Guardians Watch

by Eric T Knight

  Effortlessly, Netra came to her feet, all aches and doubts gone completely. She took a deep breath and stretched. She felt elemental, powerful. She glanced at the dead shatren in a heap at her feet and her confidence wavered, just for an instant, but then she shrugged it away. She was Netra and Xochitl was calling her.

  Nothing else mattered.

  They raced through the morning and on into the afternoon. She heard the Mother calling again and again and there was only the need to answer and the wondrous rapture that surged within her. She, Netra, would find Xochitl. She would free her and Xochitl would destroy Melekath. Then Xochitl would walk amongst them once again and all the Tenders of the future would know Netra’s name and revere her, the one who saved Xochitl.

  It was a wonderful dream and the only hiccup came from the dour presence that paced her through that long day and the twinges of guilt she felt when she looked at him. Shorn was judging her; she was sure of it. From behind those cold, distant eyes he looked down on her, condemning her. She found herself beginning to hate him and watched him surreptitiously whenever possible, waiting for him to make a move against her. She could handle him, of that she had no doubt. She would drain him as effortlessly as she did the shatren if he raised as much as a finger against her. He would see. He would know how wrong he’d been.

  But Shorn did nothing, said nothing. He ran beside her when he could, behind her when he could not, as they moved ever south. His features were utterly closed, his will iron. When Netra mocked him or taunted him he said nothing, betrayed nothing. When that happened Netra cursed him and put on extra speed, thinking to leave him behind, but each time he matched her, his strength seemingly endless.

  Netra’s strength, however, was not endless. The sun was beginning to drop when she felt herself weakening yet again. This time she did not wait until she collapsed to do what had to be done, but began scanning the land around her for animals. The terrain was harsher and dryer and game was surprisingly scarce, only small birds and rodents. Finally, she felt the presence of an old badger, hunkered in his burrow. With a gesture she dragged him forth, as he snarled and snapped. She realized that she didn’t need to touch him and drained him from a distance, so swiftly and completely that he simply dropped on the spot between one snarl and the next, a shrunken thing that might once have been alive.

  Then she moved on, but her hunger was not sated. If anything it was stronger. She longed for the clarity and sense of power that she had felt after draining the shatren. The surge she received from the badger was only a shadow of that glory.

  Desperately, she reached out further and further, taking every scrap she found, regardless of how meager. Birds fell from tree limbs in her wake, dead before they hit the ground. Rabbits crouched under bushes toppled over and were still. Mice and gophers collapsed in their tunnels. Lizards withered and died. At one point a buzzard soared overhead, perhaps sensing the presence of death with that preternatural sense all carrion eaters seem to have. It stiffened and nosedived to the earth in a rush of black feathers.

  So Netra and Shorn passed the next two days, a trail of death marking their passing, Shorn tireless, Netra drawn on by a distant voice, always reaching desperately for the next scrap of Song she could steal, reaching for something she could not quite seem to grasp.

  It was dawn when the dunes of the Gur al Krin became visible in the distance for the first time. Netra stopped on the crest of a ridge, gazing at it. The legendary Gur al Krin, mountainous dunes of red and orange sand extending beyond the horizon. It was quiet in the stillness of dawn, but Netra could feel the malevolent heart that beat within its depths. Somewhere under there Melekath clawed his way to the surface. Somewhere under there he had imprisoned Xochitl, their only hope for stopping him. She would find the Mother and free her. She knew she was capable of it.

  Shorn pointed wordlessly and she lowered her gaze. They were in a land of steep canyons and sharp spires. Sandstone ruled here, layers of white, yellow, red and black that spoke of ancient, shallow seas, beaches and mudflats. There were cliffs everywhere, some smooth and soaring for hundreds of feet into the air, others squat and toothy. Here and there were patches of soil, lining the bottoms of the canyons or gathered in clefts. From the sparse soil sprouted scraggly bushes with hooked, yellow thorns and iron-gray tufts of grass.

  Down at the bottom of the canyon at her feet, huddled at the foot of a cliff by a pool of brown water, Netra saw a village of rough hide shelters and her heart soared. An oasis in the desert. But not an oasis of water, an oasis of Song. Beautiful Life-energy. Tears dimmed her eyes. Xochitl must have guided her here, knowing that she would need to drink deep before crossing the desert, before tearing away the chains that kept her bound.

  Netra started down the hill.

  “Netra, wait.” Shorn grabbed Netra’s arm. She spun on him, eyes flashing. “They are people.”

  She cast a contemptuous glance at the village. “They are little more than animals. They should be honored to sacrifice everything for Xochitl.” She jerked her arm away from him. “Everything I do, I do for the Mother.”

  Now Shorn blocked her path. “Do you do this for your god, or for yourself?”

  Netra hissed at him. “How dare you ask me that, after the suffering I have gone through? I have lost my family!”

  “Not all of them. Not yet.”

  “And I will make sure I do not lose the rest.” She tried to go around him, but he moved into her path again.

  “What about all you told me, your love for all life? How is this…how does this fit?”

  Netra wavered, just for a second, then set her jaw. “I do this for life. All life.”

  “Are you sure?”

