by V. Lakshman
The assassin was there, strapped to a board. The tent created a rectangular space big enough for more than a dozen of Dazra’s men, a relatively enormous shelter to Dragor and Jesyn. The tent also held Dazra and Tarin, along with two other dwarves who by clothing looked to be important.
The first introduced himself as Gedeon, the second-in-command of the dwarven forces here. Dragor nodded hello, feeling Gedeon’s cold appraisal wash over him. No doubt Dazra had already communicated his dislike of the adept. For his part, Gedeon looked like he’d rather be almost anywhere but in the same tent with Dragor.
The second was Naph, the embodiment of a dwarven axer brought to life. Armed and armored, the warrior gave the two adepts a cursory glance and then turned back to his leader, as if he’d seen everything he needed to in that brief look.
“You know what we face once inside the mountain,” Naph said.
Dazra nodded but held up a hand, as if asking to continue that part of their conversation later. “And what help can we expect from your brethren?” he asked Dragor.
Dragor took a slow breath before answering. “We’d thought at least one more adept would join us, but he faced extreme danger and did not survive.”
Dazra looked at him; then his eyes flicked over to Jesyn. He must have noted the resolute look in her eyes, the restraint she’d placed over herself. For a moment, Dragor thought Dazra might speak with Jesyn directly, but the elder warrior somehow seemed to sense the fragile nature of Jesyn’s control and did not say a word.
Instead, he looked back at Dragor and said, “That is unfortunate, and I’m sorry for your loss.” He paused, then nodded to Tarin, who stepped forward to bring the two adepts up to speed.
“It should come as no surprise—the assassin is still held and unconscious. What you may not know is that we both use entats.” She pulled aside his vest and exposed his chest, which was covered in different symbols: geometric in shape, clean lines leading to intersections that delineated a complex map of what looked to be almost armor-like sections. The group moved forward, inspecting the lines.
Finally Dragor said, “Your entats are somehow more . . .” he looked up at her, at a loss for the word.
“Organic,” finished Tarin. It was a word he’d not heard before, and to his raised eyebrow she replied, “Arising from natural processes or nature itself, like the edge of a leaf rather than that of a forged blade.”
That he understood, but what did the difference mean?
“We’ve noticed this before,” Tarin continued, “but we’ve never been able to capture one long enough to do any analysis. With your permission, I’d like to see what I can find out.”
Dragor gave his assent with a nod, curious on how they would go about learning more. He found himself unable to stop inspecting the assassin, who seemed too young for someone of such combat skill. Dragor wondered if anyone else felt the same.
Tarin moved forward and pulled back her sleeve. The whorls of entats on her forearm grew quickly up her wrist and hand like living vines, finally touching the tip of her finger. At that point it sparkled like a small star. She touched that light to the man’s forehead and closed her eyes.
Dragor watched as something akin to black ink seemed to seep into the man’s skin, tracing out his blood vessels before fading from view. To his right he heard Jesyn’s indrawn breath and looked over at her. Her eyes were fixated on what Tarin was doing.
“Our entats become inactive inside the mountain,” offered Dazra softly, watching his wife.
Dragor asked, “Inactive?”
The leader nodded. “We don’t know why, but it puts us at great risk in any rescue endeavor. We lose many of our powers, including our camouflage and speed. Worse, we are unable to transition into phase. It has spelled ruin for the many who went in before this day.”
The adept was confused, and commented, “I don’t understand how you’ve never captured one of their men. You captured us. It seems it’d be particularly easy with just a little planning.”
Gedeon stepped forward and said, “You’re right, this one is full of himself.”
Dazra held up a hand, silencing the warrior. “It is easy to trap them,” he said, “but they kill themselves if captured. Even if we manage to render them unconscious, another team usually comes within a few minits and recovers the body, using our shared ability to move through rock.”
Dragor wasn’t sure how long “minits” were, but he could infer it was quick. “Why hasn’t someone come this time?”
