This is the delicate part, Arman thought. The rest was labor. This is the dance.
The juile inhaled carefully. “Yes. I was told of the sword. The line of secrecy has been kept by the few who hope to preserve our world…” He peered into the smoky eyes before him. “You have guarded it well. And generously. Now Massada needs your help. We will crumble without it.” Arman watched the results with interest. Here was a Tindellan with power, yet he still breathed easier as he absorbed the juile’s praise.
The man opened his stance, ready to listen. “Tell me again. What has happened?”
Arman vaguely recalled the whirlwind of Tindellan questions after he had passed the gatekeeper’s test. Those moments felt hazy to him, as if part of a dream, so he decided to simply begin anew. “There is a spirit. It is murdering people across the terrisdans. The sword is our only hope for defense,” Arman explained. “The black fever is its sign. Where the fever has been, so has the spirit. It is called malitas.”
The Tindellan man’s eyes widened. “Malitas?”
“It is real and present,” Arman replied grimly.
“Malitas…” Abruptly, the clansman soured. His face tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Where did this thing come from?”
“I cannot be certain,” Arman said slowly.
“But you guess,” he retorted curtly.
“Yes, you are right. I do guess.” The juile’s face was grave, but calm.
The clansman scowled. “And what do you intend to do about that?”
“What I have said from the beginning. I will collect the sword and destroy the evil, if I am able,” Arman answered evenly.
“How can I know you are worthy to take it?”
“Might I ask your name?” Arman asked.
The clansman tightened his jaw and pressed his lips together; social mores were far different in the desert.
“Is it customary to answer question with question?” the Tindellan asked. Distaste lay plainly upon his pale features.
And here I trod on heels…
Arman dipped his dark head in apology. “I have angered you. I had no intent.”
The words did little to mollify the blanched man. Instead, they almost incensed his rage. “You cannot come here. This is not your place. Your name means nothing here.”
The last words stoked an old fire alive within the juile. Too many times his father had spoken similarly, and his ignorance had been just as great. Arman stretched his figure, despite the limitations of the ceiling, and extended his body out in all directions. His arm span and cloak opened up like a gray mast, and the room appeared diminutive beneath his menacing bulk. The clansman did not flinch, but his eyes flickered in a show of hesitation.
“Your gatekeeper thought differently as I wilted out in the perideta,” his voice boomed while his dark eyes flashed with power. “I proved myself out in the blue, even if it nearly wasted every breath within me. And left all the living back in Massada to rot.” Arman sucked in air with exaggerated ire. “You will release the sword to me. And you will do it speedily. I am done with your tests, Tindellan.”
“Arman,” the clansman began. “That’s not how we move here.”
Arman glowered. “It is not?” The juile’s lips pinched in a purse, and he pointed a long, transparent finger at the man. “You are supposed to be a guardian. A guardian. Not letting Massada waste away. You are called to protect—no matter where the danger originates from.”
Indecision marked the clansman’s features. “But the gatekeeper is the first step. Next you must speak to the council. And then we alert the bethaidas…” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly flushed a soft pink. He was evidently unused to revealing so much to a stranger.
Arman lowered his body and drew in his arms, though the tension in the room failed to dissipate. If anything, the memory of the looming figure haunted more than the actual experience. He straightened his mismatched face and turned his body utterly still. Even the folds of his robes and cloak lay without movement. “Tell me, has anyone else ever come out here for the sword?”
Again, the light eyes flickered. “No.”
“And proven his benere to the gatekeeper?”
“It is what has been established as the w—”
He neared the shorter man, crowding his face with his own. “Has anyone?”
“Bu—”
Arman growled. It was like the lethal growl of warning before a dog attacks. The Tindellan had no experience with canines, but the sound was unmistakable.
“No,” he replied quietly.
“Your name.” It was not a request.
“Sed.”
