by C. K. Rieke
“We accomplished our task, and with minimal casualties,” Tilda replied.
Elindrill started in quickly, “And where is Astor? What casualties?”
“Astor is with Gogenanth, and as for bloodshed . . .” Tilda held out her arm to show the cut from the soldier. “Blood was spilt, more from the other side.”
“Whew, and what of Gogenanth? Is he is hiding?” Elindrill asked, relieved that her kin was okay.
“Gogenanth is in pursuit of Zaan.” Tilda looked at Gar, whose face lit up with joy and befuddlement.
“Go on,” Gildur said.
Tilda went on to explain in depth the prison break and escape. They listened intently, and knew Tilda was a great warrior, but such brazen acts against the government were very dangerous. King Hollon did not like to be antagonized.
Gar then asked, “So where is Zaan? Did he tell you any details?”
“Gogenanth only overheard that they were taking Zaan to a place where he wouldn’t see the sun again. But trust me, Gar, if there is anyone who can find Zaan, it is Gogenanth. He and Astor are both expert trackers and warriors,” Tilda said.
“I’m relieved that Zaan might be alive, but I’m kinda worried now that he is still in trouble, and suffering. Should I tell his family?” Gar asked.
“You do what you feel is right, but I would remind you that we have people in pursuit to save him, and his family still believes him safe here,” Gildur told Gar. “You must never mention anything of what we discuss in these circles outside the blue flames. If you tell his family, leering eyes may discover where he is, or may even go after them.”
“Can I help go after him?” Gar asked.
“No. It is too dangerous. However, we believe you are ready to be trained,” Elindrill told Gar.
Tilda went over and put her hand on Gar’s shoulder. “It will be very difficult training, and if you quit, you will not be given a second chance. Do you accept the terms?”
“Yes. What kind of training is it?” Gar asked.
“It is training of the mind, body, and soul. If you complete your training, you will be an honorary member of the order,” Gildur said to Gar. “We are the order to salvage the relationship with the true gods.”
“You mean the Forgotten Gods?” Gar asked.
“Yes, but that is not entirely true. The names of the gods are not all forgotten, only some. Armoz the Devil King has been relentless over the last millennia to erase the memories of the gods above,” Gildur said. “Always remember, through these times, the gods have not forgotten about us; they are only slumbering, and it is time for them to awaken!” The blue torches flickered as he said this. “Ojiin is the one true god, and the one name that has survived in secret these last nine hundred ninety-nine years.”
“Herel Ojiin,” Tilda, Elindrill, and Gildur said.
“If we give them our hearts and hands, they will give us their minds and eyes,” Gildur said.
Gar was speechless, as the energy and feel of the room was glowing. Gildur’s strong voice shook the walls and floor beneath them. Gar was trembling from anxiousness and excitement.
“Your training starts now,” Tilda said to Gar.
CHAPTER THIRTY
HE’D lost count of the days long ago. Zaan labored and hit walls, slept when he could, and fought for basic human needs. This day was no different. He’d awoken about an hour ago to silent whimpers from those imprisoned with him. He’d managed to avoid a beating since the first day he appeared in this God-forsaken place. This was not true for his cellmates though; beatings were frequent, and deaths occurred.
As he hit the wall with his pickax he tried to figure out what they were mining for. They were moved to different areas of the vast caves every couple of days, so it was hard to determine if they ever even found anything. Or maybe they weren’t looking for anything and this was some unusual form of torture that he had been sentenced to. He tried hard not to go mad. However, it seemed that at every turn there was something that gave him the opportunity to do so.
They were pressured by their captors to keep mining. Every now and then, if anyone stopped, cried, or fainted, they were beaten. This would send fear and panic throughout the others, and they would all hit harder and faster for a brief spurt.
Zaan had become one of the incommunicative. He now understood why no one spoke, and followed suit somberly. What was there to speak of? Except the torments they endured daily. There was not much reason to speak of the past, because the future looked so grim. It was torture in itself to think about past memories, and freedom.
He was hitting the wall with his pickax, as he had thousands of times before, when something strange happened. He hit the wall just as hard as he had every other time, and instead of black rock coming down, a small speck of red fell to the floor. Zaan tried hard not to panic, and he kept hitting the wall and casually peered over to the guards. They had not noticed him, it seemed. He then pulled the pickax over his head and swung, and missed the wall. While his hands were close to the ground, he picked up the small red stone and held it in his hand. The guards were now looking directly at him.
“What’re you doing? Hey, get back ta work!” the bald guard yelled.
Zaan’s callused hands picked the pickax up and hit the wall twice as hard now. He was clutching onto the red stone, which was in the palm of his hand.
When the work was done, he quickly put the stone in the corner of his mouth and laid his pickax down as he walked past the guards. It tasted like soot.
Later, when they were returned to their cave, the door was locked and the guards left. Zaan then pulled the stone from his mouth and twirled it in the torchlight. It was transparent and glowed white when illuminated. He thought that maybe this was what they were looking for, but he hadn’t seen a single one in his time in the mines.
