Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1)

by Jeffrey Collyer

  Michael instinctively threw himself to the earth, lying as close to the ground as possible, and turning his face towards the tunnel-dwellers as he did so, not wanting to see the inevitable arrow that would end his life. The missiles from the residents of the tunnels had already flown over his head, finding targets amongst the Rist, and Michael was stunned when he saw one of the archers move like the wind. His arms were a blur as arrow after arrow came flying from his bow, each one somehow loosed with delicate precision. He had only seen that once before: Erena had been her name, and he had last seen her as she was trying to defend the Elahish from a pack of Chet’tu. Could there really be a Bow Weaver down here?

  A handful of arrows were making their way back over the river from the Rist, but not nearly as many, and Michael knew that the battle was terribly one-sided. Even against a full Rist, the tunnel dwellers would prevail. But his attention was soon caught on the leader, as the man closed his eyes. Raising his hands in front of him as if holding a football his concentration intensified, and Michael was stunned as he began to see a ball of glowing flame appear between the man’s hands.

  Beginning as a faint glimmer, it rapidly grew into a raging inferno, the man opening his eyes and hurling it in front of him. It sailed as fast as any arrow over Michael’s head, and in a heartbeat, he heard an explosion behind him. Screams of men ablaze were heard only briefly before the rolling sounds of the conflagration entered their lungs, the gurgling of flames in their throats lasting mere seconds. Waves of heat threw themselves against him, and he found himself closing his own eyes; praying to an unknown god that if he died now that it would be painless.

  But he didn’t die. The sound of the blaze died away behind him, its fuel of flesh quickly used up. The heat too soon dissipated, and when he opened his eyes, he was left with the vision of the dark-haired man and his cohort staring at him from across the water.

  Carefully he sat up, but as he realised that his pursuers were now gone the events of the short day caught up with him, the adrenaline that had kept him going now fleeing his body. His mother; their betrayal; his escape; his mother; the soldiers; the arrows; his mother; his rescuers; the burning flesh; his mother. Whether it was his body or soul that broke he didn’t know, but no sooner had he raised himself into a seated position than the world began to spin around him. He collapsed back to the ground, and everything went dark.

  ***

  It was to the smell of cooking fish that he awoke some time later. He knew it would always be dark in the tunnels so had no idea what time it was. Slowly raising himself into a sitting position, he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a circular room maybe fifty feet in diameter. Torches hung from the wall every few feet, and a pit was placed in the middle of the room from which a low fire was burning. There were several exits dotted around the room, but otherwise there was nothing of interest to note.

  A handful of people were present, most ignoring him, although one light-haired woman in her late thirties approached him once she spied his movements. It was only as she came close that he realised she carried a plate that bore some of the fish whose scent he had already detected. After he had accepted her offering, she turned and left, ignoring his thanks.

  He wasn’t sure whether to be happy for the time alone with his thoughts, or whether the distraction of new conversation would have been preferable. The memory of holding his mother in his arms; his final sight of her lifeless face from the tunnel entrance in Joh’s home: these were the thoughts that crowded out all others. He wanted to forget them, but felt guilty for such a wish.

  What could I have done differently? he wondered. Surely there could have been something that would have averted the disaster. Eventually, he remembered that he had insisted on staying for an extra few moments to ask Joh questions about his betrayal rather than making the quick escape and realised that if he had just gone with Eramica when she had first called him, it would have been different. She would still be alive. Her death was at least partially his fault.

  As his emotions threatened to overcome him, he forced his mind away from his mother, thinking instead of Joh. He couldn’t say that he felt no anger towards the man: he had betrayed them, and his actions had led to his mother’s death. But Michael knew that Joh had been forced into an impossible position: choosing between a friend and his granddaughter. No, his real anger was directed towards the Guardian: the man who had seemed so kind when he first arrived here, who for moons had expressed concern for his welfare.

  Why? The question appeared in his mind with equal measures of confusion, anger, and despair. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m just not that important. Why? He helped me find my mother. Then his thoughts returned again to holding her body close to him as her life slipped away.

  And so his thoughts moved in circles, occasionally remembering to take a small piece of food from the plate he had been given.

  It was some time later when he noticed someone walking towards him, and he soon recognised him as the dark-haired man who had led the small group that had saved him. Pushing his despairing thoughts and questions to one side, he tried to focus on the man as he arrived; watched him sit down next to him, leaning his back against the wall.

  Neither one of them spoke for a few minutes, the stranger eventually breaking the silence, “I am called Baro.”

  As Michael looked at him now, he realised that Baro was probably in his forties. He briefly wondered how the man’s face could look so weathered when he lived underground, where no sun or rain broke through, but realised that his life had probably been one of hardship in these tunnels.

  “Hi,” he finally answered, “My name is Michael.” When Baro raised an eyebrow, he added, “And that’s what I’m called too.”

  His short elaboration seemed to satisfy his new companion, who spoke again, “I have never before known a full Rist to enter the tunnels. You must be important to them, Michael.”

  The implied question again stabbed at Michael, and he sighed, “I guess so. But, honestly, I have no idea why.”

