by Mark McCabe
Then she heard it again. Her pulse rate quickened as she desperately tried to think of the right thing to do. If it was someone preparing to ambush them and she went back to the camp to awaken Rayne, whoever it was would surely see her and move to attack them before she could rouse him. She made a fateful decision. She decided to try to get closer to where the sound was coming from and see if she could identify its source. Taking the bow from over her shoulder, she notched an arrow. Then, slowly, and ever so carefully, she began to creep through the forest, in the direction she thought the sound had come from.
Her progress was agonisingly slow. It seemed that every step would betray her presence. No matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to avoid the profusion of twigs and decaying matter that covered the forest floor, especially out here among the thick of the trees in the dead of the night. Even the slightest sound seemed amplified to Sara as she struggled to divide her senses between the twin tasks of threading a silent path through the darkened forest and remaining alert to whatever it was that was out there.
Her attention was soon drawn back to the more important of her tasks, however. She had only covered a dozen or so paces when she heard the sound again. This time she could identify it. It was a voice, as she had suspected . . . a man’s voice. Peering from behind a tree, she could make out the shadow of a man; or was it two? They were very close, maybe a dozen or so paces from her, but partly obscured by some bushes. Then she heard the voice again, much clearer now that she knew where it was coming from.
“Can you see them?” someone whispered.
Another voice whispered in reply. “Yep, they’re over by that tree. He’s the one on the left. I think that’s her lying just to his right.” The voice sounded familiar. She couldn’t be sure but she thought it might be the man from the settlement. The one who had asked Rayne about Ned.
The other man spoke again. “Have you got a shot?”
“Yep.”
“Well take it.”
Sara realised she had to do something. She felt paralysed with fear but remembered Rayne’s advice: ‘Don’t hesitate. If you do, they won’t’. As she fought with her fear, she saw the shape of a man rise from the bushes, standing up from where they’d been crouching. She watched in horror as he raised his bow to his shoulder, obviously taking aim at Rayne as he lay asleep in the camp. Without thinking, Sara quickly raised her own bow, took aim at the man and let loose the arrow she’d held. As the missile sped from her hand, she shouted out into the night, “Rayne! Look out!”
As her voice rang out, she saw the man with the bow fall suddenly to one side, just as he fired his own arrow. A strange gurgling sound came from where he had fallen, almost instantly followed by a scream of pain from the direction of their camp. Instinctively, Sara looked towards Rayne, but to no avail. She was too far away and it was too dark for her to see anything from her position. The sound of snapping twigs and bushes being brushed aside brought her eyes quickly back to where she’d last seen their attackers.
Sara reeled back in horror as she saw that one of the men was charging directly at her through the forest. He was only a few paces away from her now with a knife brandished in one hand. Dropping her bow and fumbling for the knife at her belt, she felt her legs turn to jelly as she realised she’d left it beside her bedding. As she stumbled backwards, fumbling for the knife she’d forgotten, her assailant crashed into her, knocking her to the ground with the force of his charge. Desperately, she grappled with him, scratching at his face with one hand as the other grabbed on to the wrist that bore his knife.
Sara felt despair consuming her as she realised it would all be over in seconds. He was too strong for her. She couldn’t hold him off. Then, suddenly, she felt a sharp crack to the side of her head and she lost all of the strength in her muscles. Her assailant had bashed her with his free elbow, just below the temple, wrenching his other arm from her grip as he did so. As she struggled to stay conscious, her head ringing from the blow he’d given her, she felt the weight of his body slump down upon her, immobilising her. Through the fog that was filling her head, she sensed that he had stopped moving. Then, without warning, she felt his body lift up off of hers, inexplicably swing over on to its back and slump down beside her. As she struggled to gain focus, Rayne’s face appeared out of the darkness, looking down at her with a concerned look. Then, as fast as it had appeared, it disappeared again.
