Rethbrin and Mithris walked behind her and Lothar brought up the rear. Mithris could feel the spearman’s glowering eyes burning between his shoulder blades.
The path eventually led them to a village tucked away in a hollow clearing surrounded by high rocks on all sides, accessible only through a low but narrow canyon. The rocks kept the jungle at bay. Melendra put away her machete.
The village was a collection of simple wooden huts, the roofs thatched with dried tan palm fronds. There might have been five hundred people in all who called this place home. Their houses were small and cozy. Several large buildings dominated the center of the village. One end of the clearing in the rocks was empty, clearly set aside. There were signs of frequent bonfires there.
The villagers all resembled Lothar and Melendra. Dark hair was ubiquitous. Dark eyes were prevalent, though some of the people they passed on the way in had lighter irises. Many wore clothes of leather and hide, while others sported rough linens and even spun wool.
When the villagers saw Rethbrin and Mithris, they fell back with stunned expressions and watched the short procession go by without speaking. Their voices raised in a hushed susurrus when the group had passed.
Mithris took it all in, amazed. These people appeared to have a very simple life, but it seemed like a good one. This roomy canyon must offer protection from more than just the encroaching jungle. It would keep the weather at bay, and form a barrier to any wild animals or human enemies. Fruit trees grew here and there throughout the clearing. He saw a mill set up next to a spring-fed stream at the far end of the rock-enclosed meadow.
And they were human. These people had less variety in their features than those of any city he had visited, but Mithris knew the people in cities came from many places. These folks had never scattered to the wind. He wondered what life was like in this foundation.
Were there other places in this world more similar to those he had known in the fifth foundation?
“It’s amazing,” he whispered. At his side, Rethbrin cast him a sharp look.
“Keep your wits, lad,” the old man muttered, too low for Lothar to hear it where he strode behind them. “There’s danger here.”
Melendra led the way through the village, and the people they passed made way. Soon they reached the central square, where the larger buildings stood. A group of three men, their faces set in grim lines, had emerged from the largest building and stood arrayed before the wide entryway with arms crossed over their chests.
Lothar stepped around from behind Mithris and approached the men, all of whom wore their advanced years proudly.
“Elders,” the spearman greeted them, inclining his head with respect. “We found these strangers in the jungle. They were chased by a raktar. I killed the beast.”
The man center of the three, oldest by far with a wizened face and iron gray hair hanging in a braid that reached his knees, grunted. “Why have you brought them here, Lothar?”
The spearman lifted his eyes, and they flickered briefly to Melendra. “My sibling insisted, Elder Grimball.”
The old man nodded, glancing at Melendra before he turned to his fellows. A look passed between the three elders.
“Bring them inside,” commanded Grimball, then he turned away and went back into the long, low building.
It was cooler inside the lodge. The lighting was dim. The walls bore decorations of cured furs, mounted skulls, and other hunting trophies. Two long tables dominated much of the space, with a much smaller table on a raised dais near the back.
The three elders went straight to this table, moved behind it, and sat down.
Lothar prodded Mithris and Rethbrin to follow, bringing them up short on the near side of the table where they would be forced to look up to the elders. Melendra trailed behind, her face set with concern.
Grimball spoke again once everyone was in place. “Why have you come, strangers? Who are you, and what troubles would you bring us?”
Mithris opened his mouth to answer, but Rethbrin laid a hand on his arm and gave a tiny shake of his head. The ancient wizard then stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“We bring you no troubles, Elder,” said Rethbrin, offering a kind smile. “We did not mean to come here, but were sent against our will. I confess, we do not even know where it is we find ourselves.”
Rethbrin turned up his face at the end, catching Grimball’s dark eyes. The old wizard’s bushy white brows lifted up in question.
“Do not question the Elders,” Lothar growled.
“We can speak for ourselves, Child.” The old man to Grimball’s left did not raise his voice, but Lothar recoiled as if he’d been struck.
“I apologize, Elder Dashar” the spearman said in a tight voice. Dashar held the much younger man in a steely gaze for a long moment before he nodded. All three elders returned their attention to Rethbrin. Mithris felt sweat trickling down the side of his face.
“This is our home,” Grimball said, lifting his folded hands from the table and spreading them wide to indicate the village beyond the walls of the lodge. “Our people have lived here since the beginning of time, sheltered by the Great Master’s hand.”
“The Great Master?” echoed Rethbrin. He seemed intrigued.
“He has ever been with our people.” Elder Dashar spoke as if repeating a rote catechism.
“He shelters us,” added the old man to Grimball’s right.
“He guides us,” Elder Grimball said. The prayer complete, all three elders bowed their heads momentarily. When he lifted his eyes again, Grimball seemed troubled. “You must have come far, to know nothing of him. His influence spreads to all the corners of our world. Who are you, strangers?”
“Reluctant travelers,” answered Rethbrin. “You may find this hard to believe, but we hail from another world.”
The three elders tensed, as did Melendra. Lothar jumped back, reaching for the spears he wore at his back. Mithris jumped back, ready to defend himself and Grandmaster Rethbrin. He did not know what he could do, without any magic, against the burly spearman.
