A flash in the wall stopped him. A faceted crystal winked at him in the silvery light. Jerrol hesitated a moment and then unsheathed his dagger and eased the stone out of the rock. It fell into the palm of his left hand and he hissed as the sharp edge bit.
The crystal greedily sucked his blood. The silvery light in his palm was tinged with pink, and then the light vanished as his hand absorbed the crystal. Jerrol gasped as pain flashed through his veins. Groaning, he leaned against the wall for support. His body trembled. The wall trembled as well.
“Captain? Are you alright? We should leave. The mountain is collapsing.” Adilion appeared out of the gloom, holding up a torch.
Jerrol glared at him, and Adilion grinned back at him, his eyes gleaming like pools of liquid flame. “I heard you. Let’s get out of here. Captain, your hand,” Adilion pulled a grubby cloth from his pocket and offered it to Jerrol. He placed an arm under Jerrol’s and helped him back down the corridor. Adilion weaved through the stone passages, leading them back up to the lower caverns.
They entered the sleeping cavern as the ground tilted, making them stagger and flail. Many people still lay on the floor, some more alert than others, but all helpless. “Please,” they called hopelessly, “help us.”
Adilion and Jerrol exchanged glances and staggered over to them. “Can you stand?” Jerrol gasped as another tremor shook the mountain. A low grinding began, filling the cavern with a growing cacophony of vibrations, which resonated through their bodies and hurt their ears.
“We have to get out of here,” Adilion said, pulling at a woman’s arm, trying to help her rise.
“At least take my daughter,” the desperate woman pleaded. Her faded blonde hair straggled around her terrified face.
Jerrol didn’t hesitate and stooped to lift the child into his arms. She weighed nothing. “Adilion, help her,” he commanded, and they scuttled up the sloping corridor, which led into the vast cavern by the entrance, followed by helpless cries that tore at their hearts.
Large boulders fell, shattering into splinters on impact across the cavern floor. Jerrol and Adilion hugged the walls, watching the ceiling nervously as it creaked and groaned.
Jerrol inhaled in shock as he saw Birlerion grab Marianille as the steps shifted beneath them, and they slid in a jumble down the remainder of the stairs.
“Birlerion, get out!” Jerrol yelled as Birlerion helped his sister to her feet, shielding her from falling debris as they limped after Jerrol.
They exited the chamber as the rock above them emitted a horrendous rumble. The haunting lament of grinding rock and helpless voices was cut off as the mountain crashed down around them. Fragments of rock skittered across the ground. Adilion grunted as one fragment glanced solidly off his shoulder as they stumbled into the desert amidst a blinding dust cloud, choking and coughing.
“Captain? Over here.” Jerrol and Adilion turned towards the sound of the voice.
“Niallerion?” Jerrol choked. “Keep talking.”
“Over here. We have shelter and water.”
Jerrol staggered blindly into the awning. Strong hands reached out to support him, preventing him from collapsing the tent. “Thanks,” he grunted, righting himself as he struggled through the suffocating dust. The tent was a blur in front of them, the flap held open by a tall shape.
Eager hands pulled them into the tent, relieving them of their burdens. “Captain, Adilion, sit,” Niallerion pushed them down on the floor. “We need to rinse your eyes out before the sand damages them. Lean back.”
“Birlerion, are you and Marianille alright?” Jerrol squinted, trying to see them, and he dabbed at his eyes until Niallerion pulled his hands away and forced his head back.
His eyes streamed, the grit irritating the sensitive membranes. The lukewarm water repeatedly rinsed his eyes. “Save the water,” he whispered, shaking his head gently as droplets ran down his neck. He peered around the tent. Everything was a blur. The rumble of grinding rocks echoed around their camp, punctuated by sharp cracks as the rocks settled into their new homes.
“Marianille?”
“I’m fine. A few cuts and bruises that's all.”
“Situation report,” Jerrol said.
Niallerion stiffened. “Forty-two souls saved, including the two you brought out. Eleven children, thirty-one adults. All Sentinals present and accounted for, injuries minor.”
“Forty-two,” Jerrol whispered.
