by A. R. Wilson
“Perhaps.”
Her voice agitated Jurren’s inner knowing. Something about her begged to be recognized.
Azredan pulled the stones closer. “What word do you bring?”
“Another warning. The elders have tracked your progress through the second barrier. Lord Marvae is furious Jurren has crossed the swamp. The elven lords are convinced once Jurren possess the Sword of Einiko, he will be able to break the Barriers they created to separate the races of men and elves.”
“It is a possibility, but not the goal of our venture.”
“They have trusted in the Barriers for over two hundred years. The lords have decided that a threat against their spells of protection is a threat against them personally.”
“What are they planning?”
“They excused me from the meeting at that point. The Three are talking now.”
“You weren’t allowed in? Do they suspect you of aiding the Roan Order?”
“Not even Lord Marvae is in this decision. Only the Three.”
“This is not good.” Azredan’s shoulders slumped.
“How is your party? Are you well?”
“We all made it through.”
“And Jurren. How is he?”
Heat prickled in Jurren’s ears. Why was she asking about him specifically? And even more so, why did Azredan motion him over to gaze into the stones? After a moment of hesitation, Jurren gathered his bedroll around his waist and walked over.
Azredan handed him the croix. They felt both warm and cool. Energy tingled in the places where the gems touched his skin.
Montanya gasped a smile. “You seem well.”
“Um, yes.”
“I don’t think I ever thanked you for your part in my rescue.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“That has always been your driving force, hasn’t it?”
She suddenly whipped a hand forward. Jurren could see nothing but the lines of her palm for several seconds. Azredan leaned over Jurren’s shoulder.
When she reappeared, her cheeks flushed. “Keep the croix close.”
Then she was gone. The soft glow of the stones dulled until they were little more than orbs of clear glass.
“She has never fully let go of you.” Azredan took the stones back.
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me. What do I mean?”
Jurren gritted his teeth. The answer tapped at the back of his mind, though he’d rather cut off his own ear than acknowledge it. His inner knowing had been nagging at him since entering the swamp. Azredan’s mention of, “Seek for some truth and tell me what you see” pushed a memory from his homeland to simmer under the surface. The image of a silver butterfly had not left his mind’s eye in over four days.
But it couldn’t be. That island was so far removed from this place. How could Montanya be connected to the silver spirit who helped him during his trials in the Highlands of Orison? Only Neywan had permission to cross the Ellium Bridge connecting the wood of Chlopahn with the island of his homeland. Montanya never could have made that journey, could she?
“Jurren, you must stop fearing the truth.” Azredan stretched out under his bedroll.
“I don’t fear my past. I simply prefer to leave it where it is.”
“The next several weeks will be far more difficult if you continue to spend so much energy denying who you are. Your memories will define you or refine you. The choice is yours.” Azredan put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes as though that decided the matter.
Ignoring the stares of Arkose and Kidelar, Jurren gathered up his bedroll and walked several yards away. Who did that elf think he was? Always hinting that Orison was as inconsequential to speak of as the change in seasons. Clearly, Azredan didn’t understand life in the Highlands as well as he claimed. The higher Jurren grew in their ranks, the more he learned of their betrayal against the Lowlanders. Lies, theft, murder, apathy. Even rewriting history books to suit an identity they wanted remembered. How was Jurren supposed to speak to his friends about such things and not expect them to change the way they looked at him? Sure, Arkose handled the first conversation well enough, but that also came during his first exposure to the Predator’s Den. Watching goblins emerge out of a cave of fire would stun anyone into silence. Maybe Arkose had forgotten the whole thing. That had to be it. What other explanation was there for a man not to balk at knowing his friend and neighbor of twenty years had been raised on an island of elves? Nothing could prepare Kidelar or Arkose to understand that hunting failed students had been the only thing keeping Jurren’s family alive while he lived in the Highlands.
Life on Orison was too foreign for men from Bondurant to understand. Why should Kidelar and Arkose be expected to share the burden Jurren carried? Azredan didn’t know what he was talking about. Embracing the memories from that life could only result in more loss and pain.