“Sed, if you delay me much longer, the fall of Massada shall rest upon your head. And that is a grave guilt for a guardian… Your people may not have grown soft physically, but their minds have regressed to larvae if they cannot see this for what it is. The time is now. It is not tomorrow.”
The clansman flushed again, and with the expression, Arman knew reason had finally prevailed.
“Take me to it,” Arman said, his bass billowing out like a war drum. “I do not want a tour of the desert, either. Just take me to the person who can give me the sword.”
The light gray eyes shot up. They were no longer tight with anger, but remained strong and composed. He straightened his thin frame, still a head shorter than the average Massadan. The pocked and weathered face had a foreign fierceness to it.
“There is no other. I am the keeper of Heart Render.”
~
Morning light poked Darse awake, and his stiff limbs cried out in revolt. He was unused to the elements, and he suddenly felt every bit of his age in his bones.
“Next time, I wait ’til summer,” he moaned, yet the unspoken hovered in his mind—but when will summer come again?
He wriggled and stretched until his legs creaked to life, and he set about restoring the fire, for it was now no more than a black heap of ash and rubble. The pop and snap as fire licked the wood served to revive his spirits, and he warmed his breakfast with a hum. Kicking the coantal leaf again from the flames, he bent to open the packet and pinch the steaming flesh into his mouth. He could barely taste it for it was so hot, but it singed deliciously as it slid down his throat. A noise drew his eyes up and he peered into the trees as he absently licked a finger.
A stranger approached.
He sidled over easily, raising a hand in greeting. He was a stocky man with a soft gut and bulging chest. His chin was littered with the stubble of a week’s growth, and his pouty lips smoothed into a smile of crooked and creamy teeth. Light brown hair sprouted out from his head like wheat grass, and Darse could only imagine that the man’s arms, legs, chest, and back were clothed in the same soft fur.
Darse lifted his hands in greeting—fish and all—and smiled amiably. Company held appeal after the previous evening spent thrashing with his own thoughts.
“You’re welcome to the fire,” Darse said, extending a hand out toward the soothing flames.
The man bent his round head in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he replied.
He snapped his fingers, hopped to a nearby log, and rolled and positioned it about two arm spans from Darse. He settled himself atop it and arched his body toward the heat.
Darse observed the simple sequence in surprise; the elegance and grace of the stranger’s motions did not match his short form.
“Are you from Garnoble?” he asked as he surveyed Darse.
“No. I live in Veronia currently.” Darse raised his eyes to meet the man’s. At first he had perceived them as merely sunken, but they were more like two black pits. It was as if pupil and iris had merged together into a dark night. It was strangely unsettling, yet he could not pinpoint why.
He must be some race I’ve yet to meet, he rationalized, attempting to calm the lurch that had soured his stomach.
“I’m making a trip to Ziel. You traveling?”
The stranger smiled. “Sure. I roam the whole land. I don’t tarry in any one t
errisdan for long.”
Darse extended his breakfast to the man. It was declined with a swift swipe of the hand, so he set it down gingerly on a rock. He rubbed his hands together—more from an odd nervousness than chill—before the crackling flames.
“I’m Darse,” he finally said. He raised his eyes reluctantly up to gaze again into the startling dark spheres. “What’s your name?”
The toothy cream grin extended out. “Some have called me Barrie.”
“Barrie,” Darse repeated softly, wishing the acid flavor on his tongue would recede.
“May I join you, Darse?” Barrie asked with the tilt of his head. His eyes were deep and eager.
Darse’s brow furrowed at the question. He pointed to the popping blaze. “I already said you were welcome to the fire.” He eyed Barrie suspiciously. There was something askew, but he could not determine what, save the colorless eyes.
Those eyes… They’re like old grave markers, Darse thought, recalling the stones of the cemetery that had streaked black over time.
Barrie lifted a palm into the air. “So you did.” His crooked grin emerged again, but it did little to loosen Darse’s nerves.
What’s wrong with me? thought Darse.
