Mott watched as they walked away, both looking as if they had poles stuck up their shirts. Argh… this is never going to work.
Quickly, he searched for the best place to hide. There wasn’t much cover. The best option appeared to be a thick line of reeds matted together on the far side of a nearby pool.
The reeds were dense, but he managed to manoeuvre himself into a position where he could still see along the path. Silently, he hunkered down and poked his nose through the tall covering.
The Salrians came into view: five of them.
That’s not good. Where did the other two come from?
The hoods of their thin cloaks covered the Salrians’ baldheads – to protect their pale skin from the sun’s rays, most likely, or to stop travellers recognising them too quickly. They were dressed in half-armour. Three of them carried longbows. Another had what looked like a spear. They walked in a formation of sorts: clearly not civilians.
Of all the luck! What are they doing here? Best pray to those Gods of yours, Gialyn. We need a miracle.
Elspeth and Gialyn continued with only the faintest of nods for the Salrians. For one brief moment, it appeared the plan might work. Then Elspeth flinched as one of the Salrians tugged at her sleeve.
Stay calm, you two. Oh Elspeth, don’t look back for me. Foolish child.
A tall Salrian – tall for a Salrian, at least, but still half a hand shorter than Elspeth – turned his head and stared to the east. He looked on tenterhooks, like a soldier expecting an enemy to ride over the ridge.
Gods, what has she told them? Oh for… Don’t argue with them, Elspeth.
Elspeth folded her arms and squared up to one of the Salrians, while Gialyn stood and watched, nervously twitching, trying to look everywhere but back along the track. No, this was not working.
“Damn it, just let them go,” Mott grunted quietly.
Mott looked around. Twenty paces ahead, a small mound of dark earth stood between him and the Salrians. If he could sneak up behind that mound, maybe he could jump on them; create enough confusion for the others to escape.
“Me against five Salrians; don’t be a fool,” he whispered. Just let them go!
Elspeth recoiled as the tall Salrian made a grab for her. Gialyn barged into him and Elspeth ran off, back the way she’d come. Mott darted from his cover. Growling and snapping, he hurled himself at the Salrian who was following her. Mott heard Gialyn shout, “Run, Elspeth!” The boy was pinned to the ground with a knee in his back. Elspeth sped by. The Salrian chasing her stopped when he saw Mott and ran back to the others.
Reluctantly, Mott realised there was nothing he could do to free Gialyn. He would have to keep track of them and send Elspeth back for help.
“We’ll come back for you, Gialyn,” he shouted.
He turned to follow Elspeth, but a sharp pain bit at his hip. Glancing back, he saw an arrow sticking in his hip. Luckily, it hadn’t gone in very far.
“Keep running, Elspeth; get back to the village,” Mott shouted.
Elspeth froze. She looked back and forth. Her eyes were wide and full of panic. The hesitation cost her dearly. She barely had time to turn before one of the soldiers tackled her to the ground.
Mott spat out a curse. “Foolish girl,” he whispered.
He could still run fast enough to get away. He looked left and right at Elspeth and Gialyn. There was no saving them; he would have to go for help.
He nodded at Elspeth. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.”
Elspeth still looked panicked, but she managed to nod back. He couldn’t see what Gialyn might be thinking; the Salrian on top of him had the boy’s face pushed into the dirt.
Motts blood boiled. He had to fight the temptation to run at the enemy, but after one last look at Elspeth’s pleading eyes, he turned and ran.
Mindful of the Salrians’ arrows, he dodged left and right, in between pools, and around clumps of thick reeds. Just one Salrian followed, and he gave up before long. Sensing he was out of danger, Mott stopped. Looking back, he watched as the Salrians dragged Elspeth and Gialyn away. They’re turning back; they must be taking them to Blue Rock Pass.
Bad as things were, at least he knew where they were going – across the border into An’aird Barath. “Hold tight you two,” he whispered. “I’ll get you back.”