* * *
They reached the breech in the wall at midmorning. A gap scarcely wide enough for the men to squeeze through with their packs on stood next to a pile of broken stones. Jurren guessed someone had fought long and hard to form the entrance.
Azredan freed his bow from the tether on his pack. “From here on in, it will be crucial that you don’t question my directions. We go where I say we go, and at the pace I set.”
Kidelar gulped.
“Jurren, pass me your arrows.” Azredan held out a hand.
“Won’t I need them?”
“You’re better with a sword. I’m better with a bow. We must adhere to our strengths until we reach Ransom.”
Kidelar put a hand against the wall, lowering his head. The moment Jurren’s eyes registered the sight, he felt the creeping nausea.
Claws, teeth, slashing, and rope.
Jurren shuddered, pushing to see the truth behind the images. The onslaught of sensation lessened. Layered, slashing teeth dissipated into the scene of a clawed hand taking a swipe at Kidelar. Rope around the beast’s ankle ripped the creature away, sparing the scholar’s life. Shaking his head, Jurren looked over to find Kidelar slumped on the ground. The scholar’s shoulders trembled.
“Kidelar, seek for the truth.” Jurren pulled him into a seated position. “Remember. Ignore the feelings and search for the meaning.”
Kidelar’s head bobbed frantically, his eyes squeezed shut. After a few moments, his breathing calmed and he looked up at Jurren. “We must keep rope handy, too.”
Jurren grinned. “Good. You’re finally getting it.”
“What are we going to need rope for?” Arkose leaned into the wall, arms folded.
Kidelar ran his fingers through his hair then pushed to a stand. “To trap another creature with claws and teeth.”
Arkose shook his head. “I really miss being bored.”
“How about we all sit around and stare at the grass for your next birthday?” Jurren rubbed his still itchy ears.
“Promises, promises.”
“Or we could listen to Kidelar make observations about the weather.”
“Jurren, you are so not funny.” Kidelar glared at him, but eventually smiled.
Reaching into his quiver, Jurren gave his remaining three arrows to Azredan. Arkose pulled out the five he still had, and passed them over as well. That brought Azredan’s new total to eleven.
“Alright gentlemen. No one speaks unless it is absolutely necessary. Until we reach Ransom, consider every turn in this Labyrinth as hiding a beast of destruction.” Azredan pulled up the hood of his cloak.
The elf stepped through the breach first, followed by Kidelar, then Arkose. When Jurren entered, it felt like walking from early afternoon into late evening. Much of the light hung above them from the high, stone walls blocking out the sun. The path ran almost ten feet wide. Intersected, cut stone ran along the ground, while the walls were smooth as though they had erupted in a single piece. Swaths of dust puffed up from Arkose’s feet plodding ahead. Almost a half an inch of sediment rose around the footprin
ts left on the path. Jurren shrugged off his cloak from his neck to his waist. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw ripples in the dust from their obscured footprints. At least their presence would be less obvious.
Jurren listened to the increased breathing of Kidelar as the day progressed. The scholar was doing better than he in the swamp, but he was still the loudest of the four. Azredan must not have been too worried because they didn’t stop to rest until evening. Each man took a turn keeping watch during the night.
By midmorning, of the following day, Jurren heard a faint howl.
Azredan paused, looking around. “I hear him, too.”
Kidelar leaned forward. “Him?”
Nodding, Azredan pulled out two arrows. “The minotaurs are always created as male.”
“To what purpose?”
“I pray you never learn.”
Kidelar flinched at the comment.
Jurren shook his head, easily guessing the purpose a sadistic warlock had in choosing the gender of his creations.
“I don’t hear anything.” Arkose tilted his ear in the same direction as the arrow Azredan held at the ready.
“He’s still a fair distance off.” Azredan increased the bend in his knee as he walked. “But they have been known to pair up.”
“They?” Kidelar practically barked the word.