  At that, Netra struck him. Across the face with the back of her hand. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “Please,” he said. “You are not well.”

  “You said that already,” she grated. “Now get out of my way.”

  Shorn took a deep breath, then shook his head. “I cannot let you do this.”

  “Wrong answer.” Netra shoved him, putting everything she had into it. Shorn staggered backward, off balance, and she ran past him before he could recover.

  A sentry dozing on top of a knob of rock saw Netra before she was halfway down the steep slope. He called out a warning and in one smooth motion brought his bow up, already bending it back.

  Netra held out her hand and he froze, his eyes bulging. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Netra curled her fingers and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The air between them shimmered as if from heat waves and Netra closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a deep breath, her arms coming up involuntarily. A gasp came from her as the full force of his Song entered her and then she laughed out loud.

  It was amazing, beyond anything she had ever imagined. The Song she had been taking from the animals could not compare to this. Nothing could. His Song exploded within her, a brilliant burst that lit every corner of her being. She would not have been surprised to look down and find that her feet had left the ground. Such strength, such power. Why had she not done this before? She felt like a god.

  Shouting voices intruded on her wonder and she opened her eyes, unaware of the cold smile that stretched her face. Below her the Crodin were swarming like ants, pouring out of their crude shelters, waving weapons, faces turned up to her. As they should. She stood so far above them, was so much more powerful than they were, that she felt she could reach out and scoop them up like toys. A few arrows flew towards her. The range was great and they were firing uphill, so most bounced harmlessly off the rocks around her. But one lucky shot stuck in her leg and she flinched as the pain intruded on her wonder. It was not deep and she bent and pulled it out easily, then watched as the wound began to close before her eyes, the torn edges drawing together.

  Another arrow hissed by her ear and now she was angry. “You dare!” she shouted at them. “I am the chosen of the Mother! You strike at her!”

 
; She began to run, each stride a superhuman leap that cut the distance between her and the Crodin with astonishing rapidity. Behind her, Shorn struggled to keep up, but his speed was no match for hers, and the slope was steep, the footing treacherous, so that he fell more than once and was far behind when she reached them.

  Many of the Crodin threw down their weapons and turned to flee as what could only appear to their superstitious minds as an avenging god roared down the slope toward them. But others had more courage and continued to fire arrows and throw spears as she approached. One struck her solidly in the stomach and she cried out, but she did not stop, ripping the spear free as she advanced and flinging it down.

  When she was only a few dozen paces away, Netra flung one arm forward with a scream of rage, releasing just a fraction of the Song she had taken. The air shimmered and a handful of Crodin were flung backwards, bones breaking, falling scattered across the desert floor. Now the rest of them panicked, fleeing in all directions while Netra waded among them, reaching out again and again, each one she chose falling bonelessly to the ground. It lasted only moments, but it seemed like hours and when it ended a dozen Crodin lay scattered around her. The rest had fled, dogs and goats with them. Hide tents lay on their sides and one body lay face down in the pool of brown water, unmoving.

  Netra threw her head back and screamed, a triumphant, animal sound that made the fleeing survivors run harder. She glowed with a brightness that made it hard to look at her.

  “I’m coming!” she yelled and, without a backward glance at Shorn, still struggling to catch up, she raced down the canyon and into the dunes. She moved with impossible speed and in less than a minute she was lost to sight.

  Shorn reached the remains of the village and stood there for a moment, staring at the bodies. His face tightened and there was sorrow in his eyes.

  Then he went to the pool of water, took a long drink, and refilled his water skins. Moving to one of the ruined shelters, he kicked through the tattered remains until he came up with a quantity of dried meat. He put some in his mouth, then took off after Netra, following the traces of her passage into the trackless wastes.

  Forty-nine

  Three thousand years ago

  “We’re not going to win this way,” rumbled Sententu. The form he wore this day was like a man in some ways, but twice the height of any man, and seemingly cut from a slab of living white rock. He clenched his huge fists in frustration.

  “The shield is too strong,” agreed Gorim. His form was slightly shorter than Sententu, but reddish and broader, with fierce, craggy features and deep holes where eyes and nose should have been. “To destroy it we will crack this entire continent.”

  “So what?” interjected Khanewal. She favored female form, lithe and dusky-skinned, but she was clearly not human. Even if she had bothered to copy the human form exactly, there was something too sharp, too feral about her. “In the old days we tore these continents apart and put them back together for nothing more than our own amusement.”

  “The humans,” Sententu replied. He did not need to say more. All the Shapers knew how Xochitl favored them. Sundering a continent would kill a great many of them and Xochitl would never allow it.

  The Shapers stood on a low hill overlooking Durag’otal, a starkly beautiful city of multicolored stone. Graceful spires soared over gossamer stone bridges connecting high towers. Melekath had drawn on all his considerable power and skill to shape the perfect home for his Children, as he called those humans who had accepted his Gift.

  Around the city shimmered a sphere of orange light that for three years had resisted everything the attackers had thrown at it. Even now a ring of lesser Stone Shapers surrounded the city and were throwing focused orbs of Stone power at the shield. Interspersed among them were a number of humans, males and females alike, who were pounding the shield with LifeSong. There were a great many humans engaged in the siege. They had come from far and near, answering Xochitl’s call to war.