CHAPTER 7
Between Tree and Sky
Olam watched as the hawk circled the small stand of trees. Every now and then, the bird would dart down between the branches, then fly up again, empty-handed, so to speak. Clever rabbit, Olam thought.
If the hawk had noticed Olam, it apparently did not mind the audience. It spun around, almost dancing in the pristine sky, tucking its wings in close, barrelling and rolling. Enjoying itself, Olam thought. And why wouldn’t it? A beautiful landscape, with majestic mountains for a backyard, Olam would—
“No-no-no, you’re doing it all wrong,” Ealian moaned. “He said, ‘Don’t project; pull in,’ whatever that means.” Ealian straightened himself in the saddle of his small grey mare and gestured as though drawing air into his lungs.
“Child,” Olam said. He knew his tone was lecturing, but at that point, he honestly could not help himself. “It would be far easier if you would let me talk to Alacin’tien.”
“Oh no, we’re not starting with that again. Alacin stays where he is. You’ll have to make do with me.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Olam. It’s my mind; I will do the talking. We can stop right now if that isn’t good enough for you.”
Ealian gave him one of his self-asserting huffs, as they continued along the almost non-existent path. Apparently, as far as the boy was concerned, that was the end of that argument.
Arfael had left them to it. He was a good fifty paces ahead, sitting up in the saddle of his Kalidhain Tall Horse – which didn’t look nearly as tall with the big man perched on its back. Now and then, Arfael would take pity on the animal and dismount, walking up a steep slope, or across a stretch of particularly rocky ground.
Olam would be glad of a rest, too; maybe have some time to himself – he needed to meditate; it had been four days since he had taken some time for himself. But Ealian had insisted on teaching him about the Voice. “I want this done before we reach the dragons,” is what the boy had told him when Olam asked why he was in such a rush. It did not make sense at the time and still didn’t. It was not as if Ealian would be going anywhere anytime soon. Not by himself; not yet.
On the other hand, did Ealian have a plan? Olam had wondered if Alacin had told the boy something that he was not sharing…
No, if the Raic had a plan, chances are the boy would not agree to it.
Ealian wanted to go home. No plans, no schemes – just leave all this behind and go back to Albergeddy; hence the rush to finish Olam’s lessons.
I wish he would let me talk to him. Just for ten minutes.
“If you ‘want this done,’” Olam urged, “then why not let him speak? Surely you know direct contact would prove far more efficient.”
“Oh, don’t try that with me, Olam; I am not stupid.”
Ealian smiled sarcastically. Apparently, he had forgotten that teaching Olam about the Voice had been his idea. If talking to Alacin would speed up the process…
Olam sighed. “Very well, we will do it your way. Try explaining again. What did you mean by ‘pull in’?”
Ealian remained silent for a time, his eyes focused on the horizon. The vacant expression was familiar; Alacin was talking inside the boy’s mind. The ancient Cren must be getting bored of repeating himself, Olam thought. Maybe he would force Ealian to let him speak.
Ealian huffed loudly before continuing. “It’s not projection, it’s… squeezing. What? You didn’t say anything about that last time,” Ealian told the voice in his head. “I know it isn’t working. How is changing it again going to—? All right, calm down. I’ll try that.” Ealian huffed again as he turned back to Olam. “He said, ‘It’s not just breath
ing out; you must breathe in, too.’ And no, I don’t know what that means.”
Not breathing out, breathing in? “Not breathing out, not breathing out,” Olam whispered the words repeatedly.
Until…
“Of course!”
Up until now, Olam had only been able to communicate with those creatures of which he had already made a connection. He would cast a net, so to speak, and any animals that stumbled upon it would react. Alacin had likened it to “spreading seeds,” then “picking the fruit.” In and of itself, that was a truly wonderful gift, one that Olam had assumed was the extent of the Blessing – as he called it. It had never occurred to him to ask for more. However, two days ago, Alacin had told him that he could connect to any creature at any time, whether he knew them or not. A wonderful thought, yes, but trying to understand Ealian’s explanation was… tiresome.
