Father Francis crossed himself and said a silent prayer.
“Praise be to the Father,” he whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
The small band walked through the narrow canyon at a moderate pace, the bleak stone walls seeming a hollow prison, and Vilmos felt trapped within them. He couldn’t wait for the burst of greenery that he hoped lay somewhere ahead, the place where the dead-black prison ended and life began. He neglected to recall that beyond the canyon west and east lay mountains and a long series of rolling foothills.
He had been told that one path would bring them to the mountains, another would carry them into the foothills and beyond to the Borderlands, and yet another would carry them to the distant wastelands of the Barrens. The sun was no longer directly above, so now numerous shadows lurked not far off. Vilmos looked out at this world of shadow and light as if he saw through a layer of dense fog. His thoughts were unclear and old memories streamed into his mind as he looked about, memories that were not his own, but the others’. The air was cooler than he remembered it.
Behind him, Amir and Noman were deep in conversation and although he couldn’t fully hear what they discussed, he could guess. The two had been talking about the same topic since they had begun, the subject of which was beyond his comprehension. Looking to the front and again to the rear, Vilmos regarded the little flock. Everyone was present except for Ayrian, whom he had not seen since the outset. He wondered where he was.
Vilmos carried on, his gaze from time to time returning to the diviner and the warrior. He looked back to the others also, Xith and the Little One. Every now and again, little lines of sunshine played upon her face in a myriad of patterns and every now and again she would flick the thick tuft of hair that would fall down over her eyes back into place, always blowing it up with a puff of air at first and then raising frustrated hands to toss it back when that didn’t work.
The shaman walked with the aid of a twisted oaken stave, which he had retrieved along with many other trinkets from amongst his belongings stored at the hidden city. A clear blue ball was fixed into the crown of the twisted dark wood, set within the grasp of an upturned clawed hand. The tapping of the stick against the rocky trail created a resonant sound that echoed boldly from the canyon walls, which didn’t seem to bother the shaman in the least though it irked Vilmos.
Not looking where he was going, Vilmos stumbled and nearly fell. It was only Amir’s fast hand that saved him from a nasty spill. He brought his attention back to his surroundings. The trail had grown suddenly rockstrewn and he needed to pick his way through it with care. For a short while, he kept his attention on the trail, picking up one foot and placing it down and then picking up the other and setting it down without faltering. His mind was at ease as this occupied the moments he had been squandering in distress.
The path eventually cleared and Vilmos raced to catch up with the others, surprised to find that they had reached the end of the canyon. He cast no glances behind as he sprang along down the long decline that he hoped would lead out of the gorge. He looked forward to the sight of rolling hills spreading out before him and perhaps even patches of thick green grasses. He scrambled on, stopping abruptly as the illusion of the facing wall disappeared. The wall was an illusion from afar, for the narrow canyon split into two gorges that were narrower still. Puzzled, for he hadn’t noticed this the first time through; he scratched his head absently.
The pace quickened now as deep shadows began to gather around them. The day was nearly spent. Xith urged them on, saying that he wanted to be in and out of the tunnels before nightfall. Vilmos’ heart nearly skipped a full beat at the mention of tunnels. He didn’t look forward to traipsing through any more dark tunnels under any circumstances, let alone when his nerves were already unsettled by the arrival of darkness.
“The tunnels will take us through the mountains—that is, if I can find them and find the way through them. It has been quite some time,” said the shaman, “and with any luck, we’ll be in and out before you know it.”
They found the entrance to the tunnels some hours later, but it did not seem that luck was on the travelers’ side. The shadows in the gorge were already deep and full, and night was perhaps only a few hours away.
“Stay close,” warned the shaman, as he led the way.
Here the order changed; Noman came up beside Xith and Amir took up the rear. Vilmos and the Little One were ushered into the more protective middle ranks.
Xith didn’t sound very reassuring when he told them that hundreds of tunnels ran through the mountains, yet only one or two came out directly. “The others could lead us around for days. Not to worry, though; I am sure that this is the one we want to follow.”