  None of the attacks were having any effect on the glowing sphere. The lands around the city had suffered though. When the army led by eight of the most powerful Nipashanti—as those Shapers of the First Ring called themselves—had first arrived, the lands had been green and fertile, with a placid river and a thick, hardwood forest. It was a beautiful place. Melekath had chosen the site well.

  Now the river was gray sludge that barely flowed. The forest had been burned to ash early on by an errant burst of power. The wildlife had long since fled and nothing green grew for miles in every direction.

  Overhead several of the aranti raced and shrieked, drawn by the excitement as their kind always was. Before too long they would grow bored and leave, then be replaced by others who would also grow bored and leave. Alone of the Shapers the aranti had never warred. They angered easily, but soon forgot their anger and raced away. It took the slow, simmering rage of the pelti, the Shapers of Stone, and the powerful, swollen rage of the shlikti, the Shapers of Sea, to build and sustain a real war.

  With the Shapers on the hill stood others: Protaxes, slender and regal, very like a human except for the gold cast to his skin; Tu Sinar, more like a blade than a human, all sharp edges and dour features; Golgath, the only one to come from the shlikti, changing as easily as the face of the ocean, one moment calm and pale, the next stormy and dark; and Bereth, standing on his four stout legs, his face hidden in shadow.

  They all turned as Xochitl approached, in form a tall, graceful woman with alabaster skin. She could have passed for human except for the unnatural perfection of her beauty. With her came the one who called himself the Protector, Lowellin of the Second Ring. He looked more like a human than the rest of them, with smooth skin and long, unbound hair. Something frightening danced behind his eyes.

  “You’ll be bringing a solution,” Khanewal declared sarcastically. “Something to keep the rest of us happy before we grow bored and leave.”

  “I don’t know why we’re here anyway,” Protaxes said. “Melekath has harmed none of us.”

  “When Melekath first took from the three Spheres to make the new Circle of Life, he vowed that the theft was only temporary. ‘All Life dies,’ he said. ‘The life always dies and returns what was taken.’ Yet now he has gone against this. This is why we are here. What he has done threatens all of us.” Sententu towered over Protaxes, stabbing a finger the size of a small boulder at the smaller Shaper as he spoke to him. Protaxes fluttered his hands but spoke no more.

  “The power for his shield comes directly from the Heart of Stone,” Xochitl said. “I am certain of it now.” All power that flowed through the Sphere of Stone originated from the Heart.

  “Ever was he the most powerful among us,” Gorim said. He sounded appreciative. He had sided with Melekath more than once in past wars.

  “You are certain of this?” Sententu asked.

  Xochitl nodded. “I went there. I saw. Lowellin will vouch. He accompanied me.”

  “He really did it,” Khanewal said, looking at the city and smiling slightly. “I am impressed.”

  “Then there is nothing we can do,” Protaxes said. The sunlight glinted off his gold skin, but then it always did. He was the vainest of all of them. “It is time for me to go then. Farewell, my brethren. I wish I could say it has been a pleasure.” The stone at his feet liquefied and he began to sink into it.

  “Hold!” Sententu barked, reaching out with one massive hand and grabbing the smaller Shaper. “We are not done here!”

  Protaxes looked deeply offended and he raised his hands, Stone power beginning to glow there.

  Quickly Xochitl stepped forward. “Let go of him, Sententu. Protaxes, this alliance is not yet at an end. There is still another option.”

  The two glared at each other, but Sententu released his hold and Protaxes lowered his hands, the Stone power dissipating. The alliance was fragile at best, held together largely by Sententu and Xochitl. Several times they had had to fetch those who had slipped away or break up conflicts before they be
came serious.

  “We build a prison around him and his city,” Xochitl said. “One he will never break out of.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Protaxes retorted. “There is nothing on this world we could imprison him in that he could not eventually free himself from.”

  “There is one thing. We open the abyss, use chaos power,” Xochitl said, looking at Bereth.

  “Utter foolishness,” Bereth hissed, shadows shifting around him. None ever saw his face. He made certain of that. “I am proof of that.”

  Khanewal laughed. “We could find the remains of Larkind if we need more convincing.”

  Eons before, Bereth and Larkind went too deep. At the center of the world they found an abyss filled with a chaotic power of a kind never seen before. They tried to shape it…with disastrous results.

  “It is chaos, and it cannot be controlled,” Bereth insisted. He was growing larger as he spoke, drawing stone from underfoot and pulling it into himself. He seemed to have more legs now, but the shadows were growing as well and it was hard to tell for sure.

  “Because you were not prepared,” Xochitl countered. “Lowellin and I have been studying this and we believe we have found a way.”

  “I will be no part of this,” Bereth grumbled and walked away.

  “We can do it without him,” Lowellin said. He stood closest to Xochitl and there was something possessive in his manner. In all the wars, through all the shifting alliances, he had always stood with her. “If we only scratch the surface, just enough to release a tiny amount, and we all join our strength, we can control what spills forth. We shape it around Durag’otal, and then we seal the crack. Melekath will never be able to break through it.”