The Flame of Wrath

by Christene Knight

  ********

  The morning beckoned as silver dreams. Twilight shimmered against every surface. It was wisteria froth beading upon the periwinkle web of a sleeping world. Through the unraveling wisps of fuzzy peach, the sun glinted in golden winks. Such a beautiful backdrop encased the harsh sounds of war.

  Their swords clashed with a crispness which chilled the air like the onset of fall. A destined three, they were the children of the sky. Each movement made by their elegant bodies radiated as sunlight.

  One turned on a savage whim. It contradicted the boundless grace present in every direction. She wore a fatigue that would not abandon her eyes no matter how much sleep she might endure. Something within her was hurting with such profound intensity that that pain sheltered her from the world more than the thick covering of chain mail coif. The interwoven links of gold molded to her svelte body dazzled in the light with every act.

  A flash of vivid colors robbed her of all sight. She buckled slightly. A thundering quake rippled outward from the origin of impact at her armored neck.

  A violent gasp filled the air as her sparing partners and all those present in their perspective training froze with fear.

  Zahara had allowed a blade to penetrate her defenses.

  A woman with quivering blue eyes still held both hands firmly to the hilt of her sword. She followed the length of her weapon upward until reaching its home, newly-nestled against Zahara's long neck. Had her respected leader not been wearing her armor, she might have taken her head with one swift motion.

  Staggering backward, Zahara removed the mail cowl from her head and shoulders. Her long hair clung to her head, weighted by sweat. She struggled to steady her breath but her mind was afire with purgatory's touch.

  “What's wrong?” she heard asked fearfully.

  Zahara could not answer. She stared down at the golden protection inside her tense grip.

  The words came. They were a tiny whisper which all Guardians heard in that same collective instant.

  “I am a child of scripture, servant to the Fire Goddess. I evoke the promise in your blood. Fight the fight I cannot fight, Defender.”

  The Guardians' eyes glassed as their heads upturned to the voice lingering in the cosmos.

  Zahara emerged from the trance first. She looked around her to her sisters who all seemed lost within the realm of a dream while upturning their graceful faces to the heavens. “Soren is coming,” she said knowingly.

  The leader to the elite warriors turned her back to the others. Without another word, she quietly disappeared from sight. The call had caused something ominous to fill her. She knew then that they would need to be ready. But for what, she wondered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shh, listen. Your conscience speaks to you, but you have ceased listening. She speaks the truth though it may be one you wish never to have heard. Listen or doom yourself by wallowing in prideful deafness.

  ---Book of Wrath

  ********

  It had come as an oppressive weight. It bore down upon their frail mortal bodies with a mighty wrath. Shock can often be an unforgiving thing. Surely it was then as it fell zealously against them.

  An awestruck voice rang out as whispered breezes. It was only after it had come and gone that they were again crushed beneath the silence.

  “I can't believe it,” Echo said. She stared forward into the nothingness. Her eyes twinkled with tears of hope and disbelief. She thought of her sweet cousin. Not a day had gone by that she had not prayed for Autumn's safe return. Now that prayer seemed on the cusp of being granted. “We've finally found her. We know where she is.”

  She blinked rapidly, ridding her eyes of their foggy wonder. At her sides, Echo saw the souls of all those who had been summoned to their underground meeting place. They had all come, looking to the others for the reason for the call. When Soren arrived, the reason for the summons grew all too clear. His revelations had left them all reeling.

  Frost narrowed the intensity of his green eyes while lost in wondering. He spoke the thoughts plaguing his mind for the others to hear. “The desert?” He met Soren's eyes. “Why haven't you been able to sense her presence there?”

  Soren had suspected that his abilities might be questioned when he informed them of the news. Frost's actions were no surprise though despite it, the words still stung. He winced inwardly as he answered. “I couldn't sense her presence anywhere.”

  “No one could,” Myth voiced. She gazed patiently to her thoughtful father. Her beauty was not lost within the darkened tunnel. It was amplified by warm torchlight. “Not even the Oracle.”

