in impotent rage as its front paws dug at the moist humus that layered the forest floor. Its back paws kicked and kicked, spinning its lower segment in a maddened circle.
The figure ended the wolf’s suffering, thrusting its blade through the creature’s eye and into its skull. The wolf twitched once and then its upper body went still, the lower half winding down a moment later. The woods went silent in commiseration.
Cael shuddered as the figure withdrew his sword from the wolf’s oozing eye socket and turned to look at him.
“You’re safe now. You may come down.” The figure’s voice, a man’s, was smooth and melodic. He shook the blood from his narrow blade with a flick of his wrist before sliding it into the sheath at his waist.
Cael hesitated and did nothing as the man pushed his hood back. Not sure what he expected, Cael gasped when he saw the man’s face.
Large oval eyes that were set diagonally across his yellow-green face stared at him, their soft pink disturbing. Only a tiny stub of a nose was visible between them. Similar to his own ears, a trait of his Velen heritage, the man had only the slightest trace of external cartilage, small bumps the only visible sign the man had ears at all.
“Do not be afraid, young one. We mean you no harm,” the man spoke from his narrow, lipless mouth.
Cael’s eyes widened at the word ‘ we’. He looked about and spied a second figure in a silver cloak similar to the first. This one stood a few yards back, in the trees, with its hood pulled away as well. Its features were decidedly more feminine. The sharp lines of her face were more distinct, more defined, lacking the slight roundness of the first. Beneath the cloak, she wore a tunic of black material that protruded somewhat at her chest and seemed to shimmer even in the darkness. A silver-hilted sword hung at her belt, its sheath leathered in black.
The man took a slow step forward with his hands spread, as Cael clung to his branch. “I am called Uthul.” He gestured to the woman. “My companion is Zalee. Come. We will not hurt you.” He waved Cael down with a thin, black gloved hand.
Never having seen anyone like the pair before, Cael reasoned if they had meant him harm they would have simply left him for the wolves. They could kill him in the tree, for that matter. He hung but ten feet from the ground. While just out of range of the wolves, he was well within reach of the man’s long blade.
Cael’s resistance crumbled, but he knew he couldn’t make it down without assistance. “I could use some help…please.”
An awkward smile bent Uthul’s mouth as he placed himself below the limb where Cael dangled. Zalee went to the end of the branch and waited.
“Tell me when you are ready,” Uthul told him.
Cael drew in a breath and nodded. Zalee jumped easily into the air and grabbed ahold of the far end of the branch. Her weight pulled it down and Cael felt gravity return with a sickening twist in his guts. He slipped to the side and squeezed his eyes tight in expectation of hitting the ground.
Instead, he felt Uthul’s arms beneath him, slowing his momentum and easing his fall with smooth resistance. He opened his eyes as he was set gently on his feet. The motion sent spikes of pain through Cael’s shoulder. He winced, but pushed it away. He went to thank Uthul, but was cut off.
“You are hurt. Let me help.” Uthul reached out to touch his wounded shoulder.
“It’s okay. I just have to-”
Before his sluggish mind awoke to caution him, Cael pulled the bag from his waistband. Realizing what he’d done, he raced to cover his action, but his shaking hands betrayed him. He fumbled the bag and it slipped from his fingers. It fell to the ground with a heavy crunch, spilling its contents.
Uthul leapt back, his large eyes narrowing into glowing pink slits that were focused on the golden rod. Zalee too stepped away, her cloak brush
ed to the side, her hand on the hilt of her blade.
Cael saw the hostility in their stances and raised his good arm in hopes of calming them. “No, no, it’s not a weapon. It’s okay.” He reached to pick up the rod so he could show it to them.
“Leave it where it lay,” Zalee demanded as she drew her sword and edged closer, her tone as sharp as the silvered edge of her blade.
The rasp of steel stopped Cael in his tracks. He straightened slow, moving his hand away from the relic, his eyes locked on Zalee.
Uthul glanced to his companion and raised a hand before looking back to Cael. “Where did you find this?” He pointed to the rod, but kept his distance from it.