Arkose slapped a hand over Kidelar’s mouth. The scholar twisted under the motion, and it took several seconds before he realized why it had happened. He went still and nodded, patting Arkose’s clamped hand. With a flick of the wrist, Arkose wiped his palm against his pant leg.
Kidelar put a hand to his chest and whispered. “My apologies.”
“Show your remorse by holding your tongue.” Azredan paused before the next turn.
Motioning for the rest to follow, the elf slipped past the corner. His drab, gray cloak blended into the shadows as he moved. They shuffled along under Azredan’s lead, the random howls of the minotaur increasing. Jurren knew the instant Kidelar heard the sound, for the scholar paused to stand upright. Arkose put out a cautionary hand that stated he would slap Kidelar into silence again, if necessary. With a nod and hunched shoulders, Kidelar turned to keep in step.
Azredan took a left turn. The next grunting howl sounded farther away. Was the thing getting quieter or had they found a path around?
A second cry sounded from the opposite direction as the first. Kidelar braced himself against the wall as though it might allow him to crawl inside.
Azredan held up a hand, signaling them all to stop. He spoke at barely above a whisper. “This changes things.”
“What is your plan?” Jurren turned so he had one ear facing Azredan and the other towards the path behind them.
He held up a single finger, listening. “They’re calling to each other. Echoing the call.”
Closing his eyes to increase his focus, Jurren heard it too. The way one shortened or lengthened certain tones to better copy what the other had said. It could only mean one thing. Using his still pointed hand, Azredan gestured they go back the way they had come. Jurren turned to take the new lead. He shuffled his cloak off his waist and tucked it through a strap of his pack. Slowing to a tiptoe, he took the first right.
A puff of dust streaked along the ground from behind the next segment of wall. Then another. Sniffing. Jurren held up a fist next to his ear. Arkose caught the signal and halted before bumping into him. Waving a hand at his waist, Jurren motioned for them to back up. Azredan’s mouth pulled into a grimace, then took the lead again in their second retreat.
Feeling his breath come faster, Jurren tightened his grip on his sword. He needed a plan and he needed it now. The vision had showed him a rope pulling one of the beasts away from Kidelar. But where? They would have to find some kind of open area with trees to do what he had seen.
Ransom had trees.
Azredan paused a moment at the next intersection, listening, then turned left. Kidelar and Arkose followed their elven guide. When Jurren hesitated, a cloud filled his mind. The world slammed to a halt as his need for truth crowded to the front of his mind.
* * *
He stood in that moment. When Azredan had asked him to seek for truth and Jurren’s inner knowing had pierced a hole into the memories of his past. This time, fear no longer held back the flood.
Silver light glowed, pulling into a central point then flowering into the shape of a butterfly. Day after day of all those moments when the silver spirit came to aid him in an impossible task heaped together. As the years passed, the butterfly had morphed into the shape of a woman with butterfly wings. He had attributed her existence to some type of fairy, but now he knew the truth. She had never been a fairy, but an elf in spirit form. Montanya had followed him since his youth. Though her motives were unclear, one thing glared obvious: her Rebirth (as Azredan called it) coincided with the last time Jurren spoke to the silver spirit. Montanya’s submission to the Ever One had caused her to cease reaching out to him.
* * *
Time came back into the world. Threads of confusion pulled away. For some reason, Jurren had no concern as to why Montanya had sought him all those years. There would be time enough for those thoughts later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was Azredan held more concerned about insulating Kidelar’s fears, than seeking the right place to go.
Hissing his words to muffle any echo that might carry, Jurren called to them. “No! This way.”
Azredan jerked his thumb to the path in front of him. Putting a single finger to his temple, Jurren shook his head and pointed the other way. Not waiting for a response, he turned to follow his own promptings. Seconds later, he heard footfalls of the other men behind him. Ignoring them, he stretched out into that inner knowing. Those promptings inside him knew how to get to open space. First left, then straight, then right. Past two more openings, then right again. The howls came louder, still calling back and forth to each other. At the last turn the smooth stone walls opened into a dense area of trees.
