Caller of Light

by Tj Shaw

  She spun and fled into the trees not waiting to see what the others would do. She ran blindly. Holding her bow while her sword slapped against her thigh, she dodged branches and jumped over brambles and fallen logs. Branches she couldn’t evade, grabbed and clawed at her, but she fought her way through them. She ran uphill, not knowing her destination, her only goal to escape the mayhem.

  She ran until she could run no more. When her legs gave out beneath her, she crumpled onto the carpet of needles blanketing the forest floor. She sat on her knees gasping for air, letting the tears tumble down her face. She’d just killed a man, a man who would have slain her after doing unspeakable things to her first, yet still she cried for him. She cried for the life she took, for the lives of the men who died trying to protect her and whose blood now saturated the ground, and for something she had lost.

  She rocked back and forth, folding her arms around her body trying to soothe her soul and calm her racing mind. She was no longer innocent. She could almost taste the metallic, coppery flavor of the Tiwan’s blood at the back of her throat.

  Her hands shook as adrenaline raced through her body trying to find an outlet. Fear clouded her mind, but not because she had killed. What scared her and sent her mind tumbling was the ease of the kill and the satisfaction in her gut that chased behind her arrow when it sliced his neck open. She savored that precise moment and reveled in watching him collapse as he took his final, strangled gasps of air. Master Dupree would be proud of her, yet what caused her heart to pound was not pride, but the resulting power racing through her veins—knowing death came from her arrow, her hand—and it terrified her.

  She surrendered, prostrating herself onto the soft earth, ready to accept whatever punishment the Gods bestowed upon her. The Mother Source welcomed her as she dug her fingers into the needles, grasping to hold something solid and real. How could she take pleasure in what had just happened? She turned her head and curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees. She cried until she could cry no more then lay motionless listening to the forest lull her to sleep.

  17 – PRECIPICE

  Carina awoke to the screams of Critons and the hiss of flames as their fire scorched the unfortunate foot soldiers who couldn’t dash to safety in time. Panic chilled her skin as she tried to remember why she was lying on the forest floor until images of the hammer wielding Tiwan flooded her mind. But she didn’t have the luxury of reconciling her memories because Marek’s booming voice as he flew past on FireStrike kept her anchored in the present.

  The thick canopy of trees obscured her view. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her bow, and ensured her sword remained secure in the scabbard before racing up the hillside. The carpet of needles that had comforted her in sleep now slowed her progress causing her to slip and struggle for purchase up the steep grade. She gasped for breath, and grabbed at branches to pull herself upward while her feet slid beneath her.

  Gulping large mouthfuls of air to quench the burning ache in her lungs, her slow momentum drained her desire to the point she almost stopped to rest until clashing metal and shouting men encouraged her to push forward. With a final surge, she burst through the trees and stood on top of a mountain. Large tufts of grassy reeds grew between haphazard boulders on an otherwise flat summit.

  Following the noise, she sprinted to the edge. She had climbed the highest peak in a small range of rugged mountains. Although not one to fear heights, she suppressed a sense of vertigo as she peered at a river hundreds of feet below.

  Marek and FireStrike, along with several other soldiers and Critons were in the middle of a bloody battle across the river on a lower plateau. She moaned when she realized why FireStrike was earthbound. Although a Criton’s scales were as strong as armor, their wings were vulnerable. FireStrike had been forced to land because of the many arrows protruding from his wings at gross angles. With his fire exhausted, he needed time to regenerate. Marek and his men were doing their best to protect the Criton as he pulled arrows out with his mouth, but a grounded king made for an easier target and they were surrounded.

  Her stomach tightened as the Tiwans herded Marek and his soldiers into a shrinking semicircle. Her focus narrowed and an unheard sob escaped her lips. Marek fought with valor, his blades a whirl of motion, but how long could he maintain such an exhausting pace? Several Tiwans, either sensing his growing fatigue or knowing his status as king, directed their attack on him while other Tiwans kept FireStrike preoccupied by barraging the wounded Criton with arrows from a safe distance.