“It’s my father’s,” Cael started, his eyes tearing up at the thought of his dad. “Was my father’s,” he corrected. “It’s mine now.”
The pair shared a look and Zalee returned her sword to its sheath. Uthul gestured to the rod. “Do you understand its use?”
Surprised by the question, Cael realized Uthul had to know what the relic was to have asked it. He shook his head. “Understand it? No, but I can make it work.”
“Do you know how it came to be in your father’s possession? Could he use its power too?”
Certain the pair could take it from them if that was what they wished, Cael saw no point in lying. “My father used it to heal.” He met Uthul’s bright gaze. “Before it was my dad’s, it was my grandfather’s, passed to him by his father. I don’t know how he came to own it.”
“It was once a gift from the Sha’ree; our people,” Zalee said, the heat of anger still tingeing her voice.
Cael stared without blinking as the words sank in, but they made no sense. He looked to the relic and then to Zalee, then at last to Uthul. If the relic had come from the Sha’ree, why did they seem so afraid of it? He had never known it to do harm.
“Have you come to take it back?”
“No. It is yours to keep, but we seek the bearers of such gifts. It is fortunate tidings indeed that we happened upon you. Will you travel with us?”
Cael didn’t hesitate to accept. He nodded.
Uthul reached inside his cloak and drew out a silver pouch and a small, shimmering blue orb. He tossed the bag near the rod and rolled the orb gently over the ground. The orb spun to a stop in the undergrowth and Cael could hear a whispered hum emanating from it as its glimmer grew brighter. Soft white light leaked from its crystalline face and illuminated the forest for ten feet around as though the sun had dawned right there. Despite its impressive brightness, Cael was able to look directly upon it without any ill effect.
Without a word, Zalee drifted into the trees at the very edge of the light’s domain and disappeared.
“Use the rod to heal your wound. When you are done, place it in the pouch I provided. Once the pouch is sealed, call to us. Zalee and I shall be nearby, so you will be safe.” He drew back until he was little more than faint silhouette against the darker shadows outside of the light’s range. “Make haste, young one. There is much ground for us to cover.” His voice drifted through the darkness as he too faded away.
Once Cael could see Uthul no more, he dropped down beside the rod, plucking it from the ground. The cold stings pricked at his fingers immediately. Wanting nothing more than to rid his shoulder of the terrible, throbbing pain that set it afire, he moved his dirty tunic out of the way and pressed the relic to his flesh.
Once again, the symbols along its length shimmered with green. He willed its power alive and after just a few moments, his arm was once more whole, the pain gone.
He did as he was asked and slipped the relic inside the silver pouch, pulling the ties tight. Once he was sure it was closed, he called out to Uthul.
The Sha’ree were at his side within two beats of his heart, appearing like ghosts from the murk of the forest. He jumped at their sudden arrival, holding up the sealed bag to cover the palpitations of his frantic pulse.
“Good. Now store it away, young one.”
Cael stuffed the pouch into his waistband and drew the clasp of his belt tight to hold it there. “The name’s Cael.”
Uthul gave a shallow bow. “We are well met, Cael.”
Zalee did the same, the look on her face having softened somewhat. “Come, Cael, we must go.” She gestured to the glowing orb. “Take up the light so you may see, but bear it gently in travel. The fire beetle inside might not take kindly to its entrapment were it to be freed.”
The Sha’ree turned and strode into the darkness of the woods. Cael, not wanting to be left behind, snatched up the crystal orb and was surprised to notice it was cool to the touch. No time to marvel at its power, he raced to keep up to the pair. Though he knew not where they were leading him, he was certain he no longer had to fear the terrors that roamed the Dead Lands.
For Cael, that was enough.
Chapter Eleven
Ellora stared wide eyed as a young boy dashed around the corner, nearly colliding with her. She threw herself against the wall as the boy kicked up a cloud of dirt in his attempt to stop. A few feet past her, he finally skidded to a halt, spinning on his heels to look at her.
“The watch,” he gasped, pointing back the way he’d come. He drew in a deep breath, his chest expanding almost comically. “The watch is coming.”