The dwarven leader shrugged. “That is what we’re asking ourselves. Something is blocking our ability to sense anything outside our camp. Perhaps the way in which you immobilized him also blocked whatever calls his people?”
He motioned to Tarin. “She’s trying to unravel it.”
Dragor thought about how his communication with Giridian had been cut short. “My attempt to contact our lore father was also cut short by something unknown. Maybe these are the same phenomena.”
Dazra nodded, his brows furrowing with worry. “Then someone is trying to isolate us. My men have been on alert since our arrival, but if it’s Sovereign, we’ve already lost.”
Dragor noticed how many dwarves were stationed around the tent. He’d assumed they were just part of the community, but now their vigilance spoke to a more exigent reason, protection from a surprise attack. The dwarven leader had certainly been taking no chances.
In a few more heartbeats Tarin fell back, a look of exhaustion on her face. She was caught and helped to a seat by Halp, the man who’d been assigned to watch Dragor as he’d convalesced. Halp had appeared from out of nowhere. It seemed the gruff old warrior just blended into the background, even without his camouflage. Likely a very useful trait in more than one circumstance, one Dragor wished he could emulate.
Dazra made his way over and knelt, stroking his wife’s face. Her return smile made something unclench within the adept, a knot of concern for Tarin he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. After a few more moments, she sat up and took a drink of water, then looked around.
“I can’t read his thoughts, not the way these adepts can. However, I understand now why our entats fail.”
Gedeon moved to the other side of Dazra and said, “Sister, be careful what you say.” His warning was a blunt and open declaration of his mistrust of Dragor and Jesyn, certainly rude and only a hair’s breadth from being openly hostile.
Tarin took his hand and squeezed it, then said, “You forget that the young one has already been accepted by the centrees. She has our gift within her, as Dazra commanded.” She emphasized that last word strangely, as if she did not agree with the decision to share their entats with Jesyn, but that would be strange. Tarin had been an advocate of accepting Jesyn into their fold, so why did her look convey anger? Anger at what? Then her expression cleared and she said, “What use will it be if we do not share our knowledge?”
The look Gedeon gave Dragor made it clear nothing Tarin said had changed his mind. Then he bowed and said, “I defer to your wisdom, Lady.”
That made Dragor wonder if Dazra’s wife held some special rank amongst these military men. Tarin nodded and then addressed the whole group. “Dawnlight is alive, every nook and cranny subject to Sovereign’s rule. We’ve seen this with the way in which the mountain rearranges its interior each time we reconnoiter it. For the same reason, our entats won’t work because we are not recognized by the mountain as family.”
“Family?” Dazra inquired softly. “But we are family; we live in Dawnlight.”
“Not this Dawnlight,” Tarin corrected. “Our mountain is wholly different from this one.” The dwarven woman thought for a moment, then added, “‘Family’ is the closest term I can come up with.”
“So we go in without the aid of our entats,” declared Gedeon. “It won’t be the first time. At least we’ll have this latest map and an idea of where important things might be.” He glared at Dragor, as if getting them a chance at the map was the absolute least he
could have done for them.
“Without our entats we can’t phase through rock. We will be at the mercy of their blacknights . . . and worse,” the dwarven healer said, clearly tired, “the mountain will merely reconfigure itself and our map will be useless.”
Dazra sighed. “Then there’s no way to find our people.”
“Not exactly,” replied Tarin. “I’ve extracted some of this blacknight’s markers, things in his entats and blood that are unique to him.”
Dazra leaned back, concern in his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
A moment passed, then two. Finally Tarin said, “I release the markers into my bloodstream. It will mask me, making the mountain think I’m part of Sovereign’s family. If it works, we use it to disguise our party.”
“You’re joking,” he replied. “What if it kills you, or erases your memory, or makes you into one of them?” He put a hand on her shoulder. “What if we have to kill you?” He searched her eyes, then stood up suddenly and cursed.
Dragor’s gaze flitted between the two, not understanding. “He’s right, Tarin. You don’t have to do this.”
