CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Cured
High above the savanna, the sun broiled under a cloudless sky.
With head down, Ronan focused on his footstep's steady rhythm and the high grass lashing his waist. Seven days across the savanna and still no sign of the northern forest. At least they hadn't crossed paths with the sansan. For that, he was grateful.
Hot wind, like a blast furnace, sprayed his face.
Sweat dripped from his nose and pattered against the brown grass. How much longer could the world wait? Would he find Zeke waiting for him? How would they cross the Adris? The trip might take a lifetime on foot.
As if reading his mind, General Demos spoke breaking the monotony of travel. “We’re almost there. I can taste the forest.”
He leaned on the walking stick, unhooked a water skin hanging from his belt, and tipped it over his parched lips. The skin’s last drops of water coated his dry tongue. “I hope you’re right. I’m out of water.” He dragged a dirt-stained sleeve across his forehead and mopped away a pool of sweat. He squinted across the planes and searched for the promised tree line.
General Demos stared across the brown landscape as if transfixed. “There…,” the general said and pointed ahead.
In the distance, a line of trees hovered on the horizon like a long lost friend.
He exhaled and the weight of a mountain lifted from his shoulders. The sooner they reached the Tree of Life the sooner they could reach Maylin and the Seeker.
A sinking feeling chased away his momentary joy. Where had the sansan gone? He doubted anything in this land bypassed their notice. Had the plague decimated their tribe? The chief’s threat rang clear in his mind. They’d spent less than five days in the cursed lands. That wasn’t enough time to destroy a healthy tribe was it?
“Yes.” A smile split General Demos's face. “We’ve arrived.”
“So we have.” He wiped perspiration from his eyes.
General Demos rushed forward breezing through the tall grass like a wraith.
He leaned into his walking stick and trotted ahead eager to leave the savanna behind.
Two dozen yards ahead, General Demos froze. The general’s tongue flickered tasting the air.
His stomach dropped. Adrenaline surged lending his legs fresh strength. He ran a dozen yards ahead and stopped beside the general. He pulled in ragged breaths. “What's wrong?”
General Demos pointed over the savanna’s waist-high grass. “Below the tree line. There.”
He squinted peering across the expanse.
Heat waves danced across the horizon blending the grass and the tall pine. Movement and a flash of color melded with the heat. Another flash came near the first. Orange color and a glint of sunlight reflected off a shiny surface.
“The sansan,” he said.
General Demos nodded.
“Let's get this over with,” he said and stepped forward cutting a path through the dry grass.
“Ronan,” General Demos said from behind.
His skin prickled and he froze. He glanced over his shoulder.
“I would prefer this end without bloodshed,” General Demos said. “But, if it doesn’t, my allegiance lies with you.”
He gave the general a short nod of gratitude. If the confrontation ended with bloodshed, it would be sansan blood. He had no idea how to control the magic flows he’d discovered in the ruins, but he could kill. He knew that in his core. Memories of Devery Tyrell flashed in his mind. Death and destruction came easy for him. Was he good for anything else? “Let’s go talk to them.”
Together, the pair plodded across the grassland. Could he use his new power against a tribe of angry sansan? He hadn’t channeled the power since the confrontation with the faceless man. But, he held no doubt about his ability. Power rippled beneath his skin.
General Demos stopped. “Stand easy."
In the distance a tribe of sansan warriors sat atop horses decorated with spiked armor. They formed an imposing line beneath the forest’s towering pine. Colorful feathers decorated longbows tucked behind each warrior. Vivid designs decorated the warriors’ faces.
At their center, a sansan warrior sitting atop a massive warhorse snapped its reigns. The horse whinnied and trotted forward cutting a swath through the high grass. A second warrior, a boy, jerked the reigns of a spotted black and white warhorse equal in size to the first.
“The chief and his son?” He said without turning his head.
“Yes,” General Demos said.
“At least they haven’t attacked us outright,” he said. “Come on, let’s go meet him, but stay close.” He and General Demos walked ahead never taking their gaze from the approaching warrior.
The sansan chief paused a few yards ahead and glared from atop the warhorse. The warriors, fifty paces behind, held steady.
His heart hammered and he squeezed the walking stick in his right hand.
The chief glared tracking his movement across the last few feet separating them.
He managed a weak smile and tipped his head in recognition. “That you haven’t killed us already is a good sign.”
General Demos translated his words.
The chief glared without speaking while the chief’s son hung a few yards behind.
The chief's son sat stoop-shouldered and gazed at the ground.
“You cannot pass,” the chief said through General Demos.
He pointed toward the forest beyond. “We’ve arrived at the forest. We’ll leave you and your people alone. You’ve nothing to fear from us.
The chief’s jaw muscles clenched and anger flared behind the sansan’s eyes. “You’ve brought the sickness back from the cursed lands. Many have died in your wake. You are corrupted and we cannot allow you to make others sick.”
His stomach sank. The plague had spread. He pointed toward the forest. “Even if we brought the sickness, we won’t hurt any more sansan.”
