Mountain folk were supposed to be the most hospitable as well as the smartest people. Or so her mother had said. Things have changed, Alizarin thought. And not for the better.
Alizarin's childhood notions were smashed to pieces with the shooting of the first two arrows, which was why during those crucial moments she had stood there, unmoving. This is not the welcome I expected.
Even worse, they were certain that Karch and his father had gotten a pretty good look at her face and clothes. As long as they were in the area of mountains covered by their priest's power and influence, Alizarin was not safe without the protection of the staff. Ilion and Alizarin weren't running, but neither did they feel like stopping to ask for eggs and a few bits of trading. Any sighting at all is a risk. They doubted they could afford the consequences of an entire village seeking outsiders within their native lands.
The two weary travelers walked on, though their hand holding felt a bit different to Alizarin, a change of meaning to the shared touch of skin. As they walked past the fall of darkness, keeping to the direction of the main path, it dwindled into a rough road and finally to the merest, spotty indication of a trail. The hills that had rolled so softly at the first encounter, gained height and steepness, as they headed toward the range of cloud-covered peaks.
Alizarin stopped as near-nightfall approached and took off her mother's cloak, folded it tightly around her waist, and secured it with the covering of her day apron. Reaching into her private purse, her fingers fished around the tiny compartment. Withdrawing their successful catch, her mother's sapphire bloomed in her cupped hand, its rays lighting the enfolding darkness. It enabled the weary travelers to trudge on, though now Alizarin was in the lead.
As careful as they were to keep noise to a minimum, still the sucking sound of mud reluctant to release their feet was disturbingly loud and obnoxious. Even stepping on the wads of grass scattered along the almost indistinguishable trail only lessened the grip of the ground slightly. In any other situation, Alizarin would have been laughing at the absurd and ridiculous sounds emanating from her footsteps. As it was though, there was nothing to laugh about. The very real threat attached to being followed by a growing host of enemies made the flatulence at their feet much less amusing.
They were greatly relieved then when mud and patches of meager grass turned to pebbles and rocks. Finally, the loud proclamations that followed each of her steps ceased. With Alizarin still in the lead, they walked steadily onward, until the mud had fallen off the majority of their footwear. If they had been in poor shape before, Alizarin's shoes had become blobs of mud-encrusted goop on her feet after the strenuous walk. It took some effort to pry the whole mess off her feet, but she couldn't afford the meager protection they offered at the cost of the huge trail the bits of fabric and dried mud would leave behind.
Her calves ached. The mild inclines became steeper. The crevasses and valleys widened and deepened. Still in the distance, only marginally closer, the Raging Mountains rose above and beyond them, reaching for some distant goal. Clouds collected around the peaks, shrouding them in mist and hiding their cutting edges from ordinary sight.
Ilion found a small clump of low-lying trees that seemed to offer the best option for a resting place. Alizarin was so exhausted from fighting the mud for each step forward that she could only drag herself and her pack partway to the proposed spot. Only she made it all the way under the foliage covering. Ilion had to go back and pick up the abandoned pack, hefting it to his capable but worn shoulder.
It was quick work to settle in for a small rest. They hadn't seen any followers, which was a relief. Hopefully, the rain would destroy any remaining marks of their passage. Still, they were almost to the mountain range and had had no opportunity to even ask again about Bira. They didn't dare. Whatever they found, it would have to be with their own hands and their personal observations. Contacting another person was just too risk filled.
“Then again, we have been to one temple, Alizarin,” remarked Ilion as they relaxed against the ground. Plumping one sack of clothing into a makeshift pillow, he continued, “So we have that advantage. At least we know the feeling of the place that we seek, the echoes of eternity. Perhaps, in the end, prayer is all that really works, anyway. If any of those mountain people did believe in Bira, I have a strong suspicion they would not dare tell us now, not with the local priest so vocal in his opposition.”
Alizarin nodded and whispered back,“Let's ask the Gods and be content with their directions.”
“We should go farther into the mountains, possibly even to the peaks. The believers wrote a clue somewhere. I just need the right vantage point to see it clearly.” Ilion waited for her agreement.
She was already asleep.
Wrapping his arm around her, covering them both with cloaks and blankets, Ilion fell quickly into a deep and troubled dream:
He was surrounded by brown damp earth, caressing, smothering, grasping, and enclosing him in a tender vise. It was difficult to inhale the scarce air and a terrifying sense of unfamiliar helplessness fell over his mind. He pushed and pushed to no avail against the enclosing dark, attempting one last struggle against his approaching, inevitable death. As the darkened land encompassed his last gulp of air, as his eyes swam with the bright and sharp light dancing inside his eyelids, as he faded slowly into the pitched vise of oblivion, a voice called to him, calling Ilion away, calling him home.
Uncertain of the sound, what it meant, who called to him, he lay silent in his grave of collapsed earth. Ilion retreated into his gathering and forcefully exhaled his last breath to answer. To answer—to answer—it became the focus of his shrinking consciousness. His reply stole from his lips, empty of air. Voiceless, cut off and drowning in dirt, he mouthed his reply again. His mouth filled with ashes and coals.