“Yes, Captain. It is amazing we got so many out in such a short time.” Niallerion rinsed Marianille’s eyes and then squatted by Birlerion.
Jerrol swallowed, his face bleak. They had done well, considering the conditions, but forty-two out of how many? There had been at least one thousand people in that mountain, though some had already died. The thought made him stagger to his feet and peer out of the tent flap.
Debris covered the sands blocking the entrance. The central peak was missing. It had completely collapsed in on itself. They were lucky it had collapsed inwards, otherwise, they all might have been lost.
All was silent as if the desert itself was listening for survivors. Dust hung in the air, blurring the scene. The occasional sifting of sand disturbed the stillness.
“How are we situated for supplies? Most of it was inside, wasn’t it?” Jerrol asked, already thinking about how they were going to keep forty-two people, in poor condition, four Sentinals and himself alive. Forty-seven people in total.
His first thought was: They couldn't.
“We have food and water for about three days,” Niallerion said.
“Three days! Melila is only a day away,” he said.
“If we all had horses and were in good condition.” Niallerion dropped his voice. “These people won’t make it on foot.”
“How about if we did it in two journeys? We have five horses.” Not enough, even with the horses the Atoleans gave us, Jerrol thought as Adilion said the same thing out loud.
“I can make a Waystone, but the journey can be strenuous for non-Sentinals.
“They have nothing to throw up, anyway.” Niallerion shrugged. “I think the Waystone would be best.” Niallerion knelt beside Adilion, who was struggling to move his right arm. “Let me see it.” Adilion reluctantly complied, exposing a brown muscled chest dusted with black hairs, and a massive bruise on the back of his shoulder. He couldn’t lift his right arm above his waist without wincing in pain.
“You may have broken your collarbone,” Niallerion said as he prodded his back. “I can’t tell. You’ll have to wait and see what the healer says. We’ll strap your arm to your chest, for now. It’ll stop you causing yourself further injury.” He set to work.
Jerrol drifted about the tent, giving words of encouragement. He stepped over spindly legs and crouched beside a small boy curled in upon himself. The boy snuffled into his robe.
“Hey, are you alright?”
“I-I want my mama,” he sniffled, raising a tear-streaked face.
Jerrol’s face tightened and he stroked the boy’s head. “Why don’t you come and sit with me for a while?” he said, holding out his arms. The boy crept into them and tucked his head in his shoulder. Jerrol cradled him and returned to his space near the door of the tent. He rocked the child, murmuring comforting words in his ears. The boy eventually stopped crying and relaxed into sleep. His tiny hand gripped Jerrol’s shirt. Jerrol gently kissed the boy’s head and closed his eyes. They had a couple of hours before the first journey would begin. It gave people time to recover from the frightening day; time for what had happened to sink in.
At first light the next morning, Jerrol swirled his sword around above his head and created a new Waystone, thrusting his sword into a small red rock. The chime rippled through the Sentinals and Jerrol sent Adilion to Mistra. He would arrange help and stay in Mistra to get checked out by Maraine’s healer. Niallerion and Marianille would stay behind with Birlerion, while he would travel to Melila and inform them what had happened. He stepped into the Waystone and stepped out
into the blinding sun on the outskirts of Melila and took a moment to breathe fresh air and steady himself.
Striding up the main street, he admired the new buildings that had appeared; proof that all had been busy. Roberion came to meet him. “What happened?”
“Let’s call everyone around. I only want to say this once,” Jerrol said with a grim smile.
The Atoleans and the villagers gaped at his return, and silence slowly descended as Jerrol explained what they had found and what the Ascendants had done.
“We have forty-two survivors, all of whom need the help of a healer,” Jerrol finished. “I sent Adilion to Mistra to ask for a healer to come here. These people are malnourished and emaciated. They haven’t seen sunlight in years. Many are so down-trodden, they won’t even look you in the face.”
“Are you sure they should come here? Maybe take them straight to Mistra?” Roberion suggested.
Shaking his head, Jerrol explained. “They are frail, scared. I think it will be daunting enough arriving in Melila. Let’s ease them back into the world slowly. We could do more damage if we rush them.”