Azredan gripped Jurren at the shoulder. “Excellent work. This gives us options.”
“You know this place.” Jurren glanced around. “Where can we set a trap?”
The elf rushed ahead. Kidelar tripped in his attempt to follow and Arkose helped right him to his feet. They ducked between trees and plowed through a cluster of brush until they came to an open expanse of grass.
“Perfect.” Jurren jerked off his pack, ripping out a bundle of rope. He motioned to Arkose. “Get up that tree. We only have a minute at best to set this.”
Without asking for explanation, Arkose dropped his pack and clambered up. Azredan stood over Jurren, bow ready to shoot anything that might charge towards them. Once Jurren set the loop in the grass, he tossed up a length to Arkose. They worked to secure a tether over a branch thin enough to bend down but strong enough to hold the weight of a minotaur. Jurren hammered a stick into the ground with a stone and secured the rope to the anchor.
“Alright Kidelar, I need you to sit over here.” Jurren indicated a spot under an overhang of shrubs.
“Why?”
Another howl. This time they could hear the discharge of air from the ensuing grunt.
Jurren dropped his voice. “Trust me.”
Kidelar’s eyes drooped from the wave of vision hitting him. Pursing his lips, he managed a nod and crept to sit under the branches. Pointing to a spot in the trees, Jurren showed Azredan a place to lie in wait. Looking to Arkose, Jurren indicated another place. Then he planted his feet over the trigger for the trap. Glancing at each of his companions, Jurren received a nod of being ready.
“Come and get me!” Jurren shouted.
Though he wasn’t sure whether the thing understood language, the words helped him to put the proper feeling into the call. As soon as he cried out, thuds and crashing advanced through the brush. Jurren put up his left elbow, pretending to be afraid, while his other hand hid a sword behind his leg. A dark form broke through the trees and charged towards him
. Its broad head sprouted thick, curved horns pointing forward. Perfect for impaling a man. Shoulders, barely wider than its massive head, pumped hairy arms. The feet moved too fast to get a good look at them. Jurren watched those large, black eyes advance as the minotaur lowered its neck to attack.
An arrow caught the beast in the throat. Blood gushed from the wound and the minotaur tumbled. A small section of earth plowed up as its face burrowed into the dirt. Bulging, hairy shoulders blocked the view of the rest of its body. Crumbled less than ten feet away, it laid motionless.
Jurren squared his feet, waiting. From his right, more thudding advanced. This one did not come straight at him. Snaps and grunts circled the clearing. When it finally emerged, the beast skidded to a stop. Arms pumped at its sides as though squaring off to fight an invisible opponent.
He sees his friend is dead.
The second minotaur bellowed with rage. Jurren felt the force in his chest, as well as his ears. Round, dark eyes locked on him. Hollow sniffing rang from wide nostrils. Though shaped like a man from the neck down, fur covered the whole creature. The minotaur opened its mouth to protest a second time. Sniffing to the right, the minotaur sighted Kidelar’s hiding place. Glancing at Jurren, he gave what appeared to be a grin, then charged at the scholar.
Kidelar screeched, scrambling into the thicket as it closed in. The minotaur rushed past him, lodging one horn into the trunk of a tree as it slammed to a stop.
Just like a bull. Can’t turn mid run.
Jurren pulled out a dagger from his pocket. The minotaur ripped free of the trunk as an arrow caught him in his shoulder. The creature howled, then turned in the direction of Kidelar. Jurren flung the dagger, lodging it in the beast’s other shoulder. A new cry bellowed from the minotaur. One that gave no question as to the level of hatred extended towards them. Stooping to grab a rock the size of his head, the beast hurled it at Jurren with the projectiles still embedded in its flesh. He easily dodged it. Voicing a livid cry, the minotaur bent to twist a sapling out of the ground.
Glancing at Azredan, Jurren saw the elf moving to get a clearer shot.