Am I heard? She has to hear me! He felt panic in the silence. Warmth surrounded him. Nightfall enclosed him in eternal sleep and his core ember, his minute soul teetered on the edge of extinction, teetered there and resisted the final fall. The unknown trickle of flame found the power of the staff, opening to it. His whole being shone against the oncoming tidal dark. Engulfed in a flicker of soul that flared in power into a raging bonfire, Ilion prepared himself to fight the greatest of all attackers in order to shout his reply.
He opened his mouth, spiritually full of knowledge and pure light. His voice echoed its message with the vastness of a deep gong, driving the dirt from his mouth, cleansing the air of suffocating earth. I will be heard!
Startled, Ilion sat up, wide awake.
Completely immersed in his dream, yet his urgency to survive and his need to save her … to save someone? … had caused him to wake from the deep sleep of the very tired, entirely alert, and ready to fight.
The land was silent all around him. Only the screech of the white-winged owl was heard. And that, only after its prey was securely pierced with supple and strong talons, and the mighty bird took to the air again, unbalanced. Fighting the low wind for height, it barely cleared the farthest trees before it disappeared into the cover of nightfall's protection. If Ilion hadn't been fascinated, watching the predator as it winged to victory with its fresh meal, he would never have seen the arrow that pierced the bird's breast or have heard the small, pitiful hoot as it spiraled to the floor in an ungainly crash.
Death walked the wooded land. It almost knocked on his doorstep, if Ilion had had one. He made certain of his grasp on the staff, which had become almost second nature to his hands. Ilion dared not move. Hunters this close meant certain capture. Only the invisibility of the staff gave him, gave them any chance at all.
He looked down at Alizarin who still slept untroubled. Covering her shoulder and arm against the brisk coolness of nightfall, he guarded them both, watching the hunters come. Every path of escape was cut off, one by one, and they were surrounded in a field of shadowed men.
Several stopped and pointed to the place where Alizarin had taken off her shoes, and again at the spot that s
he had dropped her pack from exhaustion. Keen eyes searched everywhere and looked under every bit of cover. Ilion felt examined down to the connections of his bones. Even whispering an alarm to Alizarin would have been fatal for both of them. He could only hope she slept well, and deeply. Thank the Gods she doesn’t snore!
The hunters spoke in the exhalation of their breaths, slow and steady. It was no language he had ever heard. Which is a first. There must have been ten or twenty pairs of eyes focused right on the covering where Alizarin and he had finally stopped after traveling for so long out of concern for the apparent antipathy of the local villagers.
These aren't villagers. He would have been much more grateful if they were. No, these men were trained, sophisticated hunters, undaunted by weather, lack of light, or the difficulty of following stone travel. Their eyes took in the whole of the land, scrutinizing every part. They disturbed nothing as they hunted, gliding through the shrubbery and woods as their footsteps rose and fell with each movement of the land. Several stood close enough for Ilion to see that glyphs marked their faces, though he couldn't make out the image. It seemed to be the same one on all of their cheeks, one sided, fanged, and crested.
Ilion's breath was low and rapid. He glanced down at Alizarin, grateful to have met her, and to be in her company, even at that exact moment of acute peril.
The hunters conferred a moment. The men were clearly puzzled. Ilion's trail ended in the meadow where they were standing, yet there was no further trail. He watched several as they looked to the air, gesturing. A few more looked up in the nearby trees, seeking some sign to follow onward.
The group of men fell to arguing almost on top of Ilion's seat. Some even leaned against the branches of the low-lying tree limb that sheltered them. Alizarin did not move. Ilion stopped breathing.
The one who led them, an average man indistinguishable from the rest, uttered something abruptly and turned on his heels, apparently finished with the whole pursuit. As a trained group of soldiers, the rest followed, loyal and exact in their obedience.
Ilion watched them stepping lightly on the dirt, mud, rocks, and stuntted grasses until they passed from his sight.
He had never been more grateful for an owl than he was at that moment. The nightfall sky was clear and bright. The stars were close enough to touch. It was beautiful, beautiful and deadly as a fanged serpent. Ilion lightly dozed, where he sat, back against the treebark and waited for the warming beams of sun's rising. With hunters like those in the hills and woods, no movement at all is probably the best course of action.
Ilion watched the earliest beams of light as they filled the sloping hills and distant valleys. They glimmered in Alizarin's hair, catching the light. Her face was peaceful in its repose although resting her cheek on one slender arm gave a slight distortion to her eyelid. He counted the freckles on her face and neck and basked in the glow of newborn sunshine.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Meaning of Courage
They all agreed. She is held by an enemy. We cannot free her alone. We are too few.
Then the boy entered the forest again, crashing through the brush and bushes. They watched his haste and followed with ease as he ran with little attempt to hide, straight for his den, where he sat.
They waited for him to do something, to attack them, or attempt to run on. But he just sat there, waiting, as if he expected another to meet him.
No one came.
They asked their mother, What is this thing? What does he do?
Go, she said to her children, Discover. Kill him if he is weak or wounded.