“Hold!” cried Grimball, rising from his chair behind the raised table. He threw up a hand toward Lothar. “Hold, Child!”
Lothar lowered his spear reluctantly, but did not put it away.
Melendra, meanwhile, had backed away nearly to the door. Mithris looked over at her. She seemed terrified. What had gotten into these people?
“Your names,” said Grimball. “Tell me your names.”
“Eh?” Rethbrin shook himself. “Of course, of course. My name is Master Rethbrin, and this is my…well, my colleague anyway. This young man is Mithris.”
“Mithris!” the two elders flanking Grimball cried in unison. The blood drained from their faces as they turned to face one another. Grimball himself put a hand to the table, steadying himself. His mouth had fallen open in shock, but he quickly recovered himself.
“Your coming was foretold, Mithris,” he said. “The Great Master warned us about you. Hear me, Dark One. You will not destroy my people. I won’t give you the chance. Lothar, take him!”
Chapter 61
The Great Master
Shoving ancient Rethbrin aside, Lothar lunged for Mithris. The young wizard fell away from him, throwing up his hands and shouting three words of magic. Even as the arcane syllable passed his lips, Mithris remembered they were useless.
His back hit the wall. Lothar’s spear-point hovered at his throat. Mithris raised his hands to the sides in surrender.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rethbrin spluttered.
Six men with spears at the ready came running into the lodge. They pushed past Melendra where she stood, one hand to her mouth and eyes wide. Two of the men went to stand with Lothar. The other four circled Rethbrin, leveling their spears at the ancient magician.
“I demand an explanation!”
“Yes,” said Grimball, coming around from behind the table and descending from the dais. There was scorn in his voice, but also a measure of dre
ad. “You demand. So it was foretold.”
Rethbrin drew himself up, ignoring the spear-points pressing lightly against his chest and back. He met Grimball’s eyes defiantly.
“We mean you no harm,” he said.
“The name of Mithris has been known to us for centuries,” countered Grimball. “We will not be deceived, Old One. I will give you one chance to renounce your dark master Mithris. Avail yourself of this opportunity, or be destroyed at his side.”
“Destroyed?” echoed Mithris, eyes wide. “Why is everybody always trying to kill me?”
“There’s been some mistake,” Rethbrin said, a note of pleading entering his tone. “Please, you must listen to reason!”
“So, your allegiance is clear,” said Grimball, sounding almost sad about it. “Very well. Take them away. At dawn, they shall be cast into the Inferno.”
Melendra was troubled.
She sat alone on the rim of the rock-wall, looking outward over the verdant jungle beyond. She had come here often in her nineteen years. When concern weighed her down, this place had been her solace.
The path up to this promontory was difficult and well-concealed. When she heard the loose rock crunching beneath soft-soled boots at her back, she knew it could only be Lothar. None but her brother knew of this place.
“Shouldn’t you be guarding the prisoners?” she asked without turning. Melendra was surprised at the bitterness in her voice.
Lothar came up beside her and took a seat on the shelf of rock. He looked out over the spreading jungle, hesitant. Melendra had rarely seen her brother hesitate. She bit her lip, regretting the tone she had taken with him.
“I am…worried for you, sibling,” he said at length.
“I’m not the one who’s going to be fed to the Inferno.” Melendra shifted, turning away from her brother to show him her back. Even so, she softened her tone. “Lothar, it does not seem right.”
“The Dark One of prophecy has come, Melendra.” Lothar’s tone was firm. “Would you reject our faith in the Great Master?”
Melendra did not answer right away. This was, after all, the crux of her dilemma. All her life, she had kept the faith as did all their people. She could not doubt the Great Master. He had delivered their clan from savagery and given civilization itself unto them. He had watched over them from the beginning of time. He dwelt on the edge of the Inferno, looking down benevolently.
She had seen him once, four winters ago when she became a woman. Their mother had taken her on the trek through the jungle to climb the side of the Inferno. There, atop the fiery mountain, Melendra had accepted the blessing of the Great Master.
Yet now she found herself conflicted. She knew the prophecy as well as anyone. As a child, she had nightmares about the Dark Mithris Who Will Come.
In those terrible dreams she had seen him lay waste to her people. He slashed them open with his claws, more fearsome and deadly than even those of the raktar. His eyes burned with cold fire, and his grisly fangs dripped with blood and gore. He towered over her people and when he roared, the sky darkened as though the sun itself ran to hide from his awful rage.
“It cannot be him,” she whispered now. She spoke under her breath, but Lothar heard her.
“Sibling,” he said, lowering his own voice as if afraid they might be overheard. “You flirt with heresy. The Dark One is condemned by his own words. You heard his servant name him. You heard him call upon the Forbidden Powers.”
Melendra whirled on her brother. “I heard him speak unfamiliar words, sibling. I saw no lightnings or fires, no demons rushing to aid him.”
“He was named!” Lothar insisted.
“I carry the name of our mother’s mother,” Melendra said. “You bear the name of our father’s father. Are we our ancestors, then, or do we merely carry their names for them?”