You’re not breathing in! That was the problem; he was only working one way. His Blessing was of the earth, a gift from Ein’laig – if, indeed, the gods had anything at all to do with it. It should be simple; it should be like breathing in and out. Thus far, he had only been ‘breathing’ in one direction.
Olam looked left at the small stand of trees. The hawk was still flying in circles above it. He cleared his mind, closed his eyes, and focused on the bird. Immediately, Olam was overcome by an urge to Send to it.
What was that last instruction? Squeeze? How can that help; squeeze what? My thoughts? … My mind?
Maybe he means squeeze everything else out, let the hawk take control. He refocused, but instead of Sending, he tried to listen, tried to let the hawk in.
Slowly, the misty curtain, the one he always saw when using the Voice, began to open. The colours were still there, but not dancing around like before. They were coalescing, merging with other colours that were not of his making. A silver silhouette appeared. Darting and dancing at first, but then it began to settle, to slow down. Olam felt the connection. The hawk was looking at him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The hawk was flying towards him. He could feel its presence as a warmth in his chest. The closer it came, the warmer it felt. Flashes of what must have been the hawk’s view slid across Olam’s eyes. He could see himself on his horse, riding next to Ealian, but only for a moment. Still, the joy he felt at that brief vision swelled in his chest; so much so, he thought he might cry.
Suddenly he could hear everything: the beating of the hawk’s wings, Ealian’s heartbeat, Arfael humming softly to himself fifty paces ahead. Even the padded footfalls of the rabbit the bird had been chasing. Could the hawk hear that, too? Is that how they hunt?
The hawk was getting close now. Olam unconsciously raised his arm, and a second later the hawk landed on his wrist. Olam flinched as the bird’s claws dug in. As though realising, the hawk sidestepped onto Olam’s sleeve. Olam shook his head in disbelief; he knew the bird could understand everything. If he wanted to, he could ask the hawk to scout ahead for them, find a campsite, anything.
Ealian gasped. “You’ve done it, Olam. Uh… Alacin says, ‘you have done it.’” He manoeuvred his small grey alongside Olam’s mount and reached out his hand. The hawk let Ealian stroke a finger along its back. “Alacin wants to know if you can hear,” Ealian asked. He creased his brow at Olam. “What does he mean by that?”
Olam smiled. “Yes, I can hear. I can hear everything. At least, I think I can. It’s beautiful.”
“What is?” Ealian asked.
“The connection. Alacin was right; I have been breathing wrong, trying to control everything. That is not how it works. It is about giving in, becoming just another part of the Balance. By the gods, this is incredible; I feel like a blanket has lifted from my eyes. I envy you, Ealian, the things you will be able to do. I-I just cannot begin to imagine.
“I thought I knew everything. What a fool I have been. All this time I have assumed that I was the one in control. Stupid arrogance; the years I have spent believing I am the extraordinary one, that it was all my doing. Gods, I’m just an observer, lucky enough to tap into this wonder.”
“Well, that’s good, Olam. Glad I could help.” Ealian gave a passing smile as he steadied his mount, eyeing the bird as he did so. “So, how do I get home?”
“Home! We are not finished yet. There must be more.”
“I don’t kn—”
Ealian’s eyes rolled. Apparently, Alacin had interrupted him again. Olam waited and watched as the ungrateful little… as Ealian tapped his stirrup and sighed at the voice in his head.
The longer it took, the more hopeful Olam felt. Alacin must be telling the boy of marvels that I should learn; more wonders.
Arfael had slowed. Allowing his mount to come alongside, he nodded at the hawk. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” Olam said. “Something wonderful has happened, my friend. I have—”
Ealian interrupted. “All right, another week, Olam, but then we talk about how to get me home. Agreed?”
“Yes, of course. What did he say?”
“Later. I’m suddenly in need of food and some rest. This talking to myself is making me dizzy.”
Olam wanted to force the issue, but maybe young Ealian was right; it must be hard trying to communicate with a thousand-year-old Cren’raic, especially one with such power and knowledge. “Very well, Ealian. You are right; it has been a long day; we should find somewhere to rest for a while.”