  She screamed at her helplessness as the battle raged between Criton and rider. But no one noticed the lone figure on top of a mountain, bellowing her frustration into the air.

  An unexpected gust whooshed up from behind, rocking her onto her toes. Her heart dropped into her stomach as she flung her arms wide to regain her balance. She would’ve fallen off the cliff if the blast had been stronger. A sudden idea caught her breath. She glanced across the ravine. Under normal conditions the distance would be too far for her longbow, but maybe she could harness the wind to her advantage. Maybe, if she waited to release her arrow with a gust, the wind would carry it the additional expanse to reach the plateau. She would have to be careful because accuracy would be hard to calculate. And once she let her arrow fly, it would be at the mercy of the fluctuating weather.

  Her thoughts solidified into a plan when three Tiwans isolated Marek and began attacking him with an uncompromising zeal. She pulled out her first arrow and prayed to the Gods asking for her aim to be true.

  18 – ANGEL from ABOVE

  Marek knew the odds were against them before FireStrike was forced to land. Tiwans were a fierce foe to begin with, but coupled with the fact they were outnumbered and the Tiwans seemed genuinely ticked off, he’d known early that many of his men would die. He had led the fight away from camp, hoping the contingent he left behind would get Carina safely out of the Bridal Lands if they couldn’t hold their ground.

  Although his men fought with a courage and strength that made him proud, fatigue and the sheer numbers against them were taking a toll. Like an unyielding tide, the Tiwans were pushing his men toward the summit edge. If the Tiwans couldn’t kill them by blade, they’d drive them off the mountainside.

  Using his two weapons of choice, his claymore and a smaller double-edged dirk whipped around him in a synchronized dance. A Tiwan with multiple tattoos broke through the ranks and charged. Marek saw him approaching, but fought two others. With a powerful downstroke, he splintered one man’s collarbone almost cleaving the Tiwan in two. Dark blood flowed from the man’s mouth as he scrambled to keep his insides from spilling onto the already stained soil before his body thudded to the ground.

  Marek spun as the other Tiwan with a hammer club lunged, forcing Marek to turn his back on the charging tattooed man. The Tiwan blocked his moves with the skill of an experienced fighter. The hair on Marek’s neck rose, warning him of impending trouble as his mind calculated the closing distance of the tattooed man. The Tiwan with the club grinned, knowing that if he kept Marek engaged he’d play a crucial role in the king’s death.

  The battle around Marek slowed and acceptance settled on his shoulders. Although he wouldn’t be able to protect his back from the man charging toward him, with a true fighting spirit of a king born during a time of strife, he continued deflecting and defending strikes before returning blows of his own. When the hammer wielding Tiwan slipped on loose rock, he hurtled his dirk without hesitation, slamming the razor sharp knife into the man’s eye socket. The man dropped like a stone.

  He couldn’t enjoy his small victory. Although a useless endeavor, he twisted his body to defend the blind attack looming from behind. But he was out of position, off balance, and exhausted. The tattooed man roared in victory.

  As Marek prepared for the Tiwan’s final blow, his mind escaped the bloodshed and drifted to Carina like a cool breeze on a summer day. With dawning clarity, he realized that she was meant to be his outcome, his goal a
nd ultimate destination. Ironic, at how the eyes of death exposed such simplicity about life. Sorrow impaled his heart with the understanding he’d have to let her go. After all the years searching, he wouldn’t experience the final journey with her.

  The Tiwan raised his great sword overhead. His face, streaked in dirt and smeared blood, exaggerated his white-eyed frenzy to kill. He screamed in triumph as the massive sword requiring two hands to wield, sliced downward. But the Tiwan’s body tensed in a spasmodic jerk and his victory cry hiccupped into a gasping gurgle. A confused expression crossed his face.

