With a tremendous effort of will, Shakre fought back. She shook her head, telling herself over and over that it wasn’t real. Her people were in danger. “No,” Shakre said. The song filled her with light and hope and she wanted more than anything to enter, to embrace the magic that drifted down on her from above. But she knew what she had seen and she was not so ready to give in. “No,” she said, louder this time. She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head and bit her lip until it bled.
When she opened her eyes and looked up she again saw the diseased figure on the wall. The flakes of light looked like ashes.
The first Takare had entered the gate. The people within embraced them and hung the dead garlands around their necks.
“No!” Shakre screamed.
She ran forward, fighting her way through the press of people until she was at the open gate, hitting people, pushing them, shouting at them. But it did no good. It was almost as if they couldn’t even see her. They just kept blindly moving forward, huge, beatific smiles on their faces. Meanwhile, the gray flakes had begun to land on a few people.
And Shakre just lost it.
She screamed again and in that scream was a command for the aranti, the creature she had ridden twice before to save her people. She had not felt its presence since leaving the area of the Plateau, but she would not be denied. She was the Windrider and it would answer her.
At first there was nothing, and she screamed again, screamed so hard it felt like something tore inside her throat.
The aranti answered, swirling around her.
She seized it and twisted her will about it roughly, desperation lending her strength and even cruelty. “I command you,” she grated. She forced it into a spin around her, digging into it, pressing it for speed.
The aranti began to race around and around her, unable to flee her clutches. Dirt and leaves and small rocks were lifted off the ground and flung into the eyes of the Takare trying to get through the open gate. They began to back away, the dirt blinding them, the rocks pelting them painfully.
Shakre pressed harder and the aranti responded with even more speed. It howled and in the space of the open gate a small tornado began to take shape. Shakre was lifted into the air, her arms flung out to the sides, her head thrown back. The wind whipped her hair and her clothing about her. As the speed increased, the nearest Takare were flung bodily back.
People threw their arms up to shield their faces and still the tornado grew. The gray flakes were flung skyward and disintegrated. Shakre began to drive the Takare back away from the gate, whipping them into greater speed. In moments they were all running the other direction.
She turned and saw Gulagh staring at her, hissing with rage, its red-rimmed eyes fixed on her. It raised one arm toward Shakre. Something black and toothy sprouted up from its palm and shot at her.
As fast as it moved, though, it was no match for the wind. Shakre dodged the thing easily. A glance showed her that her people were temporarily safe.
She could fight back.
“Now it’s my turn,” she said.
She forced her unwilling mount into even greater speed and drove it at Gulagh. Its eyes widened as it realized what she was doing and it turned to flee.
But it was far too slow.
Shakre slammed into it with all the power and speed at her disposal. With a cry it was flung off the gate and fell down to the hard ground below.
Shakre started to follow, her hatred for the thing overcoming her reason, but she had pushed too far and in so doing her grip on the aranti had weakened. It was slipping away from her. She was losing it. She had only seconds and if she didn’t get to the ground before she lost hold she would fall. At this height the fall would surely kill her.
She tugged the aranti back the way she had come, racing for the ground. She was still a dozen feet up when her grip failed completely. With a victorious shriek the aranti bolted for freedom. Shakre fell, landing poorly, her knee buckling with the impact.
She tried to rise, but the knee wouldn’t support her and she fell back down. She looked back. There was no sign of Gulagh. The mighty gate was swinging shut.
She reached out, as if somehow she could stop it—there were still Takare in there.
Then it swung closed with a hollow boom and Werthin was there, helping her to her feet.
Limping, her knee already beginning to swell, Shakre leaned on Werthin as he helped her back to where the Takare were gathered, well away from the gate.
“What just happened?” Rehobim demanded, glaring at her as if she were somehow to blame.
“Didn’t you see?” Now that the adrenalin was fading, Shakre felt terribly weary. It had taken everything she had to control the aranti like that.
“I saw,” Elihu said, coming up and putting Shakre’s other arm over his shoulder to help support her. “When the figure on top of the gate attacked her it changed. It became ugly and diseased.” To Shakre he whispered, “I am sorry, dear one. I should have trusted you.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Can I sit down now?”
“Do you think we should move further away from the gate?”
“I don’t think we need to. I don’t think it will try that again.”
Elihu and Werthin lowered her onto a rock. Shakre began rubbing her knee. Fortunately, she didn’t think anything was broken or torn.
The Takare parted and Youlin came through. She had her hood pulled up over her head once again and she stared at Shakre from within its dark recesses. “What is that thing?”
“It’s one of the Guardians. They are Melekath’s chief lieutenants.”
“What is it doing here, in our home?” Rehobim demanded.
“I don’t know. The prison is open. I would think it would be heading to join its master.”
“Another plot by Kasai.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Shakre frowned, concentrating. “Kasai doesn’t appear to be going to join Melekath either. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe they no longer answer to him,” Elihu said.
“It’s possible.”