There was silence, in which Tarin gave him a soft, sympathetic smile.
“She’s already done it, adept,” Dazra said. His jaws flexed as he ground his teeth in frustration.
“What?” exclaimed Dragor. He looked back at Tarin and asked, “Why?”
“He would have just said no.” She looked up at Gedeon and Dazra and said, “For what it’s worth, it’s working. I can feel myself realigning to the mountain’s energies.”
“And what if Sovereign can track us wherever we go within the mountain?” replied Dazra, his fear erupting at her. “Worse, what if he can kill you with a thought?” He stepped back again, shaking his head, “You’re willful and stubborn and I accept that, but this is too much.”
“Don’t you think I took precautions?” Tarin said. “I analyzed the markers and correctly integrated them into my entats. I remind you, I am the only doctor here,” she added as if that last bit justified her decision. “You’ll have to trust me, something I know you hate doing with anyone.”
When neither of them spoke, Jesyn finally stepped into the silence. She looked at the assembled dwarves, her appearance drawn and haggard.
“I’ve lost a friend, someone I love . . . loved.” Her face fell and she bowed her head. “I’d like to bring meaning to all this. Finding out what brought these assassins to our home, why with his dying breath our lore father named his brother . . . it’s become my only reason to go on.”
To Dazra she said, “Don’t waste time being angry at someone you love. You may not get another chance.” Then the young adept excused herself and walked out into the cool night.
An uncomfortable silence followed in her wake. Finally Dazra cleared his throat and said, “Well . . . I,” he stuttered at Tarin. “You know I’m only angry because of the chance you’re taking.”
“We don’t have much choice, and so far I don’t feel any ill effects,” Tarin replied. “It’s working, and I can transfer the marker to the rest of us quickly.”
Dazra nodded, but Gedeon coughed, looking pained. He looked from his leader to Tarin, then finally he said, “It would be better if you transferred the marker to a few spread out amongst us . . . just in case.”
Dragor suspected the warrior’s reasoning was flawed. Everyone had to be protected or the mountain would simply attack whoever wasn’t. But he kept quiet, waiting for an opening from the dwarven leader.
Dazra said to Gedeon, “Assemble everyone.”
“Wait,” Dragor said, holding up a hand. He couldn’t keep quiet if these people were risking their lives. Hoping he didn’t offend Dazra yet again, he said, “Even if she has a marker, the rest of us don’t. The mountain will know and act. I’d hate for your people to walk into something they can’t escape.”
Dazra gave him a look of appraisal, as if the adept had surprised him bythinking about his people’s safety.
“Worry not, adept. We will prepare everyone who would dare the mountain.” He looked at Gedeon and nodded.
The commander saluted, fist to chest, and left. It was the first time Dragor had seen anyone do anything remotely militaristic, and it seemed somehow out of place in the tent. Then Gedeon made his way out to the camp.
Dazra turned to Dragor and asked, “Is Jesyn able to accompany us?”
Dragor thought about it. “Probably better she does. It will give her something to do, and we need her strength.”
He began to move to the tent exit when Dazra put a meaty hand on his chest and said, “My concern over Sovereign taking the life of one marked is not without precedent.”
Dragor was not sure where he was going with this, so he remained silent.
Dazra continued, “We haven’t trusted outsiders in a very long time. Precautions were taken to ensure your compliance. Understand, I share this in an effort to build a bond with you.”
The adept realized this was no idle banter. Dazra was saying something he cared about deeply. Dragor’s mind quickly jumped through various possibilities. Then it hit him: the word compliance.
“You gave Jesyn an entat,” he said softly, his eyes searching Dazra’s own.
“And though it will pain me greatly now that I know her heart, I will end her life if you show the slightest hint of betrayal.”
Dragor surged forward in a flash of amethyst, knocking the dwarven leader down and straddling his chest, his fingers stiffened for a strike.
“Release her, now!”