  Angelos III slid down the length of the moss covered walls. His regal robes were smeared with grime. Still, he stared almost defeated to his limp hands. He attempted to speak, but at first the words would not come. Then finally, the King was able to stutter the words formerly trapped within his throat. “How is that possible?”

  Together, the group fell to their own musings.

  “The Empress could be using some kind of magic,” Soren reasoned.

  “It doesn't matter what she is using.” Zahara was livid. She thought back to the day everything had changed. It was the day when her world had fallen from grace alongside the falling of her land's princess. She had failed to deliver Autumn from the clutches of death, from the grasp of Aurea, but she would not fail this time. She would bring Autumn home to her people no matter the cost. “We know where Autumn is and I say we go get her.”

  “I'm with Zahara,” Echo said. Her right fist made violent contact with her left palm in an accentuation of her point. “I say we steal back what was stolen from us.”

  “We can't just rush in without a plan,” Frost interjected. He sighed wearily at the impetuousness of youth. “We have to be smart about this or we'll all be killed.”

  “Agreed,” Angelos III chimed. He rose to his feet in an effort to gain back his air of confidence both mentally and physically. He had to think of what was at stake. Aurea had grown to be a powerful threat now more so than ever.

  “Zahara,” he said, “take only your best warriors, but take with you a team of Illusion's best men. Their skill at stealth will prove invaluable on this mission. You must infiltrate the temple without being seen.”

  The tall warrior placed her fist over heart as she inclined her head. Her heart raced beneath her hand. She would right Fate's wrong. She would deal a mighty blow to the beast which was the Empress. “Understood, my King.”

  Angelos III watched over Zahara closely. He could see the anger seething inside her brown eyes. He knew with certainty that she would not return home without his daughter. Slowly, his eyes tore away from the Guardian. “Soren--” he said in a low voice.

  The druid drew closer to his old friend. “Yes, my Lord?”

  Their eyes met in a gaze which spoke the spans of lifetimes.

  “Bring my daughter home.”

  ********

  The creature stopped atop the towering dune. Its head lifted to survey the vastness of rolling gold. Such was the immortal beauty of the desert.

  The lizard ran from nose to tail more than three sturdy warriors. It was a beast to haunt the world of hallucinations and immense heat. The scales radiating with the sun's light were rough. Their sharp angles mirrored the gritty complexity of marble: part sienna with cream peaks while so much of its scales were the earthen strength of red clay.

  Its slender face turned to its brothers, who approached to flank him. The gaunt angles of its face might have frightened a normal man, but no man was foolish enough to enter the badlands. That is, no man except those hidden beneath the desert lizards themselves.

  From above, spies of the Empress would only shiver at the sight of the cursed carnivores. After all, it was believed that the beasts could strip a man of his flesh in moments if one were to wander too far into the desert. And yet, the truth of the matter was that two leather straps secured a cocoon-like saddle to the soft underbelly of the animals.

  Zahara h
eld her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were closed beneath the dust-covered glasses worn to shield her eyes from the harsh sands. And though she wore veils of white wrapped about her head and face to protect her, her skin was evenly dusted by sand.

  She knew that her lizard had stopped, but Zahara did not fear the stillness. She was confident that she would arrive safely at the temple and soon the nearby lizard, which carried only an empty saddle, would heft the burden of Autumn safely within its empty saddle.

  Her thoughts were spirited away from her reveries as she felt the sudden lurch of momentum telling her that they had begun their trek once more.

  The powerful legs of the animal pounded loudly against the loose earth. Its strides were muffled by the dunes which moved a safe clearance from the lizard's rider.

  Zahara sent a grateful thought to her companion though it had not been the first time doing so over these long weeks.

  The lizard's tongue darted with serpentine quickness from its broad face.

  The ancient cultures knew the secrets of these ancient creatures. The Guardians were among those to understand the beasts. The reason to fear them was not their brute strength or even their size. The reason to fear them was their intuitiveness. It was their gift to read the minds of man.