Ealian nodded. Olam turned to the hawk. “And what are we going to do with you, my friend?”
“We could eat him,” Ealian said.
Olam did not answer. “I think I should let him go, for now, perhaps we can stay in contact, now that we have… heard each other.”
No sooner had Olam finished talking, than the hawk flew off his wrist and back toward the small stand of trees. Olam smiled, realising that he had told the bird that he could go. This will take some practice.
* * *
An hour passed. Olam and the others found themselves a convenient place to rest for a while. It was yet another hot afternoon, and a full day since they had crossed the stream at the southern end of the Taris flatlands – if they could have called it a stream; it was little more than a spring, a tiny jet of water bubbling up at the base of a mossy crag. It had taken the best part of an hour to fill their waterskins. Fortunately, the place they had chosen today had a healthy stream running next to it. In fact, it was almost a river.
“I think this is the stream that runs from the Bren’alor Valley,” Olam said. “Remember? Kirin’thar mentioned it. There cannot be two streams this size.”
Arfael nodded, and Ealian agreed. “But how much further?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Although judging by those cliffs, I would have to say no more than a few hours; we are almost at the border with An’aird Barath. The entrance to the valley lies hidden, apparently. I’m sure the stream is our best bet.”
“Maybe we should wait another night,” Arfael said. “It’s been over a week since we were at the Cren Village; another night won’t matter. It will be getting dark by the time we arrive. I don’t want to approach this Brea at night. Who knows what witchery she is capable of?”
“I don’t think Brea is a witch, my friend. Kirin’thar said she is a ‘guardian,’ and a Soul Guardian, no less. Although, to be honest, I have no idea what that means; whose ‘soul’ is she guarding?”
“Well, if you’re not sure, more the reason to wait. How do we know this isn’t a trap of some kind?”
Olam felt his eyebrows pinch together. It was not like Arfael to speak this way – cautiously, with so much reluctance.
“Are you all right, my friend?” Olam asked.
“Yes, of course. What could possibly be wrong?”
“What is the matter? We are nearly there. If you have any second thoughts…”
Olam watched as his big friend began to fidget on the thick log he was sitting on. Arfael picked up a branch and began stabbing at the ground. Olam could see he was upset; or was h
e nervous? He had known the big man for a long time, but this was the first he had seen of this sort of behaviour. Was he that worried about the dragons? That’s a stupid question; of course he is worried, they are dragons. After the last encounter, Olam had to admit being worried, too – and that was only the smell of a dragon. However, be that as it may, why was Arfael so concerned over the girl?
“We will meet this Brea, and if she doesn’t convince us of the need, we will leave, without seeing the dragons,” Olam said. He patted his friend on the knee, while trying to give him a reassuring smile.
“I can’t leave. I know I have to do this. It – it’s just so much could go wrong.” Arfael sighed and threw the branch into a small clump of thicket, scaring the birds nesting nearby.
Olam nodded. That made sense; at least the big man was rational. And all this time, Olam had been so caught up in his lessons that he had not stopped to consider how all this might be affecting his friend. Another reason for shame; two in one day! This errand was beginning to prove somewhat troublesome—especially to Olam’s conscience. How can I not think of Arfael?
“Well, my friend,” Olam said. “I’m sure that whatever happens, if we stick together, we can battle through it.” Olam nodded assertively. Preoccupied or not, he knew he would never leave Arfael’s side.
“’Battling’ is what worries me, Olam. You saw… Oh, never mind. I have no choice. We’ll just have to wait and see, and hope that Kirin’thar is right.”
Arfael laced the Cren leader’s name with scorn. It seemed he still did not trust the Woodsman. Olam could not blame him, not really. The whole fiasco at the Cren village had seemed contrived to control Arfael… to force his hand… make him follow the dragon’s lead. The more Olam thought about it, the more he realised that his friend had every reason to be upset.
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