Roberion inspected him, and Jerrol wondered what he saw, by the expression on his face it wasn’t anything good. Gesturing down the street, Roberion said, “We built a small infirmary, and we have enough dwellings for forty-two people. The Atoleans erected some tents we can use.”
“Very well. Come with me, you can help transfer the people. We’ll be back in a moment. Be ready.” Jerrol led Roberion back towards the Waystone. He grabbed his scarves, wrapping himself up against the sun. The Atoleans watched in amazement as they disappeared, leaving a ripple in the air.
Roberion stared around the tent in shock. Jerrol had warned him of what to expect, but he was still horrified. The Sentinals were all strained and exhausted; they hadn’t expected to see anything like this, ever. They were all struggling to cope with the sheer lack of hope emanating from the survivors who huddled together in small groups, eyes dead and unseeing.
“Birlerion, who should we take first?” Jerrol’s voice was loud in the depressing silence. He smiled encouragingly at the small boy who was curled up in Marianille’s lap. It looked like Marianille was getting as much comfort from the child, as the child was from her. She was murmuring into his hair and the boy relaxed back into her embrace.
Mat’iller looked up in surprise. “Captain, we didn’t think you would come back.”
“Why not? My men are still here. I wouldn’t leave them out here, now, would I?” Jerrol asked with a smile, searching Mat’iller’s face.
“No one has cared before.” Mat’iller shrugged. “The guards weren’t treated much better than we were.”
“Well, we care, and you will find there are a lot of people who do care and who have missed you,” Jerrol said firmly. He could see that mistreatment would be a lesson that would be hard to unlearn. “We’ll leave in batches. They won’t be able to cope with us all at once.” He smiled down at Leyla, glad to see they had managed to save the small child he had lifted out the basket. “Would you like to visit a nice town and leave this place forever?”
She shrank back and hid her face in her hands. Jerrol sighed and scooped her up. “Come on, you are a very brave girl, and I know another little girl called Tris’eril, who would love to be your friend.”
“Tris’eril? Did you say Tris?” A faded woman lurched to her feet, staring hopefully at Jerrol.
Jerrol smiled. “Sher’ille?”
She gasped. “You found Tris? She’s alive?”
“Yes, I left her with your parents in Melila.”
Sher’ille swayed. “My parents?”
Jerrol wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders. “Let me take you home.”
She leaned against him for strength and seemed to find some. She nodded and smiled at Leyla. “Let’s go home,” she said.
Jerrol led her and Leyla towards the Waystone. “I am afraid you might feel quite sick when we reach the other side, but it will pass.”
Sher’ille shrugged. “What’s a little sickness compared to leaving this terrible place?” She straightened her shoulders. “What do we have to do?”
Jerrol took her hand and Leyla’s. “Just take a step forward,” he said and thought of Melila. They shimmered out into the warm air outside the village.
Sher’ille paled and heaved, but as Niallerion had said, they had nothing much in their stomachs to throw up. Leyla retched noisily, making her eyes water. She hid in Sher’ille’s ragged skirts.
“Come,” Jerrol said, leading them towards the village.
Sher’ille gasped, swallowing desperately. “It is Melila!”
Jerrol led her down the main street towards her parent’s house. Tris’eril squealed as she spotted them and came tearing up the road. “Amma, it’s Mama!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs.
Sher’ille dropped to the ground and opened her arms. She wrapped them around a wriggling and very much alive Tris, who wept copiously in her mother’s arms. Leyla sidled up beside Jerrol, watching wide-eyed. She gripped his robe. Jerrol smiled down at her and scooped her up in a hug.
Jerrol left them exclaiming over each other as Terl’ana and Ame’lie joined them. He intended on taking Leyla up to the infirmary, but Sher’ille reached for her and pulled her out of Jerrol’s arms. “Leyla, meet my daughter, Tris’eril,” she said, giving her a loving hug and then pushing the two girls together. Hand-linked, the family walked up the road to their home.
Jerrol smiled as he approached the Waystone, but a soft chime warned him someone was arriving so he waited, and soon, Birlerion led two trembling men and a woman into the sunshine. Their faces paled and they swallowed convulsively. One of the men turned away to retch, setting off the others, and they collapsed to the sand, weakly heaving.