The thought of trying to use it as a bartering chip to be released crossed his mind, but he eventually realized he would be beaten or worse if he tried. He occasionally thought about escape and how that might be possible. It would be difficult, especially in his weakened state. He hadn’t heard of anyone ever making it out alive, although some did try. They were not given a second chance. This was a place where people were sent to die.
Once he had the stone, he started thinking about what they had said to him about the Azulūz. He knew that they were being hunted for it, and that he was going to be taught to use it in the city of Barrier Cliff to the north. But other than that, he had only the dreamlike events of that night on the road to Auracity for knowledge of it, and of course, that fantastic showing of Gogenanth using it to hide them from the guards. That night on the run, he’d been too tired and panicked to think much about it while it was happening, but he wondered if he could use it to escape this hell.
When Gogenanth had used it to conceal them, he’d chanted something. There was no way that Zaan could simply repeat it or remember it, but he’d been told that the Azulūz was inside of him. He just needed to figure out how to use it. After thinking about this, he began to doubt himself: if any of it was real or if he was going mad. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to think about it, and he didn’t have anything else to do to try to stay sane, since he was trapped in his own mind and at the brink of starvation.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Zaan remembered something from his past. He was standing in the cold rains with his mother. Remembering the way he felt then, it was overwhelming sadness. In a small circle they stood in the fields behind his parents’ house, in front of a cottonwood tree swaying from heavy raindrops. They were at Emilisa’s funeral. His mother stood next to him while he stared blankly at the casket, and gloom and despair hung over him. He remembered her pulling him in close to her, and she whispered into his ear, “Life isn’t always lived under the warm sun, but remember: If you ever find yourself lost in the dark, you have to find the road to light, and follow it, or you’ll be forever lost.”
Sitting in the light of the torch, in the middle of the c
ell, with the other slaves around him, he held the red stone in his hand firmly, thinking of the colors he saw that night when Jonji El’Rue stopped on the road and passed onto him her Azulūz. Zaan felt calm. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, but he felt relaxed. He tried harder. He concentrated more on the thoughts of those overwhelming and powerful blues and golds from that night. He felt the air entering and leaving his body as he breathed deeply. He smelled the stagnant aroma around him, and the faint trace of smoke from the torch. The smoke was intoxicating. He felt euphoric. Wisps of black smoke entered his nostrils—he could taste it in the back of his throat, and it warmed his lungs.
He lost track of time and everything else around him except . . . the smell of that smoke. As it entered his body he felt replenished, and the hunger and thirst dissipated. He breathed great big, deep breaths. A smile crossed his face for the first time since he could remember.
Zaan then heard out of the distance, “What’s going on down there?”
He quickly opened his eyes and realized what had happened. All his fellow slaves had their eyes open wide and their mouths agape; they were all illuminated by blue light. Zaan was higher than he could reach by standing, but he was sitting—not on the ground though. Rather he was floating in the air at the middle of the cell.
Down the corridor came the clacking of armor and metal, accompanied by the heavy trotting of dull footsteps. When Zaan heard this, the blue lights quickly faded and he fell to the ground. A small plume of dust rose into the air. He quickly scooted his back to the rock wall. The lights quit just in time for the red-haired guard and bald guard to show up at the gate.
“What the hell was that? You maggots! One of you better answer me or you are dead! You are all dead!” screamed the red-haired guard, his face a deep red and veins protruding from his brow. “One of you had better speak up!” He looked through the bars, but no one moved or spoke. They all sat with their heads down. “If you do, I’ll give you some fresh water,” he said.
It didn’t take long for one of the smaller girls in the corner to raise her arm and point to Zaan.
“Well, we got a winner. What do you say, boy? What the hell was that light?” the red-haired guard asked Zaan, expecting a quick answer.
Zaan raised his head, and he looked in the guard’s eyes. “I don’t know what happened. I was asleep.”
The red-haired guard looked at the bald guard. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know, some kinda magic, or maybe the mines gettin’ to us. Maybe the mines is evil er cursed er sumthin’.” The bald man’s eyes danced wildly, looking around at the cave, and he took a step back.
“Don’t be an imbecile. There’s no such thing as magic or curses,” the red-haired guard said, and he looked around at the walls of the cave. He took a step back as well. “Hell with it. Leave the maggots for it! If I hear a peep from any of you tonight, something bad is gonna happen, I promise you that.”
They left, but the girl in the corner didn’t get her water. Zaan was sure she wanted to cry and ask for it, but was too terrified to do so. Zaan didn’t blame her, as they were all at the point of starvation.
Zaan was then left with his thoughts, and he reached down to where his father’s compass had been around his neck, before it was taken. He thought about what had happened, and how he could do it again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE Cascades are fierce and treacherous mountains. This night, the clouds themselves were giant peaks of dark violets overhead. A storm was coming. Gogenanth and Astor made the decision to press on instead of finding shelter. Time was not on Zaan’s side, they thought.
They were attempting to climb between two smaller mountains, in the direction of the Black Cave. The forest line was behind them, and trees were sparse at this elevation. The rocks were slick with the light rain coming down, but that did not slow them.
