by T P Sheehan
Some time later, Hannah woke. Voices were coming from the kitchen as before only this time the door was open. It was her mother’s voice and another she recognised—“Aunt Csilla.” Hannah sprung to her feet and tiptoed out of Catanya’s bedroom toward the kitchen, avoiding the squeaky floorboard second from the door. She listened from around the corner.
“Does Hannah know?” It was Csilla asking.
“No,” Alessandra answered.
Hannah spun around the corner. “What don’t I know?” The adults looked at her. Alessandra then turned away, wiping tears from her eyes. Csilla stood and came to Hannah.
“You don’t need to get in the middle of this, Hannah.” Csilla smiled. “All this feuding over love and war… It’s not for you to worry about.” Csilla took Hannah’s hand and smiled, then addressed Alessandra—“I’m going to organise safe passage for the two of you through Froughton Forest. You’ll be safe there with the OhUid folk until this war is over.”
Alessandra kept silent.
Csilla and Hannah left the house together and walked through the garden that had not been tended to in months. It was something Catanya used to do with their mother. They would sing as they gardened and laugh at one another’s stories. Since Catanya left, Hannah would see her mother wander about the garden but she would rarely so much as pull a weed.
Csilla sat on the wooden bench that captured the late morning sun, stretching out and crossing one ankle over the other. She laid her sheathed sword on the ground beside the bench. “Come,” she said, frowning at Hannah. “I’m sure the god of fire wants to shine his greatest creation on your pretty little face before this summer is over.”
“I come out into the sun sometimes, Csilla.” Hannah squinted in the blinding sun as she sat beside her aunt.
“It’s not as pretty as it used to be.” Csilla pointed to an arrangement of weeds that were strangling blossoms of thin lavender stems.
“Not since Catanya left.” Hannah could feel Csilla’s eyes on her. She returned her gaze.
“You should help your mother in the garden.”
“I hate gardening. I’d rather eat greens!” Hannah frowned.
Csilla laughed. “You sound so funny since you lost that front tooth. ‘I’d rather eat greenth,’ you said!”
“Very funny. I don’t mind the vegetable patch around the side. At least I can eat while I tend to it. So long as it’s nothing green.”
Csilla wrapped an arm around Hannah and gave her a hug. “I’m just teasing. But hey, happy birthday for last week.”
“Thanks,” Hannah said twice, trying to avoid snagging her tongue where her front tooth used to be.
“I cannot believe that my youngest niece is six.”
“I’m seven now! And you know that I am.” Hannah punched Csilla in the ribs, making her laugh. “Anyway, how old are you?”
Csilla stopped short and stared at Hannah. “That’s no question for a lady.”
“You told me you were no lady. You are a ‘warrior’.”
“That’s right. I stand corrected. I am a warrior just like your father. And, I am the same age as your father.”
Hannah’s jaw dropped. “You’re not that old.”
“I am—and your father and I are not old. We schooled together. We trained the sword together.” Csilla leant in close to Hannah and whispered, “I was always better than him.”
Hannah studied Csilla to see if she was serious. “You did not become a knight?”
“Neither your father nor I wanted to be knights. When your uncle was drafted into the priesthood, your father changed.” Csilla feigned a smile.
“Father misses Austagia?”
“Yes.”
‘I thought it was mother who misses Austagia.”
Csilla tried to hide a smile. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
Hannah nodded. “Yes. I miss Catanya.”
“I know you do, Hannah. I know you do.” Csilla put her hand to the sun and splayed her fingers, letting the rays shine through. Hannah studied the scars on her aunt’s face and arms. She had a few new ones from the battle with the Quag, which her father said was ‘dragging on too long’ and ‘we need the dragons to end it.’
Csilla sighed. “Austagia wanted to be a knight. Your father wanted to work in the quarries, or be a farmer.”
“Truly?” Hannah tried to picture her father as a farmer. “Catanya wanted to be a farmer.” Hannah said.
Csilla frowned again. “She did?”
“Yes—with Magnus. In the J’esmagdlands.”