“It does not matter,” Youlin said. “The creature is in our home and I will not tolerate that. We will drive it forth or we will kill it.”
Shakre rubbed her knee, wincing. “I don’t think it can be killed. I think it is immortal, like Melekath.”
“You would have us abandon our home?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Use the wind again,” Rehobim suggested. “Drive it away with that.”
Shakre shook her head. “I can’t hold onto the wind for that long. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to summon it again. I used it badly today and it will be much harder to call next time.”
Rehobim scowled at her. “You speak of it as if it is alive.”
Shakre sighed. She was heartily sick of Rehobim’s unending hostility. “No. Not alive. But aware. Perhaps no more sentient than a deer. But a deer, frightened enough, will flee and not return.”
“Then it falls to the spirit-kin to defeat this thing,” Rehobim said, laying his hand on the grip of his sword.
Shakre looked at Wreckers Gate. It had to be at least two or three hundred feet tall and perfectly smooth. It spanned an opening in cliffs that were even higher, all part of a mountain range that was considered to be impassable. “Good idea,” she said drily. “How do you plan on getting past the gate?”
Rehobim scowled darkly at her. “The Takare do not give up.”
“Be quiet,” Youlin told him. “Do not speak again until I tell you to.”
Rehobim’s eyes flashed and it was only with effort that he kept still. Shakre, watching, felt a chill go through her. Youlin’s hold on power was not as firm as she thought. Would he challenge her? He had always deferred to her before without question, but he was different now. Not just him, but all the spirit-kin. She and Elihu had spoken of it together a number of times, how the spirit-kin were becoming increasingly hostile and irrational. Was it just the effec
t of having two souls inhabiting one body? Or was it something more? What if the ancient souls took control? What would happen then? She turned her attention back to Youlin as the Pastwalker spoke once again.
“There is a hidden way through the mountains. We will head for it.”
“And what about Gulagh?” Rehobim said.
“I will speak with the spirits of our people. They will show us a way.”
Twenty-eight
Led by Rehobim, the spirit-kin moved out a few minutes later, heading south and west. Shakre noticed that they did not confer with Youlin beforehand, and when she looked at Elihu, she saw that he noticed too. Wearily, and with many backward looks at Wreckers Gate, the rest of the Takare began to follow, the heaviness hanging over them palpable. Shakre understood their despair. They had come so far and with such high hopes—the thought of returning to their homeland was like a beautiful vision shining in the distance—and then to arrive and find it closed to them, well, part of her just wanted to sit down and give up.
As she went to haul herself to her feet, she felt a hand on her arm. It was Werthin. Ever since he had carried her down off the Plateau, he seemed to have appointed himself her personal guardian.
She took his hand gratefully and let him pull her to her feet. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“We should not be moving,” he said angrily, casting a dark look at the spirit-kin, already moving away at a trot. They made no effort to help the elderly or the sick or the very young, or even to moderate their pace to allow them to keep up. “Not until you are ready. Once again you save our people and your only reward is yet more disrespect.”
“It’s okay,” she said, smiling at him. She gave him a closer look. “How are you feeling today?”
“I have recovered,” he said, but she knew it wasn’t true. It had not been that long since she’d cut open his akirma and removed the two spirits Youlin had called to him. He would have died if she hadn’t done it; no akirma was capable of holding three selves. He had lost weight and his face had a drawn look to it that was not healthy.
“Pinlir has not ordered you to submit to the calling again, has he?” Every night after dark Rehobim sent Pinlir to gather several more Takare—usually the young, both male and female—to submit to the calling, where Youlin summoned in the lost spirits of ancient Takare warriors to take up residence inside them.
“No, he has not,” Werthin said, an edge to his voice. “The spirit-kin will no longer look at me. They believe I am weak, unworthy.”
“And what do you believe?” she asked, turning to look at him as they walked. He was still holding onto her arm.
Werthin turned his face away. “I no longer know what to believe. My world no longer makes any sense.”
“I, too, feel that way,” she said. “But I know this: You are a worthy man, a true Takare. No person could house two more spirits beyond his own and live. It is not how we are made.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she said fiercely. “Look at me.” Reluctantly he turned his head. “Don’t let them make you doubt yourself. You are a true warrior in the old tradition of your people. I have seen your strength. You have saved me with it. You must believe this.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded and looked away again. She could tell he was not convinced, but it was all she could do. The truth was that she needed him far more than he realized. So many of her adopted people had turned away from her. She was the one who was always speaking out, pointing out the dark traps of hatred and vengeance that she saw them falling into. They were views that did not make her popular among them, no matter how often she proved herself. Werthin was one of the few who seemed to truly hear what she was trying to say and she needed that. She needed it badly. The path she had chosen was too difficult to walk alone.
Shakre patted his hand. “I can manage on my own now. Thank you.” She still didn’t feel very strong, but she knew that Werthin needed to take care of himself first. After a moment Werthin moved away and Elihu moved up beside her. Shakre took hold of his arm.
“How is he?” Elihu asked.