“There is only one Mithris,” argued Lothar. “Who would name an innocent babe for the Dark One of prophecy?”
Melendra shook her head. Lothar was stubborn. When his mind was made up, her brother could not be swayed. But was she any less stubborn herself? No. The strangers came from another world, they had said. The young man’s parents had named him in ignorance. It was coincidence only. It must be so.
Melendra could not accept that the young man they’d saved from the raktar was the Dark Mithris Who Will Come. He was not the creature of her girlhood nightmares. He was not the monster her people had feared since the dawn of time.
Lothar saw the determination in her face. “Sibling.” How sad he sounded, and how desperate. “You must abandon this course. The Dark One has ensnared you with his Forbidden Power. You will destroy yourself.”
Melendra made no answer. Instead, she again turned away from her brother. She felt him hovering behind her, his concern radiating from him like heat, until at last he turned away and left her there. For a long time, she listened to the sound of his footsteps and the sliding gravel, and then he was gone.
She lifted her eyes, looking out over the treetops to the distant mountain with the broken tip. Smoke curled lazily up from the mouth of the Inferno as the sun sank behind it. Elder Grimball had decreed the Dark One be cast into the fires at dawn.
There wasn’t much time, then.
Chapter 62
A Wizard’s Path
The path was treacherous in darkness, but Melendra knew the way. She knew also that rushing would serve no purpose. She chose each step with care, and when she had to climb she tested each hand — and foothold before putting her weight fully on it.
Nocturnal creatures scattered before her. Some hooted angrily. Others retreated silently, watching her with wary eyes.
Melendra knew they would not trouble her here, not within sight of the Great Master himself. The moment she had reached the foot of the mountain, she had known her path was true. Moving alone at night through the jungle was dangerous; his benevolence had sheltered her through that. Surely, he would not desert her now.
She was more certain than ever that the handsome young man her brother had saved from the raktar could not be the Mithris of prophecy. Soon she would stand in the presence of the Great Master, and plead her case. She was sure the Great Master would understand. And the young man would not be thrown into the Inferno.
Melendra pressed on in her ascent. Hours remained before dawn, but she would not tarry. If she were to stop and rest, the nagging voice in the back of her mind would catch up to her and whisper its doubts. For the man was named Mithris and he had come from beyond the world, just as the prophecy said. He could not be the monster of legend and foretelling…yet who else could he be?
And if the prophecies of him were false, then what else might be untrue?
“There would be a dungeon,” griped Mithris.
“I would hardly name this rude cage a dungeon,” countered Rethbrin from where he sat on the bare earth in the back of the hut.
Mithris turned from the barred gate which took up the entire front wall of the tiny hovel. Wrist-thick branches and limbs from slender, gnarled trees — some still sporting tiny, green leaflets shooting at random — formed a sturdy lattice which could only be opened from without.
“It’s the same concept,” the young wizard said. It came out sounding defensive, and he sighed. “Tell me something, Master Rethbrin. You’ve been at this a whole lot longer than me. Does the whole people trying to kill me or lock me in cages thing ever, you know, slow down? Or is that pretty much guaranteed for wizards?”
“What?” Rethbrin shook his head, chuckling. “No, boy. There are many paths through the worlds, Mithris. Hm? Many paths. Do you know what truly sets a wizard apart, boy? Did your Master Deinre ever tell you that?”
Mithris shook his head. “Wizards use magic and they live a whole lot longer than normal people, but other than that…”
“Simply using magic and getting old do not make one a Wizard,” Rethbrin cut him off. “Listen to me carefully, boy. People tend to tread the same worn paths over and over. But wizards always fo
rge their own trail. For a wizard, no two paths are the same. That is what truly sets them apart.”
Scowling, Mithris turned back to the wooden bars. He gripped one in each hand and leaned heavily against the lattice. Staring out through a diagonal opening just barely smaller than his head, Mithris sighed.
“I took a wrong turn,” he said bitterly.
Voices sounded in the street, just out of sight. Mithris pressed his face close to the bars in an attempt to peer out. But that proved unnecessary. The source of the noise came into view. They were, in fact, headed straight for him.
“I think it’s time,” Mithris warned Rethbrin, backing away from the lattice. The cage door unlatched and swung open. A dozen men and a dozen women stood outside in two lines. They had painted their faces with intricate traceries of black ash and bright yellow sulfur. Half the men and women carried flaming torches; the other half held long spears, butts planted firmly by their feet.
The ancient grandmaster magician got to his feet and came forward to stand at Mithris’ side. If even one of them could have summoned even a trickle of power, or anything at all from beyond the confines of this foundation, these people wouldn’t have a chance.
Magic. Mithris shook his head, angry with himself. It was magic that got him into this. Then the power had deserted him. He and Rethbrin were going to die. Without their spells, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d always known wizarding would end up getting him killed. He should never have listened to Vapor.
The three village elders appeared at the far end of the double-file of people. Grimball was between and just in front. He gestured to the captives. His face remained locked in a solemn mask.
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