The hills seemed so desperately far away.
“Stand ready to move fast if need be. Some areas are pretty unstable and the supports may be worn through. You can rest easy, though, because I don’t think any manner of beast would take up residence in this section of the tunnels unless of course—well, never you mind.” The shaman’s voice trailed off as the small band passed into the shadows of the rock.
Noman lit their way with a magical flame. The blue flame was familiar and somehow, in the later hours, became a thing that reflected relative safety to their minds. Perhaps it was the soothing blue-white color or perhaps just the fact that it showed the way through the darkness. Goosebumps faded from unsettled skin and the dankness and the cold became no longer hindrances.
Oddly enough in the new subterranean world that was revealed, even amongst the dampness, the darkness, and the cold, there were things of beauty to behold. A few of the great cavernous rooms they came across held natural wonders, intricate series of stalactites and stalagmites spread out in a myriad of shapes and sizes, all yearning to reach one another. One particularly grand grotto held a large, perfectly circular pool filled with seemingly clear waters with a great stalagmite in its center. Vilmos nearly wandered over to the pool, but Xith quickly snatched him away from it.
The sense of the flow of time, the ticking away of minutes and hours, became difficult to discern. For some it was an endless wait, filled with hours upon hours of yearning to see a burst of color or light that would mark their exit from the darkness, yet for others it seemed that time held no consequence for them.
Xith trudged on with sure feet despite some grumblings.
A light meal was eventually taken in a small cavern that they had stumbled across. The ten-foot square cavelet held but one entrance and seemed safe enough, so packs were dropped and food stores were delved into. It was midway through the meal when Xith noticed the wardings marked on one of the walls. They had been etched by his own hand on a trip a long time ago. He started, dropping his meal to the ground, and stood and walked over to the wall, his face masked in a deep, dark frown.
“Oh my,” he gasped, and by then all eyes were upon him.
“What is it, shaman?” asked Noman.
There was a faraway look in the other’s eyes as he turned back to face them and began. “You—wouldn’t—believe—even—if—told you—”
“I would,” whispered the Little One, to the surprise of the others.
“It was here that it happened—almost a lifetime ago,” whispered the shaman in a voice almost unfamiliar to the others. Perhaps it was the sorrow held in the tone, or other things, but it seemed the voice of a different man than the one who stood before them.
Xith fell to his knees as he ran to a dark splotch on the floor, running his hand over the wide, dark blemish. “Right here is where he fell. He was in so much pain.”
Xith straightened his hunched-over back and rubbed tears from his cheeks. “I didn’t know why we ran towards instead of away, not until that moment, that very sad moment. It is not a pleasant thing to hear the gasps of the dying, so much pain, so great a struggle to tell all that needed to be said—to find that you alone carry on the struggle.”
“You are not alone, Shaman of the Great Northern Reaches, nor were you ever truly alo
ne.” It was Noman’s voice that surprisingly sprang forth, “for if you had been, none of us would be here now with you. Ywentir may have fallen, but there were those of us who held Tsitadel’, and those that survived were given a second chance.”
“Yes, but they came for us and hunted us down like animals.”
“Yet your father and mother survived and were blessed with a son, passing down their life memories to you so that you carried them on.”
The downcast eyes straightened and the strong emotions cleared. “We took a wrong turn back there. We need to retrace our path a short distance and then—”
“No, the sun set long ago. I think it best if we remain here,” spoke Noman with finality. “There is a sense of goodness in this small place. We can rest easy; no harm will befall us, of this I am sure. It is sometimes a healing experience to relive the pain of the past.”
Low hills spread out ahead in a long, seemingly endless series of hunchbacked rises. It almost seemed as if the travelers could simply step across them without having to descend into the veiled falls, but they would soon discover that progress through the hill country was not as easy as it seemed. The companions raced on, eager to make up the few hours of lost time.