Two guards had already leapt to Dazra’s defense, pulling the adept off and throwing him back. Instantly, they clenched and rubbed their hands in pain, burned by his flameskin. Though it clearly pained them, they still drew blades and put themselves in between their leader and Dragor.
They shouldn’t have been able to even touch him, but something within Dragor had let them, and he rolled lightly to his feet. He knew he threatened Jesyn’s life with even this small act of aggression, and hoped reducing his flameskin so it didn’t inflict permanent harm would be enough to make his point but not create an impasse.
Tarin stepped between them and with upraised hands said, “If you truly mean what you say, then Jesyn is safe. I swear it, adept.”
“Swear it? We trusted you,” replied Dragor, quenching his flameskin with barely concealed effort.
“And we trusted you. Believe me, Jesyn has not been singled out. Dazra can end any of our lives if he so chooses,” Tarin offered.
Dragor looked at her for a moment, cursed, and said, “And I didn’t use my flameskin to kill those who touched me. Know that I too, withheld my hand.” He paused.
“Take it out of her and put whatever it is in me.”
Dazra, still lying flat on his back, gave a small chuckle. “Not many can put me down, adept.”
He picked himself up and shook his head. “It is plain to see you would sacrifice yourself for your former pupil, but will you let her do the same? I think not.” The dwarven leader brushed himself off. “As you said, my men are unharmed, so I’ll excuse your behavior this time. But there’s no love lost between us. Walk the line carefully. You hold Jesyn’s life in your hands.”
“And what if Sovereign says the same to you? Your wife for our lives,” Dragor retorted.
Dazra didn’t look back, but it was Tarin who answered, “Then I die, Adept Dragor. I’ll sacrifice all I know and love for my people, and Dazra will do the same.” She met Dragor’s eyes with a gaze that told him every word was true. Then she asked in an emotionless voice daring him to be as truthful, “Will you?”
When he didn’t answer, she dropped her eyes in disappointment and followed Dazra out of the tent and into the night. Her look made him realize he’d missed another opportunity to forge a bond between them.
As an afterthought he whispered, “Yes, I would.” It sounded lame in the silence, even to him.
Tarin’s revelation had made other things clear. Now he knew what had been
the unspoken thing between her and her husband earlier during the talk of Jesyn’s entat. Despite her steadfast support of the entats abilities, using it to take an outsider hostage did not sit well with her.
He watched them go. The dwarven leader and his wife, for all their outspoken nobility, had skillfully maneuvered him into a difficult position. Without knowing how the entats worked, it was doubtful he could reverse what had been done to Jesyn.
He looked over at the assassin, still in his enforced sleep. Was there any option there? Nothing came readily to mind that did not also endanger their quest. He’d already read the assassin and any other act would only accomplish firmly cementing the negative opinion forming in Dazra’s mind about him, not to mention bring potential harm to Jesyn.
What about his other capabilities? The Way was strong here near the mountain, the granite peaks a source of power. It did not make his capabilities equal to those of Silbane or Kisan, but did it need to? He looked closely at the assassin again, his mind working through other possibilities.
When a possible solution came, it was sudden and unexpected. He thought about it again, looking at it from different angles, turning it over in his mind.
Then his face slowly broke into a cautious smile. It was not perfect, but what in life was? His job was to find Armun, but his duty was to keep Jesyn safe. Once he felt confident he could actually use the technique properly, Dragor made his way out of the tent. He still felt frustrated by the situation they found themselves in but encouraged by his new options. He remembered Silbane often saying, “Patience opens doors that anger closes.”
When he finally found Dazra, the dwarven leader had assembled his men in a small clearing. Dragor saw Jesyn standing to one side and moved to stand beside her. She acknowledged him with a small nod but didn’t meet his eyes. He understood, and took stock of their surroundings.
He was surprised to see only about thirty or so men and women in this raiding party. Hadn’t Dazra said a legion had come? Then he remembered that the vast majority of the dwarves had escaped to the version of Dawnlight that existed in phase.