“Are we really in Melila?” the man asked, holding his stomach.
“You certainly are,” Birlerion said with a grin as people came running to help them.
Jerrol returned to the mine. “Who’s next?” he asked gaily. His spirits, revitalised by the reunification of Sher’ille and Tris, plummeted as he saw the despairing humanity before him. He swallowed and knelt beside the young woman and her daughter that they had pulled out at the last minute. “Come,” he said, gentling his voice, “let me take you away from this terrible place.”
The woman relaxed. “Make it quick,” she whispered, the tears sliding down her cheeks.
“No,” he whispered, his throat tight. That she would still think there was no hope, that they would kill her instead of saving her, cut him deep. “You have a long life yet to live. I’ll show you where you can begin it.”
The woman stared at him bleakly, not believing him. Jerrol scooped her up in his arms. She was so frail it was if she only existed in thought alone. “Think of the Lady,” he murmured in her ear. “Just think of the Lady.” Her child clung to his robe, frantic at being parted from her mother as he walked towards the Waystone. He knelt. “You hold on to me and don’t let go, and the Lady will protect you,” he promised.
The child stared at him with fearful black eyes and nodded solemnly.
“One step,” he said. “Just take one step with me. Together.” He and the child stepped forward and came out in the brilliant sunshine in Melila. Birlerion waited at the other end.
“Go, help the others,” Jerrol whispered, his face taut.
Birlerion stared at him before he nodded and shimmered out of sight behind them. Jerrol led the child towards the infirmary. Arms were raised to welcome them. The woman wept as Jerrol laid her on a cot, her daughter safe beside her. Jerrol turned away, his face stiff, silver eyes gleaming with tears, only to be caught roughly by the shoulders by Maraine’s uncle, Yoa'ran. “What is it?” he asked.
Jerrol struggled to push the words out. “She thought I was going to kill her. When I said I was taking her away, she asked me to make it quick.”
“It will not be forgotten,” the Terolian swore, his voice gruff. “We will never all
ow this to happen again.”
Finally, Niallerion and Marianille came through the Waystone and the transfer was complete. All were safely transferred to the infirmary and a Mistran healer was caring for them all.
37
Mistra, Terolia
A week later, Jerrol entered the Atolean tent in Mistra with his Sentinals at his shoulder and looked around the room. The tent was spacious. The highest point in the centre held a lantern, which was suspended on a silver link chain, casting a gentle golden glow over the occupants. Unusually, there was a wooden table in the middle of the room surrounded by chairs and not a cushion in sight. There were twelve people seated around the oval table. A gap was left at the far end nearest the entrance, for him, he assumed.
He acknowledged Maraine as he saw her and her Sodera halfway down the right-hand side of the table. The Leader of the Solari should be opposite her, then. A beautiful woman with sharp black eyes and long black hair, sat straight-backed and alert. A slender brown finger tapped the table, belying her inner turmoil. She was accompanied by a fierce looking warrior, armed and tense. The leaders of the six families. The Master Conclave, as he had requested. The first in over a hundred years, and the first any of these leaders would have attended. He muttered an aside to Birlerion. “No one enters; no one leaves.”
“Yes, Captain.” Birlerion ducked back out of the tent and took up position in front of the entrance.
“Ambassador Nil’ano, if you would take the notes. A record of the meeting, please. I expect you to pull together the papers for whatever is agreed here. Watertight, understand?”
“Certainly, Commander.” Nil’ano moved over to the small table to the side of the tent and set up his papers and pen. He leaned back and observed the room; the occupants were noticing the tall Sentinals at the tent entrance.
A woman with a severe face rose to glare at the Sentinals. Deep lines were grooved on her cheeks and forehead as if she perpetually wore a frown. She had a black tattoo on her face, straight lines sloping left and right, meeting at a peak at the top, four of them like a mountain range, an orange flame beneath it—the Medera of Kirsha. “This is a private meeting. You should not be here. Please leave,” she demanded.
Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series Page 34