As he walked the course, Vilmos vaguely remembered having passed through the low hills before. He watched the shaman continually cast sidelong glances up into the cloudless blue sky and often into the distance far ahead, without knowing what the other watched for. The hills were not entirely bleak and lifeless as he knew the lands that lurked ahead would be. He saw small rodents scurrying about their daily chore of gathering food and even small birds nested in the branches of the scrub trees waiting for the opportune meal to present itself.
Afternoon was settling upon the travelers now; they would have to hurry if they wanted to be out of the hills by nightfall. Vilmos breathed deeply and easily now as he finally realized no more shadows surrounded them. Momentarily, he hesitated and looked back; over his left shoulder lay the mountains, which seemed to lurch suddenly into place only as he looked back.
Over his right shoulder there was an empty patch of brown and tan that faded away to gray; and while he couldn’t see the mountains that he knew should be there, he could guess that they were, in fact, there somewhere. Ahead, he still saw only the hills, even as he topped a new rise. The sun continued along its westerly path and the travelers continued south, trudging along; and when it seemed the sun was about to dip down to the land, the travelers, at long last, found their way beyond the hills. The group paused here, for here they were supposed to turn east; they stopped to rest and to wait for their companion’s return.
The sun had truly dipped beneath the land as Vilmos spotted a single rider ushering a group of horses toward them. An earlier question was answered as the feathered face came into view and Vilmos returned the salutatory wave as did the others.
“I was beginning to think you would not arrive, old friend,” called out Xith.
“I told you I would make it. Two hours of day to spare. Did you not have faith in me?” came the response.
Xith chuckled.
“Yes, I did, yet I was unsure if you would be able to procure the mounts and return in such a short time.”
“Swifter than the wind,” Ayrian shot back with a quick grin as he dismounted, motioning for everyone to pick an animal and start packing the gear onto it. Time was of the essence.
Amir claimed the largest beast for his own, the only beast that could withstand the burden of his great bulk, an all-white steed with a black nose and two black socks. Still, his enormous size seemed to dwarf that of the horse. Vilmos set his packs upon his chosen animal and hesitantly mounted. He didn’t much like the idea of riding, yet it was better than walking. In contrast to the lumbering giant, he had chosen the smallest horse, a brown mare with a long black mane. The others mounted, each in turn, save Ayrian who took no mount. He preferred to return to the air. Vilmos watched the Eagle Lord as they rode away. Golden rays of the sun seemed to dance along the feathered skin, a lush golden bronze and then suddenly Ayrian took flight, launching into the air, his great wings thrashing the earth, sending plumes of dust outward and upward.
The party followed Ayrian as he led them across the long flat basin and, to Vilmos’ dismay he led them south instead of east, into another stretch of rugged, low hills. They rode at a fast pace and, as the horses had formerly been riderless, they moved swiftly, allowing the travelers to cover much ground despite the intractable hills. Night did come, though; they could not hold it back no matter how fast they rode, and just within the ring of safety the hill country provided, they set up camp. The weary travelers were quickly asleep and even those who weren’t utterly fatigued found sleep swiftly. Dawn came, and with it they stirred. Breakfast was frugal and hurriedly eaten; this day promised to bring rain, and they wanted to put distance between themselves and the encroaching storm. They took a southwesterly path, which would almost immediately take them into the border country. Fear of the storm drove them on and they rode with good speed.
Ruggedness seemed to jump out at Vilmos as the last of the hills leveled out. He remembered the wild magic that had been here, which he no longer felt, and although he did perceive a subtle shift of the energies within him, it was nothing compared to the wildness he had once absorbed. A dry gale kicked up coarse dirt, flinging it into unshielded eyes with a vengeful sting. Kerchiefs were brought up around nose and mouth to the low brim of the eyes. Eastward, the dark tumultuous billows of a storm front approached and Vilmos turned to gawk at it. As he did so, he spotted the Eagle Lord circling loftily overhead.