“You will spread corruption among other tribes unknown to us. You will taint the banthers and bring sickness to their tribe.” The chief glared. “You’ve visited the cursed lands. We no longer trust you. You will not pass.”
The banthers? The tribe knew of the strange apes? Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn't the chief kill him here and now? Speaking to him would put the whole tribe at risk.
A thought struck him. The chief didn’t want to hurt them. The chief wanted a reason not to kill them. “We have cleansed the cursed lands,” he said.
The chief’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”
“You told us no one had ever returned from the cursed lands.” He gestured toward General Demos. “Yet, here we are. The land is free from taint and the soulless one is dead.”
For the first time, the boy’s gaze rose from the ground and his stomach sank.
The boy’s sunken red-rimmed eyes met his. The spark of curiosity he’d noticed in the camp had disappeared. A haunted emptiness filled the boy's eyes. A look reserved for those waiting to die.
Tongue flickering, General Demos’s gaze settled on the boy.
“If what you say is true, I need proof,” the chief said.
“Proof? How can I prove that the lands are clean?”
The chief’s head shook. “You can’t. I will send a warrior to the cursed lands. Should he return, I will let you pass."
He glanced at General Demos before returning his gaze to the chief. “We can’t wait that long. My people are dying. They need my help.”
The chief’s expression hardened. “Then I cannot let you pass.” The chief gestured and turned away.
Sixty warriors galloped forward. The warriors wailed like they did during their first night in the savanna.
His pulse accelerated and he opened his mind to the orange souls flowing around him and General Demos.
A long low hiss came from General Demos. The general's hand moved in a blur before appearing again blade drawn.
He glared at General Demos. “Put that away.” He spun in a tight circl
e and found sixty bows trained on him.
The boy’s ragged cough sounded from behind and his skin prickled.
He turned again and his gaze fall on the chief’s son. “How long has he been sick?”
Without meeting his gaze the chief answered. “Three days.”
He recalled Danielle’s explanation of Dimrey’s plague. The boy wouldn’t last another night. An older, stronger warrior might last five days, but not a boy. “Before you kill me, will you let me help your son?”
The chief’s jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you offer such help in our village?”
The boy’s eyes, haunted and empty, met his. “I’m not sure I can help him, but our trip to the cursed lands changed me. I might find a way.”
The chief held his gaze for several moments before nodding consent.
The warriors lowered their bows.
“Can you help him?” General Demos said in a low whisper.
Could he? Could he use his gift to help rather than hurt? He shrugged. “Do you have any other ideas?”
General Demos stepped aside and sheathed the steel blade. The general leaned in and spoke in a low whisper. “What if you accidentally harm him?”
He glanced toward the circling warriors. “It won’t matter, because we’ll both be dead anyway.”
General Demos’s expression soured. “In that case, good luck.”
He opened his mind and a glowing orange shroud appeared around the chief’s son. The boy’s thread, dimmer than the others, held a slight discoloration. “I’ll have to touch him,” he said meeting the chief’s expectant gaze. Did he? He had no idea, but touching the boy might help trigger whatever magic lay inside him.
“Leave your weapons in the grass,” the chief said.
He shot Demos a sideways glance. He untethered the knife strapped to his belt and let it slip to the matted grass beneath his feet.
As he approached, the boy shivered despite the afternoon heat. The boy’s hollow-eyed gaze drifted sideways and locked on his.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said forcing a weak smile.
The boy’s teeth chattered before nodding with an imperceptible tip of the head.
He let go a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and pulled a long steady breath. He could do this, but how? The answer would start with the soul thread. It always had. His mind drifted back to the attack on Freehold last winter. When he used Rika’s soul thread to cure. But, he knew Rika better than himself. This boy was a stranger.
Low chatter buzzed among the warriors, but not menacing. Curious. Hopeful.
He opened his eyes and rested his palm on the boy’s leg. He let his mind drift outward and mingle with the boy’s tainted soul. Sickness swept through his body and his legs buckled. He groaned.
The boy’s eyes lurched open.
The taint roared through a soul tasting sweet and pure beneath. If he could reach that part of the boy's soul, he might strengthen the core and chase away the taint. He understood a tainted soul better than anyone.
The boy’s head rolled back and the chief chattered in an alien tongue filled with worry.
A deep hiss sounded from behind him.
“Leave him,” Demos said. “He’s not hurting the boy.”
Using his mind, he burrowed deep into the boy’s soul and found pure untainted energy. The boy fought a monumental struggle that would end in death, but not this day. Not from this plague. He would see to that.
He drew on his own strength and sent a bead of silver energy blazing through the conduit into the boy’s tainted soul.
The boy’s eyes widened with surprise before letting a go a sharp gasp.
Silver soul energy roared like a bonfire through the boy’s tainted soul thread. The silver energy expanded and burned away the dim outer husk.
The sickness he’d felt through the bond eased then disappeared. He dropped his hand and stepped back.
A smile stretched across the boy’s face. The boy's orange soul thread blazed brighter than any of the surrounding sansan.