Another warning voice toned within, though, echoing from head to toe: The real question is what is wrong with him…
“You sure you aren’t hungry?” Darse asked. His voice sounded as thin as paper. He wondered how his face appeared. He lowered his hand and scooped up the cooled fish, hesitating as if to pack it away. His insides screamed for flight while his mind darted about seeking to discover the hidden danger.
Barrie puckered out his lips in deliberation. “Well, sure.” He patted his soft gut, laughing, and reached his large hand out to the offering. Darse nearly dropped the fish in surprise, for Barrie’s fingernails and cuticles were as stained as the charred firewood.
“Are your fingers all right?” he asked hesitantly.
“Oh, just a little dirt,” Barrie replied with a toothy grin. “I’ll get rid of it soon enough.”
Darse stood, under the pretense of stretching his long legs, but really began eyeing the ground to see what possessions he had left. He walked around Barrie and the fire, faintly registering the crackle of the flames licking into the pocked wood. The odor of burning wood rose up from the brazier and into the cold air. He normally found pleasure in the scent. Today it curled his stomach.
I don’t know why. But I don’t care anymore. I have to get away. I have to.
Darse glanced up from his pacing feet to see the two glassy black eyes staring at him. Barrie continued to eat, chewing his food in an indifferent circular motion, much like a mindless goat with her cud.
“I’m going to get on my way now. The day is passing,” Darse said softly. He added a conciliatory grin but knew his features must be stretched in awkward tension instead of friendliness.
Barrie’s face clouded and he paused his chewing. “Where are you going?” The voice was veined with cold.
“Ziel. I’m later than I’d like to be… But enjoy the fire,” Darse added with contrived casualness.
“No.” The word was a plea, but it contained a hardness that should not have been present. “I would like to talk to you more. May I join you?” Barrie’s round face leaned forward and tightened. The dark fingernails gripped the fish until the coantal leaf tore under the pressure.
Darse shook his head. “I really prefer to be alone on this trip. I’m sorry.” He bowed cordially and shouldered the pack. He turned and strode from the fire with deliberately natural steps, although his heart thundered and his fingers tingled. Darse felt like he could fly like a frawnite under the angst that coursed through every nerve.
I’m almost away. Almost away.
He could sense the cold, black eyes upon him but refused to turn. His legs itched to surge forward, yet he made them stay the pace.
One step at a time. One step…
The flood of heat at his temples lessened as he made ground, but it nonetheless felt as though he crept away from a tsunami, still surging to life behind him.
Darse let out a soft sigh as he neared a thicket of trees clustered together in a snowy huddle; he was roughly fifty strides away at this point. He slid his head sideways to glance back, and stopped, gaping.
Barrie was not there.
Darse darted his eyes through bough and bush, feeling the drumming of his heart increase. Sweat beaded and ran down his face, and his palms turned as slick as ice.
Surrendering his attempts to locate the stranger, Darse sprang forward, not even trying to hide his panic. He sprinted until his lungs and legs burned, and finally, he bent to a forced halt, panting.
A voice suddenly snaked in his ear. “Have you ever watched a cat hunt a rat?”
Darse vaulted back in shock. Barrie stood next to him, leaning leisurely against a tree and manicuring his blackened nails with a penknife. He lazily paused and peered up at Darse. Darse, heaving, felt his tongue stick dryly in his mouth.
“Have you, Darse?” Barrie asked. He cocked his head to the side and smiled broadly. It was an evil grin, without any attempt of concealment. “Darse?”
Darse shook his head, unsure of what to say or do. His hand neared the hilt of his knife as he pondered what course to take.
Barrie, in the speed of a wink, planted the penknife deep into the trunk of the tree. It stuck out like an arrow in a bull’s eye.
“I saw it twice. Interesting, as much as these things can be.” He shrugged and sidled closer. “The cat stalks. He slides and creeps forward, nearing. He observes the rat. Sees how it moves. He enjoys the game.” Barrie’s eyes bore into Darse’s. “The rat will squeak and run, but really it is no use. The cat is dominant.”