Csilla nodded. “Of course.” Magnus…
WEIR
With the broadening river to their right and the sheer Black Cliffs to their left, Magnus and Catanya covered ground quickly. They were a good ten miles clear of Brindle and, they hoped, any more Quagmen.
By midday, they came upon a stone weir with a bridge allowing them to cross the broad river. From the bridge, Magnus observed how the walls of the Black Cliffs no longer had the smooth, mined surface they had nearer Ba’rrat but a rough, natural texture that comforted him—the further from Ba’rrat the better.
Magnus turned his attention to Catanya. She was leaning over the bridge parapet, watching the water flow downstream over the weir’s stone wall. Like him, she was covered in sweat from running. She stood with one leg cocked behind the well-toned calf muscles of the other. Her arms were folded inward, accentuating the equally toned muscles at the back of her arms that twitched and flexed as she strummed her fingers across the parapet. Magnus was mesmerised by her. He always had been, but this was different. Before him now, the girl he grew up with was a strong and confident woman. Magnus felt his heart beat awkwardly, but there was no charge of dragon blood to rectify the awkwardness—no escaping his own emotions. He released a breath that came off his lips as a whistle.
“I see you looking at me,” Catanya said in a smooth voice, still looking at the river.
“You’ve eyes in the back of your head!” Magnus laughed, trying to shake his awkwardness.
“If I did, I wouldn’t have let that Quagman score me with his arrow yesterday.” Catanya shifted her weight to the opposite leg.
Magnus stood right behind Catanya, placing his hands ever so gently on her shoulders and drew on the scent of her hair. “Jasmine.”
“And sweat. And dirt.” Catanya turned about. “Probably blood as well.” She stood on her toes and gave Magnus a slow kiss on the lips. Magnus placed his hands on Catanya’s hips as she dropped slowly to her heels.
“I think the swim washed some of it off. I can’t even begin to imagine how I smell,” Magnus chuckled.
“Pretty much all of that, plus saliva from the wyvern that tried to take your head off in the arena.”
“I think it’s time to rectify it.” Magnus dropping his sheathed sword and overcoat at Catanya’s feet then leapt onto the parapet. He stood, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but the burnt remnants of his leather pants and a pair of black leather boots he procured from a deceased Quag guard as he left Ba’rrat.
“Oh, and there’s the chargrilled smell from when Brue tried to burn you to death.”
“There is that, too.” Magnus recalled his altercation with the fire dragon. Brue had most certainly tried to kill him, only to flee with a sword wound to the nose.
Magnus dove off the parapet, over the weir wall and plunged into the depths of the river. All at once he was consumed by the beautiful cool of the water. He closed his eyes and let it cleanse the grime from his body and the disquiet of six months a slave from his mind. He was free again. He was with Catanya again.
The silence of being submerged in the river was broken by another splash. An explosion of bubbles rushed to the surface. When they subsided, Magnus’s eyes fell upon Catanya’s. They drew closer, doing little more than gently feel one another’s lips. Magnus could taste the sweetness in hers—even beneath the water.
Waist deep on the southern side of the river, Catanya scrubbed Magnus’s back clean, fee
ling for knots in his muscular back and working them free with aggressive thumbs. Magnus winced at the pain but fell under the spell of her touch. Every once in a while she would stop and explore the creases between his muscles with her fingers, find another knot and dig a thumb in once again.
When she was done, Magnus wanted to check the wound in Catanya’s back. She reached over her head to peel off the wet torso armour but grimaced from the pain. Standing behind her, Magnus lifted the armour free of her midsection until she was able to take a grip behind her shoulders and pull it over her head. Catanya held the suit to her chest and glanced at Magnus. He could see she was blushing a little but was certain he was blushing more as he looked at the naked, fair skin of Catanya’s back that contrasted with the olive complexion of her arms and the thin strip about her midriff.