  When a poor fool staggered about in the merciless desert, desperate for drink, crazy from the heat, they often prayed to be saved or for a quick death. To those who understood, the lizards were angles of mercy.

  In that instant, the lizard understood Zahara's gratitude. In response, the creature spurred onward, closing the distance between it and the temple.

  “I'm coming, Autumn,” Zahara vowed. “I'm coming.”

  ********

  Where once a pitiless sun had beat down upon them, there was instead a forgiving moon. The Lady Moon blew a cooling breath across the land. Then, in a softly-spoken whisper, she warned that her breath, which now felt soothing to the burning land, would soon become cold and unforgiving.

  Ten-strong hardly seemed as though it were a menacing force, but in the indigo world where it was a bitter mistake to underestimate anything, ten would be all the warriors which the rebellion needed. After all, their mission was about quickness and above all else… stealth.

  The warriors unburdened themselves of their clothing weighted by the sands. It had been another hard day's travel before they had come to reach the oasis.

  Lush and green, the oasis welcomed its guests. The sounds of insects crying a mournful song echoed throughout the night. The oasis offered up sweet waters for drinking and trees to protect them against the elements. Each tree bore decadent fruits to appease their rumbling stomachs. The waters dancing in the moonlight would generously offer up fish to further satiate their hungers. At least, they might have enjoyed the fish on any other quest, but theirs prevented it. The need for secrecy after all prevented them from building a fire. Although even as they realized this, the steadily dropping temperature dared them to try. The smoke or even the faintest glimpse of the fire's light would notify any agents of the Empress that an outside presence was near the temple. Instead, they were forced to rely upon the heat of their comrades, their furs and the warmth of their prayers.

  With any luck, by this very time the next day, they would have Lady Autumn within their party and be that much closer to the safety of Angels Province.

  Thus far, three months had been spent engaged in exhausting travel. Outside of Angels Province, no territory was truly safe. There had been many instances of near-discovery, but some guiding hand seemed to rule in their favor. Now closer to Autumn than ever before, they held their breaths and hoped that the Dragon would remain with them.

  Soren watched over the weary lizard, seeing its eyes droop in exhaustion. His hand gently rubbed the skin between the creature's eyes. He affectionately smoothed the flat plane of his broad head. He watched as the reluctant giant lolled his head to the side, surrendering to fatigue.

  “Sleep,” Soren whispered. “You’ve earned it.”

  The druid turned his head.

  The moon peeking between the tall trees lightly fell upon those bathing within healing waters. Soren smiled to himself. He was happy that some sense of comfort or reward had been bestowed to his comrades no matter how small that comfort was.

  The danger had only just begun. It would grow more treacherous from here.

  As Soren stared from face to face, his own face grew overshadowed by the dark realization that a few of their party might never return home.

  “They know the price of war,” he heard gently.

  Soren blinked away his sadness. As if waking from a dream, he realized that Zahara had been watching him watching the others. “Zahara,” he breathed. “How long have you---”

  Zahara sat at his side, realizing that she had startled the druid. “When we each agreed to come, we knew what we might lose,” she said, ignoring his previous question. “Don't trouble yourself with such thoughts.” She tossed a heavy blanket at the druid's head. A ghost of a smirk touched her lips as he awkwardly caught it. “Now rest. We move in a few hours. Who knows when we'll have the opportunity to sleep again?”

  *******

  A hand lightly shaking his shoulder roused Soren from dreaming. When his eyes opened, it was to the aura of Zahara looming over him. He saw the dancing colors of her determination, her hopefulness, her innermost fears.

  “Is it time?” he asked.

  Zahara could only nod before she went to join the others in preparing for battle.

  Wearily, Soren sat up. He suddenly felt the enormity of his age. It weighed upon him with boundless zeal.

  It seemed like so long ago that he had made an oath to the individuals bathed in shadow. A trinity of months could scarcely count as long ago in the minds’ of man. Still, the burdens of a heavy heart can prolong all things until they morph into something ominous.