Noses to the ground, without any effort at all, they surrounded him. Above the crying boy in the trees, below him on the ground, one on each side, they worked in harmony, trained assassins. The vise constricted; the moment of striking was laid in front of them like an invitation to feast. Head bent down low to the ground so that his eyes would have every vantage point, the largest Lurker brother eased his head through the farthest opening, between two intertwined roots. When he showed them all what he saw, they made an instantaneous, unanimous decision: Kill!
As one, they pivoted from their positions and the trap closed on the wretched prey. Muscles lunged, mouths opened, and teeth bared; they sped at their target, ready for the quick, united attack.
*
He didn't mean to cry. He didn't. His Pa would be so ashamed. Men don't cry, unless they are wounded on the battlefield, Cethel had heard him say. I don't see any battles around here, boy. Lick yourself off and stand up. There is no mercy for the weak in the forest.
Yet he was weak, undeniably so. And he was no man, though Cethel desired to be with all of his heart. In his dream, she had told him Azure's friends would find him in the forest. Yet none came. The exhausted boy tried to sleep, to get some more instructions from the dreams, but his unruly emotions were still so charged from the lies, hatred, and brutality that he had just experienced in his own village.
All that anger, killing anger, directed at me! They didn't want to hear that they were wrong. As if I am some dirt on a carpet that has to be cleansed. They were his family, his friends. He was rejected and despised by all, most deeply by Cethel's own heart. He knew he could not fight the tattooed Dirtmen, not singlehandedly. He was overmatched, banished, and abandoned.
Then, he heard something moving above his head. Something was stirring in the forest. Even though the situation was hopeless, still he hoped. Mostly, he hoped that his dream was a true dream, that there was a plan for him, that his friend could be saved, that he could repair the fatal damage he had caused. Yet, no one came to rescue him, to save him, to lead him to victory with great power and fierce magic.
The cold was cutting, bone-chilling. He huddled down in the cool of nightfall under his light spare cloak. He shivered for a while, and his nose began to run. Cethel felt miserable. But he did not cry anymore. That time had passed.
He tried to be brave. He waited in the dark, alone and friendless. He waited for his faith to be justified, waited for a miracle from a Goddess no one but him believed in anymore.
Cethel suddenly realized no miracle was going to come unless he asked for it by name. He had forgotten to pray! He had forgotten that he had to ask for what was wanted, as his mother Ranada had always told him. With every bit of willpower left to the scared and frightened boy, he unclenched his arms and clasped them in front of his chest. Closing his eyes, wiping his nose absentmindedly, the lost boy prayed to the only Goddess he knew.
*
To any observer of the situation, and there were several, it sounded like whimpering, stuttering, and desperation issued from his mouth. They didn't hear his prayer, loud as it was to their finely tuned ears. The predators didn't see his childish hope or feel any pity for the prey. As a well-practiced, united killing force, they sprang for him.
And as one, they stopped short of his exposed neck and face, stopped short of the kill, with one overriding command from their mother.
Stop! Look!
Six pairs of eyes swiveled, focused, and stared. They saw as one. Their mother saw what they did not.
What glows there? Her hair? Her hair!
One nose, the smallest Lurker, leaned in and licked the hair, tasting it, confirming the scent. Oldest Daughter!
They conferred, and agreed to wait and see if this boy was a friend of Oldest Daughter or not. They knew they were not enough alone, but perhaps with his help? Perhaps they could save her.
*
Cethel prayed, and prayed. And when there was nothing left to say, he stopped and waited for an answer. He searched with his mind, seeking with his spirit, hungry for the certainty that he was not a fool, that he had chosen the right path, that deity cared for him and his little troubles. No one came to his mind, no magic illusions, no great visions. Still, he waited, certain that the Goddess would answer him. Why else did she send Azure's mother to my dreams?
His ears heard another rush of air, as if a determined breeze had brushed right passed h
is face. Was that her answer? The wind? How would that help? He asked in his prayer, as respectfully as possible, Is it the wind? Is that how I can save her?
There was no response, no response at all. The Goddess didn't send any other answer. He knew suddenly, that whether Laylada lived or died was entirely on his shoulders, alone, that the charge laid on his soul from a dead woman's lips was up to him to fulfill. The Goddess would not intervene, would not help. Taking a deep breath, Cethel steeled himself for certain death. Knowing where the camp was and any possible way to remove both girls were two entirely different things. Yet, it is for me to do alone. And so he would.
Opening his eyes with grim resolution to his inevitable death, Cethel was intensely surprised to find it respectfully waiting for him. Six predators encircled him. It was hard to tell where one began and another ended, they were wound so tightly together. All eyes were focused on him, eyes and teeth, wicked in their sharpened points.
Yet, they did not strike. They should have. They were waiting for something. Toying with me? He could not tell.
Is my hidden hole their den? About as safe as a nest of vipers, his mother always said, referring to the most dangerous stunts he had come up with as a young boy. These reptiles weren't vipers, no. They were something far more dangerous than venomous snakes. As they watched him, and Cethel watched them, his heart beating loudly in his ears, Cethel could see that these beasts were not snakes, nor any lizard he had ever seen, nor any dragon drawing he had ever seen in school. He didn't know what they were, but they didn't move against him.
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