Magnus refocused. He studied the wound close to Catanya’s spine where an arrow had pierced the day before. Neither of them had seen the Quag horseman approach. They had been running from the confusion and violence of the battle in Ba’rrat but the battle itself made little sense. The Irucantî had come to Ba’rrat to find the ‘Electus’—the prophesised inheritor of the blood of fire dragons. Magnus had inadvertently received this ‘bond of fire’ six months earlier thanks to a dragon youngling named Thioci, unaware it would lead to such things. He was unaware the dragon blood would give him the strength to survive a hundred fights in Ba’rrat’s arena. He was most certainly unaware the priests wanted him dead. It took six months but they found him and when they did, they brought dragons with them.
As fate would have it, Catanya found Magnus first thanks to her uncle—Austagia. An Irucantî himself, he encouraged Catanya to flee the order of priests and find Magnus. Once the order arrived in Ba’rrat, an old feud ignited between the Irucantî and the Quag, and between dragons and the Corville Mountain wyverns. The Battle of Ba’rrat had begun. But where would it end? Magnus pondered. What of Delvion who fled the Black Capitol? What of Lucas who killed his own father in the arena?
“Magnus?”
Magnus snapped himself out of his convoluted thoughts.
“Magnus… are you okay?” Catanya enquired.
I am fine… Magnus tried to speak yet his breath offered only a sigh. Catanya’s head turned to the side. Magnus observed her profile. She knew his thoughts—he was sure of it. She could not read them, but somehow knew him intimately. She reached behind with a hand and held one of his, squeezing it firmly—an affirmation of understanding.
“All will be well, soon enough,” Magnus said.
Catanya’s wound had sealed over, thanks to his Electus powers that heated the barbed arrow tip until red-hot. He then reshaped it, allowing him to pull the arrow free, cauterising the wound as it went. It would scar in time and he thought it unlikely to reopen, nor invite infection.
“I think the arrow may have nicked a lung. That’s why you’re coughing blood.”
“Else it cracked a rib which nicked a lung,” Catanya said. “Either way, I’ll be fine.”
“Does it hurt to breathe?”
“I’ll be fine… really.”
Magnus gently rubbed and cleaned Catanya’s back as she had done to him. “You’re very tense,” Magnus said, knowing full well he was as much the cause of it as anything else. Catanya let her shoulders drop a little and Magnus felt her tension ease.
“It’s been a long time.” Catanya’s voice was distant.
“A long time?” Magnus wanted to hear more.
“Since we’ve shared affection.” Catanya sighed. “At least in the Romghold I had company. I was being mentored. But you… I can’t imagine what kept you going all those months in Ba’rrat.”
Magnus’s thoughts wandered again. Catanya had seen the dungeons beneath Ba’rrat where he had been kept a slave for half a year. He did not need to say how terrible it was. Worse still, that he became accustomed to living in Cage number ‘6’, as though it were his lot in life. That feeling, at least, was only there near the end, when he thought all was surely lost. Except for that brief darkness, there was always hope.
“I had to fight. Each and every day, I had to fight for my life and for Sarah’s life. I wanted to find my parents as well and I swore… I swore every day I would fight until I was with you again.”
Catanya’s arms lowered and she threw her Ferustir armour to the riverside. She turned about, looking at Magnus with soft eyes.
“I can’t believe you found me in that place.” Magnus almost choked on his words. Catanya wrapped her arms around him and squeezed his back firmly making several of his vertebrae pop. “That feels better,” Magnus chuckled again, feeling a little lighter of heart. Catanya laughed into his chest then placed a hand in its place and caught his eyes with hers. Magnus found her expression so alluring he was speechless. He looked down at her body for the briefest of moments. Catanya raised an eyebrow then turned her back to him again. She tied her hair back on itself in a wrap-around ponytail leaving her Irucantî markings visible over the left side of her head. She then retrieved her armour.
Once cleaned and dressed, Catanya re-sheathed her Ferustir’s lance while Magnus reclaimed his robe and slung the scabbard of Lucas’s sword over his shoulder. He joined Catanya at the riverbank just as a flight of swallows burst out from between two beech trees, startling them both. The birds dove close to the surface of the river, back and forth, plucking insects from the water’s surface. One of the swallows stood out from the rest. It flew higher and zigzagged its own flight path. As it drew closer, Magnus saw it was different. Unlike the other brown barn swallows, this one had a ‘white belly, yellow flash, blue wings…’ Magnus recalled Eamon’s description of a ‘messenger’ swallow.