Sara desperately tried to get back up onto her feet but could only raise herself far enough to rest on her elbows. The dim shapes she could see around her were blurred and seemed to be moving in various directions. She sensed that if she stood up she would only fall over again. The whole forest seemed to be swinging backwards and forwards before her eyes.
From a short distance away she heard a strangled cry and then, thankfully, a few moments later, Rayne’s face appeared out of the darkness again. As he bent down over her, Sara managed to reach up and put her arms around him, letting him drag her up into a seated position.
“Oh, Rayne,” she cried, hugging him closely to her, the tears beginning to run down her cheeks as the shock of what had happened hit her. “I thought you were dead.” She held on tightly to Rayne as she sobbed. Her stomach was churning with a mixture of emotions.
“It’s okay now, it’s okay,” he replied. His voice was soft and soothing as he gently stroked the back of her head.
“You have to let go of me now,” he said to her after a few moments. “Be very careful, I’ve hurt my left arm.”
Looking around at Rayne as she allowed him to gently ease her away from his body, Sara gasped in horror. Protruding from either side of Rayne’s upper arm was an arrow. His sleeve was matted in blood.
Chapter 8
The gloom that had dogged Nim's trail from the time he had left Cloudtopper lifted as soon as he topped the last ridge and spied the valley below him. The Vale of Dreams was, as always, a glorious sight. Far below him, the cool waters of the Farrofir River glistened and sparkled in the sun. The rich farmland that hugged its banks reminded Nim of a patchwork quilt spread out in readiness for a May Eve picnic. The varying colours of the tilled soils, fallow fields and ripening crops evoked memories of happier days, of his childhood and the fond friends of his youth.
Dotted across the scene were the thatched roofs of the cottages and hamlets of the inhabitants of the Vale. Far in the distance, on the eastern side of the valley, the white stone roof of the wizard's dome glinted brightly in the morning sun. Closer to where he now stood, nestling among the folds of the slope that ran down to the bank of the river, Nim could spy the familiar red clay tiles and ochre walls of the outbuildings of the College of the Medicants.
Even from this distance, Nim fancied he could hear the happy chatter of the young initiates toiling in the herb beds or taking their lessons from the Mistress of Herbs or one of her Instructs. Tarak's enduring monument to his passion for sharing the bounty of his knowledge with his fellow Ilythians never failed to fill Nim with awe. The selfless dedication of this, the third of Tanis' disciples, was truly inspiring. With a momentary feeling of melancholy, Nim wondered how the great mage could have erred so badly in his selection of Golkar. His other two disciples were such models of devotion to the land they served.
Having taken his fill of the view before him, Nim shook off his reverie and strode down into the valley, resting now from the loping run that had carried him more than one hundred leagues in the last two days. Although the sun beat down warmly on his face as he walked, it was the soft sun of Spring, the full heat of Summer was still at least two moons away. And because it was Spring, the fields he strode through were dotted with labourers, planting anew and tending to the newly formed buds on the perennials. Nim found that his path wound its way through a proliferation of colours and scents and he drank it all in, savouring the visual feast and the intoxicating odours.
In one field, a great host of storkbills, a few of them already in bloom, covered the ground from one stone fence to the next. In
another grew coneflowers and comfrey, colt’s foot and columbine, all laid out neatly in long parallel rows. In the next, a stand of turnsoles had turned their faces to the morning sun, as if in silent worship of the fiery orb. A little further on, he found beds of burdock and valerian, of southernwood and sweet smelling bridewort. And those were the ones he could name.
Despite his strange appearance, and the fact that quicklings were rarely seen in Tenamos, even here in the Vale of Dreams, Nim received nothing but nods and the occasional hearty greeting from the workers who tended the plants, toiling away cheerfully in the scent-filled fields.
As he neared the stone arch that marked the entrance to the College of the Medicants, he couldn’t help but cast an admiring glance at the long classrooms with their shutters thrown open to catch the cool morning breeze. It was two years now since the College had celebrated its fiftieth anniversary. Already its impact on Tenamos was far-reaching.