Astor’s footing was light and quick; Gogenanth’s large feet hit sure but heavy on the slick rock. They approached the ridgeline, and Gogenanth’s breathing was heavy from the thin air. There were the lights of a fire on the other side of the ridge. They got down on their bellies and climbed low to peer over the cliff. There on the other side was the small fire, being battered by small droplets of rain. On either side were two large tents, well tied to the rocks, swaying slightly in the wind. They could see the grassy plains in the distance at the base of the mountain, past the tents.
“What do you think?” Astor asked Gogenanth.
“Well, I have no idea who or what are in the tents, or how many,” he replied.
“Tracking back really isn’t an option, it would take far too long, but we could try to sneak around.” Astor looked down at Gogenanth’s large boots.
“If we can’t go around, then we gotta go through,” Gogenanth said.
“I’ll flank to the side and hide. You go straight through, and be ready,” Astor replied.
Astor was soon out of sight. The big man stood up tall and began to walk toward the fire. He approached with large steps and stopped at the base of it. There was no stir from the tents.
“I’m passing your camp. I bear no bad intention.” He stood there waiting for a response, but none came.
He took another step forward, and then came the whistling of an arrow. He took his foot back just in time, and the arrow bounced off a rock at his feet. He drew his great scimitar and looked around in the dim lights and the rain. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, then arose many figures around him. They held bows pointed in his direction.
“Disarm yourself,” he heard one of the shadowy figures call out to him. He knew he stood little chance with a sword against so many bows, and it would take too long to use the Azulūz to hide and escape. He only hoped Astor was hidden still.
“Okay, I’m puttin’ it down,” he said, and placed his scimitar at his feet.
“What’s your business on this mountain?” called a voice from the shadows.
“Just passing through. Heading into the valley,” Gogenanth replied.
“Where are you heading?” called the voice again.
“Who wants to know?” Gogenanth replied. He heard bowstrings become taut. “Listen, I’m not here to do any harm. Just let me pass.”
“Well, see, that’s where we have a problem,” and a figure emerged from the shadow. He was tall; wore dull, thick black armor; his eyes were hidden. “A big mule like you is worth a lot in the right market.”
“You don’t want to do this,” Gogenanth said to the shadowed figure.
“You are in no position to bargain, big man,” the figure replied. “Kick your sword out and get on your knees.”
Gogenanth followed his instructions and fell to his knees. Two figures approached from behind and tied his hands behind him. They picked him up off his knees and held him out to meet the figure. The man who spoke came into view in the firelight. He had tan skin, a long thin beard, and heavy silver piercings along his face. A long scar crossed along the nose.
“Now, who do we have here?” he asked Gogenanth. Gogenanth did not reply. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter anyways. Here’s how this works: You are going to travel with us to a place back through the mountains, and you will find a new home. Sound good? The better you cooperate, the less pain involved.”
“Since I’m now your possession, why don’t you tell me who you are and who your party is?” Gogenanth asked.
The man’s face twisted as he hit Gogenanth with all his might squarely in his temple. “Who we are is no concern to you! I should cut your tongue out of your mouth for thinking you are in any position to ask anything of me. You are to remain silent, or you will feel the edge of my sword.” The figured stared into Gogenanth’s eyes with intensity. “If you make a peep on our way to Tarluus you will regret it; I promise you that!”
Gogenanth’s head fell back, and he started to laugh.
“What? What are you doing?” The man was fuming with rage as he said t
his, and he looked over at one of the men at Gogenanth’s sides. The man hit Gogenanth in the stomach with the hilt of his sword. Gogenanth let out an exhausting breath, but continued laughing.
“So you haven’t heard?” Gogenanth mustered the breath to say.
The man looked at Gogenanth, his knuckles turning white from holding his sword so tightly.
“You plan to sell me to Yemes in Tarluus, I gather?” Gogenanth looked up into the man’s eyes with a smile. The man was taken aback by this. “I guess news travels slow to the stupid. You had better find someone in one piece to sell me to, catch my drift?”
“Enough! Put him down, like a dog! Put him down now. Kill him!” But calmly and with a great amount of strength, Gogenanth snapped his rope bonds apart from behind his back, with only his bare arms. He then stood there and smiled at the man with the scar across his nose. The leader put his hand up above his head, and then down at Gogenanth to tell the surrounding men to loose their arrows, but nothing happened. His confusion was apparent, and then he held his sword out in front of him.
“You think to enslave me?” Gogenanth said. He came closer to the leader, and the man took a large swing at him, but Gogenanth came in faster than a man his size should be able to. He hit the leader hard in the chest with his strong fist. The leader staggered back but stood his ground, his sword held out in front of him.
“You are dead! Dead I say!” He moved his sword back to swing at Gogenanth, but then he felt the unmistakably cold of steel hovering by his ear.
“That’s enough. You’re done. Put it down,” Astor said. He was holding one of his arrows in his bow, cocked and ready, at the leader’s head.
A fiery eruption went over the leader’s eyes as he swung his sword at Astor, who ducked under the weapon’s arc. Then Gogenanth came in with an earthquake of a hit at the body of the leader, who went down hard, with Gogenanth and Astor standing over him.