Barrie began to circle him. Darse felt every hair on his body raise. His hand grasped his weapon, but did not yet unsheathe it.
“Even when the rat is in its grasp, the cat still plays with it. It seems like the movement under its paws brings it amusement.”
Barrie swept upon Darse and struck him across the skull powerfully. Darse crumpled under the smashing blow, and the world around him seemed to sway in and out of focus. He groaned as pain blossomed under his senses.
Barrie’s whispered voice boomed like thunder through his ears and mind. “As if the squirming tail under him were more delicious than the actual meal.”
Silence ensued, and Darse finally opened his eyes. He cradled his head, blinking. His hand crept to his waist and when he looked down, his face fell. His belt no longer carried his knife. It had been taken.
“Oh no,” he whispered with dread.
Darse arched his head gingerly around in several directions, but all was still and silent. There was no one with him.
He rose shakily, trying a timid step, and then shot forward with speed. He moved with the haste terror grants and had covered a vast section of ground before again, he met with a blow from the side. He toppled to his knees with a sickening groan. His head throbbed in pain, and his vision blackened and showed spots.
“As if the hunger was not just for food,” Barrie said in ear. His voice was soft, lethal.
Darse felt his stomach roil. He groaned and blinked. After a moment he was able to look up. Again, he found himself alone.
Tentatively, he drew himself to a stand. He eyed the area about him but could not calm his trembling limbs. Slowly, Darse fought the fear, focusing his thoughts toward defense.
Use your mind, old man. Use your mind.
Darse inhaled deeply. He abandoned his pack to the ground and widened his stance. He cautiously strode forward, making each step deliberate and defensive. While he did not pass the distance very quickly, his courage began to swell, and his anger ignited. He was determined to not be a victim any longer. His breath evened, even with his head ballooning in pain. He tenderly cradled it while vigilantly maintaining watch.
An hour later, he regretted the loosing of his pack. He was thirsty and exhausted, and now withou
t flint or freg. He sighed, deliberating. All his options appeared foolish. To return to the scene—and possibly Barrie’s area of residence—was unwise, but to wander about in the icing without supplies?
He furrowed his brow, yet eventually opted to continue. There was a small town roughly four or five hours away, if he recalled correctly. It was a considerable distance, but he could obtain polina assistance there, and perhaps beg a meal from someone.
Despite the pain, his confidence mounted with the established plan, and he progressed through the wood in better spirits. After another hour of hiking, Darse came upon a homestead. It was a small building, with white-washed planks and blanketed windows. A crudely crafted rail-fence belted it and the nearby field. The land had been cleared but was evidently now unused, resting under a layer of crusted snow.
The earlier attack had left him feeling vulnerable, and the thought of help perked his steps. Darse peered around eagerly, but paused before passing into the gate. It was rarely wise to walk unannounced onto another’s land. He called out. “Hello?”
He waited, and his spirits drained in despair. No one.
“Hello?” Darse called again.
“Hello,” a familiar and hushed voice behind him responded.
Darse leaped in surprise but still managed to pivot and swing an arm. Barrie batted the blow away as if it were but a moth, smiling cruelly.
Then, with a blinding swiftness, Barrie thrust Darse face down onto the blanket of white. Darse’s nostrils filled with cold, and his lungs revolted under the merciless and suffocating ice. He flung his hands out to raise his body, but a sharp weight—Barrie’s knee—pressed upon his spine while a sturdy hand forced his nose and mouth into the crusty and airless white.
He struggled but could not bend beneath the astonishing strength of his attacker. He choked in pain and waved his arms madly. His legs were unable to rise, and the sharp pressure on his back was as unyielding as an ancient oak.
It was no use. This was to be the end.
His vision flooded with his life, with Isvelle, Brenol, Colette, hopes for the new baby. There was a longing there—as if something were incomplete—and he pushed with a new vehemence.
The Forbidding Blue Page 11