  There was further silence before Baro said, “There are some who believe you are a spy from the Guardian, but I do not think so.”

  Michael groaned inwardly. Not again. Everywhere I go in this place, there are people who don’t trust me. But remembering what he had seen when they had fought the soldiers a thought came to him, “Don’t you have a Sooth Weaver? They could let people know if I’m telling the truth.”

  Baro’s expression changed at Michael’s suggestion, a flicker of alarm cross his face. But he quickly restored his countenance as he asked, “That is an unusual thing to propose. Tell me why you believe we might have a Sooth Weaver.”

  A hint of hardness had entered the man’s voice, and Michael worried that perhaps his initial willingness to believe him had already been eroded by his mention of a Sooth Weaver. But he couldn’t possibly understand why, so decided to press ahead, “One of your archers was a Bow Weaver, wasn’t he?”

  He thought of mentioning Baro’s own strange power with fire but decided against it as he continued, “So that means there must be people down here who have a Weaving. I don’t know how many people live in these tunnels, but if there are enough, I guess I just assumed that there might be a Sooth Weaver here too.”

  “Why do you believe that Dari is a Bow Weaver?” his companion asked, his eyes still carefully studying Michael.

  “Because I saw one once before,” he replied, “A while ago now, but… well she moved exactly the same way as yours.” He paused for a second as the image was replayed in his mind. “It’s like… I don’t know, everything is in a blur when they use their bow. It’s kind of beautiful… in a morbid way.”

  The lines on Baro’s face had softened, his look now more one of curiosity. “You said ‘she’. The Bow Weaver you saw was a woman?”

  He continued when Michael nodded, “Hmm. I would not have thought… Where did you see her?”

  Michael wasn’t sure how much to say, but he had started this line of discu
ssion, so decided to risk the truth, “I lived with the Elahish. Not for long… just a few dawns really.” His own voice had quietened as he said the words, the memory of his time with Aneh surfacing; the knowledge that it would not be repeated bringing a melancholy.

  His eyes had fallen to the floor, so he couldn’t see the excitement grow in Baro’s eyes; didn’t see his breathing increase, “You lived with the Elahish… with the Wanderers?”

  Again Michael just nodded, and the two of them sat in silence again. Eventually, Baro climbed to his feet, speaking as he did so, “So it is true.”

  Michael was bemused by the statement but just stared at the man.

  “There was news of a man the Guardian had brought from the Forest People. We worried that there was some new menace he was devising against us, and so sent a small group to… borrow you. Unfortunately, your companion was skilled, and lucky, and you escaped.”

  Realisation dawned on Michael that the men who had assailed Samo and him in the alleyway of the city so many moons ago had been sent from here, and uncertainty again grew within his chest. But the man called Baro had relaxed at Michael’s words. “It seems you have a tale to tell, Michael,” he said. “You are escaped from the Guardian, an entire Rist sent down here for you, and you have lived amongst the Wanderers. You must tell us of these things.”

  Michael looked up at the man, and it was only now that he saw the anticipation in Baro’s eyes. Something in what he had said – that he had lived with the Elahish – had caused it. But why that would be, he couldn’t say.

  He was nervous about telling his tale, however. “Look,” he said, “Everyone I’ve met in this place has started off treating me well, and then I tell them what’s happened to me, and before I know it, people are trying to kill me, and…” he swallowed hard as the memories again bubbled, “…and then people get hurt. People I care about.” His mother was dead because of his story. He didn’t know how Aneh was. Perhaps she had survived, or maybe the Chet’tu or those demons had killed her too. It was all because of him.

  Baro crouched down in front of him, his hand reaching to rest on Michael’s shoulder. As their eyes met, Michael caught a glimpse of a man in another world: a man who had been the only one to ever be like a father to him. His clothes had been dirty, much like the man who was now before him, and though their beards were of a different shade – Baro’s dark, matching his hair – they both held a distinct gentleness in their eyes.

  “I do not know what sorrows you have seen, Michael,” he said. “And I do not wish to cause you more pain. I will not seek to compel you, but it would be a great boon to our people if you tell us of the Wanderers.”

  Michael was silent for several moments, pondering the request. Baro now only sought information about his time with the Elahish rather than to learn of his whole tale. That was better. He briefly worried that they might use the information to seek harm to Aneh’s people, but quickly discounted that. They had at least one Weaver of their own, so if they hated Weavers as much as the Guardian did they wouldn’t have allowed him to remain.

  Eventually, he nodded his assent. Baro smiled as he again stood. “On the morrow then. I will inform our people.”

  Before he could leave, Michael remembered a question he had been meaning to ask, “When is that? I mean, I don’t know how long I slept. What time is it?”

  The dark-haired man retained his smile as he replied, “You slept for many marks. The sun will soon set.”

  And with that piece of information he turned and left Michael alone again to his thoughts, already beginning to consider what he would say to these people about the Elahish. Will their response to me be friendly? he wondered, Or will they try to kill me too?