  For a fleeting instant, his thoughts ventured to what atrocities might have taken place while he and the others had been on their quest. He pushed them away. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on those things. His thoughts were needed here and now if Autumn was to be freed from Aurea's clutches.

  Across the oasis on the land where cool sweet waters ebbed, the pillars of shadowy defenders stood proudly. They were the strong warriors of Illusion. They were the graceful Guardians bound to the druids by an ancient oath.

  A knowing wind swept throughout the dark valley. It blessed the soldiers, by anointing them in the purity of the oasis' waters.

  With an audible creak of protest, a broad chest opened slowly. It revealed the greatest secret of a private people. The House of Illusion had shown the true immensity of their trust in the Angels’ clan by bringing with them a most precious gift.

  There was no greater honor among the warriors of Illusion than to receive what they called “the ghost's shroud.” The armor was a treasure within their land. Whoever possessed its powers was said to be at one with the spirits and to be truly at peace within the shadows.

  Ceremoniously, hands dipped into the bountiful trove. A dark membrane glistened as ever-changing ink. In one light, it was the darkest blue. Then in another light it was fathomless black. It throbbed with life. Such was the nature of the gift. It lived as the life's blood to nightmares.

  With the moon's assent, their naked bodies were loosely draped in the flowing coolness of stretchy softness.

  The warriors worked beneath the airy covering. They placed their daggers at their ankles, or carefully affixed throwing knives to their forearms and wrist. While others still placed their swords at their hips or backs.

  The cold yielding material was then pulled down over their heads as a masked cowl.

  The Guardians had followed suit. They too had donned their weapons before draping the flowing ghost shroud over their bodies. They gazed curiously from one to the other, wondering how such a garment could aid them in battle. What they wore was of no better protection than the furs upon which they had slept. How could th
is billowing sheet garner the myth of ghostly stealth? When they looked to the warriors of Illusion, they were answered only by the knowing smiles present inside their exposed eyes.

  Zahara gasped at the sudden heat of the membrane against her skin. She could feel its stirring over her lean body. The formless fabric rushed together in a frantic desire to connect. It molded to her body like a second skin, but possessed the strength of any armor she had ever worn. She felt it with an unwavering certainty that no blade could pierce this newly-given skin.

  She splayed the fingers of her hands. A faint creaking similar to the sound of leather filled her ears. Her hands were gloved as she moved them beneath the moonlight. Zahara frowned curiously. The shadows made her hand all but undetectable even as she held it a mere breadth from her face.

  Suddenly, Zahara remembered her face. She leaned over the mirror-like surface of the water then peered curiously at her own reflection. With a low hiss the ghost's shroud had molded tightly to her head, leaving only her eyes for the world.

  Her gaze shifted to her warriors. She could see the amazement present within grateful eyes as they took in the intuitive actions of the shroud. As if reacting instinctively to the wearer's thoughts, the shroud parted just enough to reveal the hilts of swords or the delicate ends of throwing knives before winking and closing off their whereabouts to the world.

  The Guardians gave their most respectful bows to the soldiers of Illusion for bestowing such a means of protection. Then together they walked soundlessly toward the druid, who sat patiently upon a moss-covered stone.

  The druid sensed the confidence rising within them. He welcomed it. It would be needed in order for the odds against them not to appear so dire.

  “Once,” Soren began, “the druids of the temple constructed a tunnel from their home across the neighboring dunes to this very oasis. It is remembered only within scrolls.” He paused adding, “Scrolls which druids have long since forgotten. It is only the eldest among us who remember... but the old ones are a dying breed.” His face grew somber. There was silence which lingered into the countless moments before he spoke again. “The priests of Virtue now inhabiting the temple will know nothing of this tunnel. We will enter it, travel along its length then find ourselves at the exit inside a wine cellar. If there are any priests or guards about, we must dispatch them quickly or run the risk of being detected by the entire temple.”