“Elther din,” the boy said to the chief beaming. The boy’s eyes sparkled and the red blotches faded replaced with clear smooth scales.
Hissing and chatter broke out among the warriors. Some gestured in his direction while speaking their foreign words at the chief.
The sansan chief grinned.
He glanced at Demos who smiled and nodded with satisfaction.
He understood little of the strange power flowing through his body. That he could use his power to heal a stranger gave him hope.
With weapons tucked away, the sansan warriors huddled around the chief. The chattering continued and the chief spoke to the tribe for several minutes. The chief gestured westward and nodded before breaking off.
Two warriors dismounted and left their stallions with the chief. The warriors bowed before him. Two other riders swung around and the warriors climbed behind them sharing a horse.
Many warriors, including the chief’s son, galloped away.
The chief and a fist of sansan warriors stood in an uneven line. Two warriors held the reigns of the riderless horses.
“You have spoken true,” the chief said gazing in his direction. “You have performed a miracle on my Jothwa and for that you have given me a debt I can never repay.”
He shook his head and exchanged a wary glance with General Demos. “You owe me nothing. It was a favor. A gift. I didn’t want your son to die.”
The chief nodded wearing a solemn expression. “You are forever an honored guest among the sansan and can come and go as you see fit.”
Relief washed over him. “Thank you.”
“Take these horses to aid you in swift travel,” the chief said.
A low purring hiss came from General Demos and the chief smiled nodding.
He crossed the grass and stopped beside a black stallion that reminded him of Reggie.
General Demos mounted the broader of the two beasts, a brown and white warhorse.
He climbed atop the horse and his legs groaned with relief. “Thank you.” He glanced toward the forest. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but many of my own people are sick and dying. They need my help.”
The chief nodded but said nothing.
He turned the stallion northward. “Ready?”
Demos nodded.
He tugged the reigns and the stallion surged forward. He guided the stallion through the high grass and between the towering pines at the forest’s edge.
He traveled north toward the swamp and the Tree of Life.
Behind him, General Demos hissed a short command. The warhorse lumbered forward and entered the forest. Behind the general, the thundering chorus of a herd droned toward the forest.
He pulled on the reigns and glanced over his shoulder.
The sansan chief and the warriors entered the forest. Broken sunlight cut through the high canopy casting odd slashes of light across the sansan.
He turned the stallion about. Why was the chief following him into the swamp?
General Demos pulled up beside him and ordered the warhorse to stop.
He nodded toward the sansan chief. “What are they doing?”
“Following us,” General Demos said.
He shot Demos a look of exasperation before facing the sansan chief. “What are you doing?”
General Demos translated while the chief spoke.
“I owe you a debt,” the chief said. “We will go with you as long as my debt remains unpaid.”
Follow him? He faced Demos. “He doesn’t have to follow me.”
“To turn away the chief would be a great insult,” Demos said.
“I don’t know what to do with them.” He faced the chief. “What about your son? Where did the rest of your warriors go?”
“They are gathering the tribe and moving east.” The chief gestured toward the spot where he healed the chief’s son. “They are moving to the holy land where you lifted the sickness. Others need healing. You will return t
o help my people after you’ve tended your tribe.”
He glanced at Demos but the general only shrugged.
After a long pause he nodded. “I will help you, but if you are to travel with me, I need your name.”
A grin stretched across the chief’s face revealing sharp white teeth. “My name is Sura,” the chief said through the general’s translation.
He leaned over his saddle and stretched out his hand. “My name is Ronan.” The chief glanced at General Demos before taking his hand.
Demos nodded and Sura’s iron grip closed on his hand accompanied by a hearty grin.
He winced and stifled a shout of pain. “We will travel into the swamp, but you are free to return home at any time.”
Sura nodded and sat back atop the warhorse.
He faced Demos. “Let’s go.”
Over the course of the day the group made fast progress through the sparse forest. The sun slipped across the treetops and disappeared as the canopy thickened.
Any sign of the banthers had eluded him on their trek north. They’d also not seen the wildlife present like when Tarbin led them southward.
Early on the second day, worry clouded his thoughts. He leaned over to General Demos and whispered. “Something here is wrong. Where are the sounds of the forest? I haven’t heard a single bird since we left the savanna."
General Demos nodded. “I share your concern, but I’ve tasted nothing afoul in the air.”
“Maybe our time in the savanna has dulled that tongue of yours.”
General Demos’s expression soured.
“Just keep a look out,” he said. “My senses are telling me to run.”
A half day’s travel saw the forest turn to swamp where the high trees gave way to rotted tree stumps and muddy loose soil.
“Wait,” General Demos said.
He ordered his stallion to stop before following the general’s gaze to the path ahead.
Behind a gnarled cypress, a shock of silver fur peeked out.
His stomach sank.
General Demos’s tongue flickered. “Death.”
He gripped the reigns and forced the stallion into a cantor.
Around the curve, dead banthers littered the heart of the swamp. Nothing stirred. Birds didn’t chirp and treetop monkeys didn’t chatter.
Maylin's Gate (Book 3) Page 38