  And with those thoughts, he closed his eyes, once more leaning back against the wall.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  Choices

  I have often heard it said by woman or man that they have no choice, as if no part of their destiny is their own to shape. But such thoughts are born of hopelessness, and may prevent such a person from rising to the heights that are awaiting their views. Even in the darkest times, a woman has choices. Should death be certain, she may choose to believe that hope remains, and thus spy salvation that would otherwise escape her. Or should such relief not be forthcoming, she still may choose the manner of her death, that when her soul departs her mortal frame she may with joy and gladness receive the glories that await her. No, to say that she has no choice is really just to say that she fears the unknown, when it is the unknown which oft-times provides the sought for relief.

  From the Wisdom of Ashael

  ***

  He got very little sleep that night. The rugs a woman had brought him were comfortable enough, but his body had recovered from the exhaustion that allowed sleep to overtake the fear and despair that dominated his thoughts. So he lay awake, tossing and turning, often staring through the room in which he lay into the dark tunnels surrounding him.

  Being underground, he had no awareness of time and was grateful when men and women started to rise from their beds signalling the start of a new dawn. He gratefully received a plate of food for his breakfast, the woman who brought it this time sitting down at his side with her own.

  “I am called Silha,” she announced. “May I ask you a question?”

  Michael was surprised at the directness of her approach, but saw her friendly look. “Sure,” he replied.

  “It is said that you have lived amongst the Wanderers. Is it true?” she asked.

  At first, he was surprised that word had got around so quickly, but then remembered that Baro had said that he would be gathering people together today to hear of Michael’s stay amongst the Elahish. “Yes,” he said, “but it was only for a few dawns.”

  “And you have witnessed a woman Bow Weaver?” she enquired.

  At Michael’s confirmation, her expression became a mixture of surprise and wonder. “What I would give to have such a Weaving…” she finally said.

  “Is it unusual here, then,” asked Michael, “for women to be Bow or Sword Weavers?”

  Silha’s eyes widened at his question, Michael for the first time noticing that she was relatively young, not much older than him. “We do not have women with a warrior’s Weaving,” she stated. Then she paused, her face hardening a little, “Perhaps…”

  But she stopped there, and Michael needed to nudge her, “Perhaps what?”

  “Do you know that the Guardian has children who show a Weaving removed from the city?” she asked.

  When Michael nodded, she continued, “Perhaps a woman with a Weaving for warrior skills would be too obvious.”

  She looked at Michael and saw the confusion on his face, and so continued, “The games small boys play often involve fighting, both playful and sometimes not so playful. Thus the earliest signs of a warrior’s Weaving may go un-noticed as their Weaving is confused for mere talent, and we may save a small number before the Guardian identifies them. Girls are not permitted to enjoy such games, and so any Weaving for swords or bows would be quickly noticed.”

  A hardness entered her voice, “No, we girls must cook, sew, and laugh for the men. Women are little more than decorations; toys. We are useless.”

  “You find kids with a Weaving and bring them down here?” Michael queried, trying to change the direction of their conversation. “How do you do that?”

  Silha smiled at his question. “The Guardian is not the only one with spies.” Her face grew sombre again though as she continued, “But we can save only a small number. Most, the Guardian finds and steals.”

  She became lost in her thoughts, and Michael interrupted the silence this time, “Is that what happened to you? Did the people from the tunnels discover your Weaving and bring you here?”

  Her eyes darted back to him, and Michael could see the regret in them as she spoke, “Alas, no. I have no Weaving, as most of the people who live here do not. It was my brother who was taken by the Guardian. He had passed only nine summers
,” her voice was now filled with sadness at the memory, “and the Guardian tore him from our family: we who loved him more than life itself. Do you know his great crime?”

  Of course Michael could have had no idea what her small brother’s Weaving was, but he shook his head, encouraging her to continue.

  “He came into our home one morning more excited than I had ever seen him, demanding to show us a new trick he had discovered. Little Ara was always so full of joy and mischief, and we were accustomed to him discovering some new marvel or another. And so we sat at his command and awaited his revelation.

  “He finally brought the hand that had been hiding behind his back in front of him, displaying the three small flowers he had brought: one a bright yellow, one a deep red, and another blue. He then said simply, ‘Watch,’ and as he closed his eyes we stared as he had instructed.

  “At first, we could not see anything, but then, slowly, the flowers began to merge. It was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen. It was not long before he opened his eyes again, but the excitement in his face quickly fell as he saw the expressions of my parents. In his hand now lay not three, but one flower, its yellow, and red, and blue mixed as if small drops of paint had been thrown against it.”

  Silha had looked away as she had been telling her story, but turned back to him again now, “I think it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and also the most terrible. It broke my heart because I knew what it would mean. Little Ara had no idea, of course. He thought only that he had discovered a wonderful trick, as if all people could have done the same if only they knew the secret.

  “I fought my parents. They said they had to inform the city administrators or our family would be at risk. I screamed and shouted at them, ‘We are a family no more if they take him!’ But it was no use, and never have I wept more bitterly than when I saw a Rist take him and the other ten or so children through the gates of the city, never to see him again. Of course, the teachers at the school would have discovered his Weaving soon enough anyway, but still I could not forgive my parents.