Before Ellora had time to respond, the boy tore off down the road to warn the rest of orphans from the Ninth who were out on the Sixth begging for a few meager coins to make it through the day, or stealing it when the opportunity presented itself.
Ellora’s heart thumped loudly in her chest as the boy’s words sunk in. While there was no specific law against the orphans being on the level, the watch had made it very clear they were not welcome there. As the levels rose toward the Crown, so did the quality of life for those who lived on them.
The first two levels were jammed with the poor, the crippled and unwell, those unable to bear their own burdens without help. The level right above those were where the soldiers and field workers lived. Ranking officers, merchants, and the lower nobilities started on the Sixth, where Ellora and her orphan friends often gathered to make their way.
The Sixth was the perfect place to garner sympathy, its residents close enough to the circumstances of the Ninth to feel pity. Go any higher and the callous cruelty of the noble classes set in. With little patience for beggars, and far less for thieves, to beg on the Fifth or higher was to earn a beating, at the very least. The nobles valued their property too much so to simply give it away and their vengeance was swift upon those caught stealing.
Ellora dashed into a nearby alley and ducked low behind a haphazard pile of waste that waited to be shipped to the Ninth for disposal. The rank smell filled her nose, but she barely noticed. Compared to what filled the air in the Ninth, its mild stink was nothing.
She peered out over the trash as the stomp of boots sounded around the corner. Though the watch was often lenient with the orphans they found on the level, doing little more than escorting them back to their rightful place, there had been a number of complaints made against them in recent days. To make matters worse, the soldiers had kicked them off the level just hours before.
The watch wouldn’t be so lenient this time.
Ellora’s breath caught in her lungs as the soldiers stomped into sight. She readied to run but knew immediately they hadn’t come to chase dirty orphans from the Sixth. They were about far more important duties.
She cast her eyes over the group of sour-faced men, led by the watch commander himself. In the middle of the wall of soldiers, shields and spears, a ragged man walked with his chin down, his bearded face turned away from the world.
Emboldened by the soldiers’ focus on the man, Ellora stood and stepped from behind the obscuring waste to get a better look. She hugged the shadows of the wall and inched toward the street, her eyes never leaving the prisoner.
He walked like a man destined for the gallows, his strength and will drained from his stride as though he knew his breaths were numb
ered. Ellora had seen such a walk before; she had seen it with her own father.
He had gone to the rope for killing a merchant who’d cheated him of his last few silvers. Those coins had meant everything to her father. They were what would have kept food on his family’s table through the cold winter months and wood in the oven for heat. To lose them was the final step off a steep cliff, her father’s pride and wavering hope shoved mercilessly over the edge.
Ellora was told he had strangled the man so violently the merchant’s eyes had popped loose from their sockets. The watch found her father, his hands still tight around the merchant’s cold, rigid neck, wracked with sobs that wouldn’t cease. They dragged him away in tears only to march him out into the field two dawns later. It was the last time Ellora had seen her father alive.
She watched as the trap opened beneath his bare and dirty feet. He dropped through it with a surprised gasp, his body dancing as he reached the end of the rope. Though only six at the time, the details of his final moment still shone clear in her mind.
Grateful for the blackened hood that hid his face from sight, Ellora watched in horror as her father’s bowels and bladder gave way without restraint. Urine soaked the tented front of his wool pants as shit ran in thick rivulets down his leg to stain the ground beneath in a dark, foul smelling puddle that cast off steam in the cold winter air. He twitched for several long seconds and then swung dead on the rope. He swayed back and forth in the wind until the hangman cut him down at dusk. In the darkness of her nightmares, he swung the same from that moment forward.
On that day, happiness and hope had died alongside her father. Ellora’s mother did what she could to keep food in their grumbling bellies, but with nothing to sell and no skills to trade, she had only her flesh to give.
Ellora remembered hiding in the shadows of their tiny hut, covering her ears to the sounds of men grunting and sweating overtop her mother just feet away in what had been her father’s bed a mere week before. Her mother’s soft squeals frightened her and she wished herself deaf.