Few now were the Medicants who hadn’t learnt their craft here in the Vale, or been taught by one that had done so. And what fine Medicants they were. The craft of healing had begun to make great leaps forward, just as Tarak had hoped it would. The congregation of so many like-minded students and teachers in one place was wetting a thirst for knowledge beyond what even he could teach them. Whole new fields of study were beginning to be opened up now on a regular basis.
Leaving the College behind, Nim covered the remaining few leagues by cart, hitching a ride with a rustic young labourer, Petr by name, who was taking a cartload of goods up the valley in the direction of the Dome of the Wizard. From Petr, Nim learnt, with relief, that Tarak was indeed at home. He’d feared that the wizard might be away. The urgency of his message wouldn’t have permitted a delay, and he’d yet to go on to Elissa.
Petr seemed a friendly young fellow and was no more intrigued by the strangeness of the quickling than he might have been had it chanced to snow. “Lots of travellers from the east these days,” he noted conversationally to Nim as the cart slowly trundled forward. “You’re the first I’ve seen from the south for a while, though.”
“Oh,” replied Nim casually, not wanting to sound like he was eager for news, even though he was. “Why is that? What’s going on in the east?”
“Trouble in Algaria, so they say. Trouble in Algaria.”
“Really? What kind of trouble?”
“Them sligs been brewing up trouble for the farm folk with their raids and whatnot. Least that’s what they say.” Petr didn’t sound very concerned. He might as well have been discussing last year’s harvest.
Oh,” replied Nim. “Is it anything we should worry about here?”
“Nah,” sneered Petr, wrinkling his face as he did so. “I wouldn’t put too much stock by it meself. Some people like to make a lotta fuss o’er naught. I’m sure it’s nothin the Queen’s Rangers won’t put right soon enough.”
“I hope you’re right. I hear the sligs can make quite a nuisance of themselves when they’ve a mind to.”
‘Well,” said Petr in his slow country drawl. “If they keep on with this nonsense, they’ll soon have a Guardian to reckon with, and that’ll be that. 'Sides, Tarak won’t let 'em bother us.”
“Mmmm. Guess you’re right there.”
As Nim well knew, the people of the Vale took most everything in their stride, trusting in their benefactor, Tarak, to take care of them. The quickling couldn’t help but wonder what would come of that trust in the days to come. Would it stand them in good stead in the times of adversity that were bound to follow, or would it be their undoing? Shaking off the negative thought which seemed, like a solitary black cloud in an otherwise clear blue sky, so out of place in the Vale, Nim took in the Dome of the Wizard as it loomed up ahead of him.
The dome was a startling construction, by any standard. Its white marble surface glinted in the sun atop a small hillock to one side and ahead of the road they were travelling by. The hillock itself had once been the site of an old hill fort, with a flattened top surmounted on all sides by a crumbling wall of stone. It was said that many centuries ago, even before the time of Tanis, this was how the people defended themselves. Even now the ruins of long deserted settlements straddled the top of many a hill, silent monuments to the old Ilythians, with nothing to tell of their passing except the crumbling, weed-ridden stones that ringed their peaks, like discarded, unwanted crowns.
Tarak had constructed his residence on the top of the hillock and roofed it over with a white marble dome which followed the line of the hill so that a casual observer might think it just part of the skyline. There was no mistaking the glistening marble, however. No tree, nor weed, nor plant, not even grass, would grow on its surface. It was said that Tarak used it to trap the rays of the sun, ingeniously storing its power for use within. Certainly, Nim had been within the dome and the living quarters did draw on some strange magical power for a number of purposes. He wondered at the drain on Tarak should he be channelling his own power for all of those items.