The little bird spotted Magnus on the south bank. It flew straight, landing beside him and let out a series of chirps as if announcing its presence.
“Who’s your little friend?” Catanya squatted to touch the bird’s beak. It bit her finger. “Ouch!” She laughed. “That’s an ‘Ahrona’ swallow.”
“You know of these?” Magnus said, spotting a small note tied to the swallow’s leg with string.
“Aye. The old priest, Trax, uses them in the Romghold. They hail from the Air Realm city of Ahrona in the Clouded Mountains. Trax sends messages to Irucantî posted all over Allumbreve. They have a knack for always finding the person they seek. I have no idea how they do it.”
Magnus gently slid the note free from the bird’s leg and unfurled it as Catanya picked the bird up and held it with soft hands. Magnus read the message on the note aloud—
“Magnus, Catanya,
I trust this message finds you safe and well. I have remained with Austagia in an advisory capacity. He works to restore order among the Irucantî and seek out a Quag stronghold believed to be in the Corville Mountains. Joffren heals slowly. To what extent and purpose, time will tell. Jael has been a good help in that matter. Brue has not been seen since your altercation with him in Ba’rrat, Magnus. I assume you’re intentions have not changed. I suggest you seek out Marsala. She is a mystic living in the abandoned town of Thwax, east of Brindle. She will help you find the best path. I will be sending Joffren to her for healing once Färgd can spare time for the journey.
Travel safe, dear friends.
Eamon.”
Magnus re-read the words and scratched his chin. “Should we find this ‘Marsala’ then?”
“It seems a little out of our way, when we are trying to get north of here.”
Magnus looked upward at the sheer cliffs just a hundred feet to the north. “I cannot see a way of getting up there. Not without a dragon.”
“If we head to Thwax, we could wait for Färgd to arrive with Joffren. Perhaps Färgd could help us get north?”
“And visit the mystic while we wait,” Magnus said. “Perhaps she’ll have a better idea.”
“To Thwax it is, then.”
Magnus thought of responding to Eamon’s letter, looked about for something to use as a pen, but the swallow wriggled
free of Catanya’s hands and was gone.
“He wasn’t waiting for a response,” Catanya said, staring over the river.
Magnus following her line of sight, watching the Ahrona swallow fly northward and up the black granite cliff face before banking westward toward Ba’rrat again. Something else about the cliff caught his eye. There was something climbing down the mountainside.
“Do you…” Catanya began to ask, pointing at the cliff.
“I see it,” Magnus said. It was a dark creature about the size of a deer. Its muscular legs rolled from one deliberate foothold to the next and its claws scratched across the granite as the creature descended.
“I think we should leave, Magnus.”
The creature stopped, lifted its head and stared with ghostly, white eyes across the hundred-foot distance separating it from Magnus. He knew those eyes. They belonged to the same creatures that stalked him months ago in Froughton Forest. The staring creature opened its jaws revealing two pairs of long, white fangs. It let out a ghastly cry—something half howl, half screech. Two more of the creatures appeared elsewhere on the cliff face.
“Magnus!” Catanya was pointing at the weir bridge. Another of the creatures was peering over the parapet. It leapt on top of it and locked eyes on Magnus then Catanya. It too cried its ghastly screech.
Magnus and Catanya turned and fled south of the river, through the trees, over a wooden fence and into an open wheat field beyond the looming shadow of the cliffs and into the summer sunshine. They pushed on as fast as they could, daring not turn to see if the creatures had followed. Half a mile from the river, Magnus and Catanya pulled up and stood back to back in silence. Catanya drew her lance and Magnus his sword.
The tall stems of wheat moved in the midday breeze like a golden sheet rolling seamlessly across the undulating field. Magnus felt the sun bathe his face with its warmth. The smell of the wheat funnelled old memories.
“It smells like the barley fields north of the Quarry back home,” Catanya whispered, as though the words were stolen from Magnus’s mouth. They turned about, keeping their backs to one another, but saw no sign of the black creatures in the wheat field. “What were those things?” Catanya asked.