Vilmos squinted, for suddenly it seemed that Ayrian was no longer there. He rubbed his eyes, thinking something had gotten into his eyes, and then stared again. As he looked on, a thing he at first mistook as an odd cloud, soared past him. For an instant, he recalled his fear of the shadows that the storm was spreading across the eastern landscape, but then recognition came. He roused the stirrups and sent his steed racing to catch up to the shaman. “Xith?” said Vilmos as he rode up beside the other, “How did he do that?”
“Who did what?” asked the shaman, apparently lost in his own concerns.
“Ayrian, look!” he exclaimed and then pointed.
“That is a gift that proved to be the bane of his kind,” muttered Xith, “I would suggest you worry about your own concerns. Have you been practicing as I told you to do?”
“Well, no, not really,” admitted the apprentice, “can I do that?”
Xith considered Vilmos’ words for a time before replying.
“No. It is the Father’s gift to his kind. I am afraid he is the last of such shape-shifters in all the land. Through illusion, some may seem to change forms, but they are only real if you believe them. That is a gift you would do best to forget.”
Vilmos tugged at the reins to slow the horse a bit.
“But why?” he asked.
“That is a story only Ayrian would tell best. But I will tell you some. After all, we have a long ride ahead of us. Do we not?”
Vilmos signaled agreement with a hearty nod.
In spite of the wind, the dust, and the clatter of hooves against hard ground, Xith began to tell the tale. Vilmos said nothing for a long time as the elder spoke, intent on listening, which alone proved a difficult task. Xith paused and eyed Vilmos to be sure that he still followed; for as the storm approached he was unsure whether the other was able to hear anything he said and then just when he was about to begin again, Noman signaled a timely halt.
“Did you hear anything I said?” asked Xith.
Vilmos shrugged his shoulders. “Not really,” he finally admitted. “Do we have time now? I mean to tell it again.”
“I’m not so sure that I have the energy to do it,” explained the shaman, sighing and then looking to Noman, who winked.
“It is about time for lunch, is it not?” spoke Noman.
Xith nodded and shot a prudent glance at the thunderclouds still
looming not far off.
“Do not worry, shaman, they will turn north with the winds and blow up into the mountains. They always do.”
Amir seemed to agree as he furrowed his eyebrows and looked at first eastward and then heavenward.
“Five clans once peacefully ruled the whole of the Northern Ranges,” Noman began in a winsome tone, beckoning the boy to squat down to his haunches on the hard, windswept ground. “They dwelled happily in the many valleys that dot the range from end to end, for there all their needs were met. The mountains afforded shelter from the elements. The valleys provided food for hunt and meal. They wanted for nothing and infrequently visited their brethren in Over-Earth.”
The words echoed resonantly in Vilmos’ mind as well as in his ears. The voice that he had thought ranged only in baritone swept from tenor to bass with surprising ease that made it sound natural and to be expected.
“The mountains proved an important barrier, a marshalling wall that spread from the Eastern Sea to the Western Sea. There were other tribes in the Northlands then, too. They dwelled safely beyond the mountains, preferring the bitterness of snow and ice to the concerns of the outside world. My own people often visited and for a time we peacefully intermingled. Yet at this time we had no communities within their lands—that is another tale destined for another telling. We provided the few things that the Eagle Clans had found they lacked. And it was through our comings and goings that Man discovered the Eagle Clans.
“The spread of Man came as a slow incursion, like a disease festering in an open wound. They had spread south, west and east, until they bordered all their neighbors save one, the peoples of the North. You see, where the others had been given gifts that could not be maligned, Man had been given the gift of Magic.
“Hold that question—I know what you wish to ask already—but then why do the peoples of the Samguinne have magic? And I will tell you that it is because they were its first users. But along with this gift the Father endowed them with understanding and great wisdom. He gave them the power of control and the knowledge of the end that would come if they misused the gift. So in this sense, it was a different gift than he gave to Man. But then you might also ask where does your own gift of magic come from? And I will again tell you that that is another tale for another telling.
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