  Thinking Sampson must have attacked from behind, Marek took advantage of the distraction and shoved his sword deep into the man’s stomach. The Tiwan seized Marek’s shoulders, but his eyes glazed and knees buckled. Marek pulled his claymore from the Tiwan’s dead body before letting him fall face forward. He expected to see a gaping sword wound, but discovered an arrow jutting out of the man’s back.

  Marek looked at the identifying markings on the shaft and his eyes widened in recognition. The arrow bore King McKay’s shield and crossing lances with the distinctive fletching consisting of rare ganse feathers. Had King McKay followed them and joined the battle? As if to answer his question, an arrow whizzed through the air and slammed into a Tiwan’s chest.

  Sampson raced up, his left arm slashed open and bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Do you see the archers?”

  Marek searched the flat plain around them. The air was hazy, filled with smoke from Criton flame and dust from the trampled and churned up earth. Shadows from the setting sun danced within the haze making it difficult to see. But after a quick survey, he was confident the archers were not nearby. The plateau offered no cover and from the angle of the arrows, the bowmen had to be at a higher elevation.

  The descending sun was about drape them in the shade of the large mountain opposite the river, but pending darkness didn’t stop the onslaught as another Tiwan broke through the line. With a raised sword, the man screamed in rage and sprinted toward Marek. Marek angled his body, preparing for the attack but an arrow zipped through the air and impaled in the man’s shoulder, staggering him backward. Sampson dispatched the Tiwan before he could recover.

  This time Marek saw the arrow’s trajectory and scanned the towering mountain behind him. The setting sun offered no mercy as he stared into its final rebellious glow. Even though he couldn’t see her face as she stood on the edge with her longbow in hand, his body recognized her. The winds buffeted her, billowing her hair in waves of untamed defiance. She was a warrior, wild and savage, an angel with the devil’s hand, and the most incredible sight he’d ever seen as she released another arrow in a high arc to catch the wind.

  19 – ATTACK from BEHIND

  With her supply of arrows dwindling, Carina had to make the remaining ones count. Although excited over the strong currents propelling her arrows across the canyon, the inconsistent bursts were also a curse. The gusts swirled in a constant changing pattern. Some arrows were lost in the shifting gales. Others traveled wildly off target coming too close to Marek’s men for comfort, or simply didn’t reach the plateau because the wind fizzled.

  As a result, she would stand with her arrow nocked, waiting to release at the best opportunity. Holding her pose altered her practiced routine making it difficult to maintain her anchor point, and her body was paying the price. Her arms shook from fatigue, but she refused to give in to her exhaustion. She wouldn’t sit back and do nothing while the Tiwans forced Marek and his faithful men off the cliff. With grim determination, she ignored the aching muscles in her back and arms and held her stance, ready to unleash the next arrow.

  She stood in such a pose when a twig snapped behind her. Although she remained motionless, her heart jumped into her throat. Adrenaline flooded her veins. She focused behind her, but aside from the wind whirling around her, heard nothing. She wanted to believe no one stalked her on the mountain, but the hair rising on her neck suggested otherwise.

  Fear crawled up her spine. If not for the longbow bucking up and down in her arms, she might have frozen and succumbed to the unseen threat.

  “Ah, darlin’, you gonna release that arrow or just stand there?”

  He spoke with the Tiwan accent she now recognized, and estimated his distance to be a few feet behind her left shoulder.

  “I have to admit, you’re feisty.” He said in a pleasant tone as if talking to a friend.

  She closed her eyes, visualizing his exact location. If she moved quickly and used what little element of surprise she had, maybe she’d get lucky.

  She released her arrow into the air without finding a target and grabbed the upper limb of her bow with both hands before spinning on her heels. Planting her legs, she used her body as leverage to channel all her weight into her swing, smashing her grand longbow into the side of the Tiwan’s head.

  The bow connected with a loud thwack. He yelped in pain and stumbled. To her satisfaction, a large welt appeared, running from his ear to his mouth, and a trail of blood formed at the corner of his lips.