Thanking Petr for the ride and jumping down as the cart trundled along the road that wound past the hillock, Nim began the final part of his journey, the short stroll up the well-beaten steps to the Guardian’s abode. As usual, Tarak stood at the door awaiting him. Nim hadn’t yet fathomed how the Guardian managed that trick. When he had mentioned it once to Kell, the wizard had merely replied, "The ways of wizards are varied and wondrous; best not to try to untangle them", leaving Nim none the wiser, as he was sure had been intended.
"Greetings, friend of my friend," haled the wizard as Nim neared the top of the steps.
"And well met to you too, Tarak," replied the quickling in a slightly exasperated tone. "The least you could do if you knew I was coming was have a nice cool drink ready for me."
"The chilled mulberry water's waiting for you in the hall," laughed the wizard, opening the door and ushering Nim into the dome. "And the dandelion tea is steeping as we speak. Come in friend, come in."
Tarak eased back in his chair, relishing its comfort as he sipped away at the warmed glass of mead. It had been a long and demanding day. He hoped the decision he’d finally made would turn out to be the right one.
Nim had left about mid-afternoon and by now would be well on his way to Keerêt. It wasn’t Queen Elissa or the Algarians the Guardian was thinking of, however. Elissa would do what she had to do. That wouldn’t be where this matter would be decided. His thoughts turned now to himself. He knew only too well that it was what the Guardians did that would decide the fate of Ilythia. As so often before, the fates of many would turn on the decisions of him and his colleagues.
The problem, as he saw it, was that the Guardians had allowed themselves to drift too far apart from one another. They had each gone off in their own direction of late, each pursued his own interests, at the expense, it was now apparent, of their common purpose. If what Kell claimed was true, then the Council itself had become nothing more than a façade. And yet how could it have come to this? How could they, the very ones entrusted with ensuring the continuing peaceful co-existence of the many and varied peoples of this world, have allowed themselves to become enemies?
Or had it really come to this? Was Kell, in fact, being played for a fool by the sligs? Of all the races, they had ever been the most inherently aggressive, the least likely to put aside their differences. It seemed to go against their very nature to live in harmony with their neighbours for long, to share rather than to take what was needed. Perhaps they sought now to divide the Guardians, to distract them while they got up to some new devilry. That at least had to be considered before he and Kell rushed off to condemn their colleague, no matter what their differences.
At the very least, Golkar must be confronted with these allegations. Just how reliable was this informant of Kell’s? This talk of opening up a way to another world and acquiring some kind of ally; it just didn’t ring true. It smacked of something the sligs would think of, not something Golkar would do.
The pleasant voice of his com
panion interrupted his contemplation. “Come to bed, my sweet,” she insisted. “If you must be away on the morrow, then at least get a good night’s rest.”
“Soon, Kira, soon.” As he spoke, he looked up at his partner with an affectionate smile, taking her hand in his as she reached out to comfort him. Her obvious concern for his welfare never failed to touch his heart.
“Hmmm. Make sure it is soon.” Leaning over him as she spoke, Jekira kissed him softly on the forehead, gently gripping his hand in hers as she did so, then turned and walked away. Tarak watched the sway of her hips as she slowly crossed the room to the door. As she tarried at the sideboard beside the door, taking a beeswax candle from the small box they kept there and lighting it to take up to their room, he took in her loveliness.
As always, he found it intoxicating. Her long red hair splayed forward over her shoulders as she stooped at the bench, its lustre catching the flickering light as the candle sputtered alight. The swell of her full breasts pushed against the fabric of her dress as she bent. Although it was still too early to tell, Tarak couldn’t resist a glance at the swell of her belly. There was, of course, no sign of the baby he now knew was growing within her. It had been no more than a week since she’d told him the news.
Tarak found it impossible to resist the pang of regret that lanced through him. Had he been wrong to take a mate, especially now, of all times? He knew this wasn’t the first time that a Guardian had taken a lover. Both Kell and Golkar had done so before and even he’d had his flings in the past. But Jekira . . . she had become so much more to him than that. And a child! If either Golkar or Kell had gone that far, then they’d certainly never acknowledged it.