“Better, but still a long way from healed,” she replied. “Song still leaks from the cut I made in his akirma.”
“How about you?”
“Weak, but mostly okay,” she said. “I did not let the aranti inside me, so it will not take as long to recover.” The times she had let the aranti inside her she had felt hollowed out and strange for days afterwards. She lost too much of herself when she did that. The aranti was like a flood roaring inside; it tore away everything that was loose as it passed through.
“I saw what you did. I don’t think most of them did, they were too busy running.” Shakre gave him a look. He raised his eyebrows. “It was very impressive. You rode the wind up to the top of the gate and then you threw Gulagh off. I didn’t know you could do that.”
Shakre shrugged. “I didn’t either.”
“What else can you do, I wonder?” he said playfully. “How long until we ordinary mortals must begin worshipping you?”
“Any day now,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You should start practicing. You don’t want to anger me.”
More seriously he asked, “Do you think you will be able to do that again?”
“I don’t know. It’s getting harder and harder to call the aranti. It hates being caught like that, like a wild animal. It seems to be getting increasingly wary of me.”
“After years of pushing you around, it seems the wind does not enjoy the reverse.”
“That pretty much sums it up.” Shakre looked at the mountains. For days the Truebane Mountains had been growing ever larger on their horizon, always a sharp, jagged mass in the distance. Now that they were up close the mountains were even more forbidding. An unbroken line of massive granite peaks, covered in a thick layer of snow even this late in the summer. She could see no break in them anywhere. No wonder the Empire had never had any success besieging the Takare. If there were any passes through those mountains, they were high up and accessible to only the hardiest of climbers. No army would ever be able to pass through them, that was for sure. All the Takare had to do was close Wreckers Gate, which controlled the only real access to the mountains, and they could wait out any siege indefinitely. There was a long valley in the heart of the Truebane Mountains, with a lake in the middle fed by the streams coming off the peaks. Anyone in there needed nothing from the outside world.
How ironic that the Takare now found themselves on the opposite side of the gate.
“What do you know about this secret way that Youlin spoke of?” she asked.
“Not much,” he admitted. “Supposedly there is a hidden path through the mountains and I guess if anyone would know of it still it would be a Pastwalker. Although, I asked Rekus about it a few days ago and he said he did not know where it was.” Rekus was, or had been, the Pastwalker for Bent Tree Shelter. His had been the strongest voice opposed to taking up arms against the outsiders invading the Plateau, saying they could not risk Tu Sinar’s wrath on this. After the entire village was nearly executed by the outsiders—saved only by Shorn’s intervention—he had never been the same. He spoke very little and kept to himself. Shakre had never liked the man; he was always arrogant in his position as Pastwalker, but she felt sorry for him all the same.
“Do you think the spirits are guiding her then?” Shakre asked.
“I don’t know. I no longer know what to think. Are they even the spirits of our ancestors? I don’t know that either. But I do know that I am concerned by them. Whatever they are, they are cold and even cruel.”
“We may not need Kasai, or even Gulagh, to destroy us.”
“Hey there,” he admonished her, patting her arm with his free hand. “Do not speak this way. We are a hardy people and we are far from done.”
“I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But I’m just…I’m worried. Everywhere we turn we confront powerful enemies and our numbers are few.” There were a little
over a thousand Takare all told. “And the spirit-kin…I fear they have some hidden agenda we don’t yet know.”
“I think you are right. Perhaps tonight we should speak with Rekus together.”
“Do you think he can help?”
“Rekus has been a Pastwalker for many years. I believe he knows much more than he has ever shared. We can only try.”
Twenty-nine
The spirit-kin stopped to make camp a few hours later, as it was getting dark. The peak marking the location of Wreckers Gate was receding in the distance behind them as they circled around the edge of the mountains. It took another hour for the last of the Takare to catch up and stumble wearily into camp, Shakre and Elihu among them.
By then the cook fires were going and the smell of cooking meat was strong in the air. As usual, the spirit-kin had made their camp apart from the rest and the first food that was prepared was carried over to them. As Shakre sank gratefully onto the ground—the encounter with the aranti had wearied her more than she thought—she heard a commotion from the spirit-kin camp.
Birna, Pinlir’s wife, was carrying a bowl of thick stew for her husband when she stumbled in her haste and dropped the bowl in his lap. With a roar, Pinlir leapt to his feet and slapped her. She fell down with a cry and he drew his axe and advanced on her.
For one heart-stopping moment Shakre thought he would kill her, but Rehobim, sitting around the same fire, made a small noise. Pinlir looked at him and Rehobim gave small shake of his head. Pinlir put his axe away, wiped the food off his clothes, and sat back down, not giving his wife a second look. Tears running down her face, Birna got up and hurried away.
“I have to go talk to her,” Shakre said. Getting wearily back to her feet, she made her way over to the woman. When she got there, Birna was sitting on the ground, and two women were crouched by her soothing her. Her baby—born shortly before they fled the Plateau—was clutched in her arms.
Oblivion's Grasp Page 18