  The Tiwan drew his sword. “And to think, I was gonna to be gentle.”

  She pulled her sword, realizing her victory was far from won.

  The Tiwan chuckled. “Of course,” he murmured before charging.

  The power of his blows vibrated down her sword and ricocheted throughout her body. She staggered as he pursued her. His hard, fast parries kept her actions purely defensive, forcing her backward. He would either drive her off the mountain or she’d miss blocking his attack.

  The Tiwan had pushed her to ledge. Bracing against the gusting wind, the loose shale shifted beneath her feet. Her arms tired from his relentless strikes. She clutched her now cumbersome blade with limp hands in a meager attempt to deflect his blows. A flurry of parries knocked the weapon from her grasp and sent it clattering over the rocks. Standing with her arms at her sides, gasping for breath, a ridiculous thought popped into her head at how disappointed Master Dupree would be for losing her steel.

  The Tiwan straightened from his crouch. “You fight good,” he acknowledged, bowing his head in respect. “I regret having to kill you.”

  When he lunged, she closed her eyes and dove to the ground in an unknown desire to make herself small. By changing her elevation, the Tiwan had to adjust his charge to compensate for her new ground-hugging position. Evidently, he didn’t expect such a cowardly tactic, possibly thinking she would stand proud and face her death following the warrior’s code. He tried to stop his forward momentum, but slipped on the loose shale and found himself teetering on the edge. He dropped his sword, swinging his arms in wild desperation, but the wind played no favorites and a forceful gust toppled him off the mountain.

  Ignoring the pebbly grit digging into her cheek, she spread her arms wide and rejoiced in being alive. She didn’t know how long she lay there as the wind battered her, but it was long after her breathing had returned to normal and the adrenaline had washed out of her. Shouts from the men across the ravine finally roused her.

  She staggered to her knees before rocking up onto her feet. Lumbering across the mountaintop, she picked up and sheathed her sword, then grabbed her longbow. She stretched cramped muscles in her back while reaching for another arrow, and angled her body to see down the shaft in search of her next target.

  Ignoring her protesting muscles, she drew the bowstring to her anchor point and held her breath. She found her mark and followed his movements with her body and eye, praying for the wind to grant her arrow a true path. But a sharp stab in her shoulder caused her body to jerk and she regretfully released the arrow in another wasted attempt. Her shoulder knotted as a spasm ripped through it. She collapsed to the ground, gasping at the fire blistering down her arm.

  With her fingertips, she touched the smooth shaft of an arrow imbedded near her shoulder blade. Her first instinct was to yank it out, but the arrow was just beyond her grasp and she didn’t have the energy to undertake the daunting task anyway.
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  “I’m sorry,” murmured a quiet voice.

  She turned her head to see a Tiwan astride a black Criton.

  “Your discomfort will end soon.”

  She shuffled to her feet but swayed precariously. Although she wanted to act brave and make Master Dupree proud, the pain radiating outward from her shoulder threatened to break her. Her tongue lay at the bottom of her mouth like a fat slug, but blinding anger refused to keep it still.

  “You shot me in the back, you coward.”

  The rider bobbed his shoulders in a detached shrug. “I understand you might think that. But someone has trained you well, and with what you want to accomplish, you don’t deserve an honorable death.”

  She shook her head, but the fog clouding her mind refused to dissipate. “We’re simply passing through your land and because of that, you attack us? How’s that honorable?”

  The Criton shifted beneath his rider, anxious at the smell of blood and death. The rider rested his hand on the beast’s neck. Even as her vision blurred, she noticed the Criton relax. Great, they’re bonded. She didn’t know why that bothered her, except it seemed to be such a waste of a Criton.

  “We usually grant Criton riders safe passage through our land, but your quest could not succeed.”

  She swayed as a burst of wind pushed her, but celebrated in the small success of staying on her feet. “What quest?” Her voice sounded slurred in her ears. What she wouldn’t give for a drink of water to soothe the inferno raging in her parched throat.