The Redemption of Wist Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3: The complete collection

by David Gilchrist

  The unfathomable sense of release was soon tempered by the burning urgency in her lungs. The effervescence of the river evolved from a wondrous spectacle to an impregnable prison. Gone completely was the tranquil world of splendour that had filled her with such awe, replaced with tumultuous, chaotic, spinning hell. Her chest throbbed with her lungs’ desperate efforts for air. Buffeted by the water’s movement, her disorientation grew. Panicking, she thrashed in a desperate attempt to break free from the river’s clutches, but the wicked current rolled her onwards.

  She felt helpless as the river forced her deeper, its full weight bearing down upon her. Her wild thrashing had stolen the last of her energy and, without fresh air to replace the last stale breath she had taken, the fight was draining from her body. Slowly, she sank down.

  Perhaps it was just as well. There would be nobody to mourn her passing. Aviti would be reunited with her family soon. She smiled as she thought of looking upon her mother’s face once more and of how good would it feel to be held by her father again, so she closed her eyes.

  Aviti jerked as her progress was halted. She erupted from the river, propelled by an enormous force from bellow. Sailing clear over the edge of the riverbank, she landed hard on her back. The impact shocked her system. She rolled onto her side and emptied the contents of her stomach, coughing as she fought to pull air back into her starved lungs. She continued to convulse on the damp riverside.

  The racking coughs subsided and she became aware of a figure standing over her, shading her from the glare of the falling sun. She looked up into Tyla’s uneven face. ‘You -’ she managed to say before a further bout of painful coughing grasped her again. Her throat felt lacerated from sickness and retching.

  ‘Do not try to talk yet,’ he advised. ‘When you are able to move, we must find shelter. If you cannot walk then I will carry you.’ She shook her head sternly at this. She held up two fingers. ‘You wish a moment to compose yourself?’ he guessed. Aviti nodded. Very well, but no more than a moment. We have been carried some distance south. We are close to the Damned, and many foul creatures roam free here.’

  She nodded impatiently and sat up on the drying sand. A dull rumble began to build behind her. What was that noise?

  The river, it was building to a crescendo. Tyla grabbed her below the arms and hauled her back a score of paces from the edge of the river. Then the water broke the edge of the banks and poured up toward the pair, in a desperate attempt to reclaim its prize. She feared they would be dragged back into the river, but the Corb had lost the heart for the chase. It peaked and receded, depositing debris and shingle as it left.

  ‘Can you stand?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Her voice cracked as she spoke.

  ‘Save your voice please, Aviti,’ he said. ‘And my ears.’ She stared incredulously at the Lyrat, then she shook her head and smiled at him. He was full of surprises.

  He moved back over to the river and sank to his knees, filling his water skins that had been hanging limply from his belt. Returning to her, he offered his arm, and together they began to make their way north-west, taking them away from the river. For a moment she wondered about the course he had chosen. Why did they not follow the river back north-east, where they could re-join Wist and Faric? Her throat ached still, so she decided not to argue the point. She had no way to measure the distance they had travelled or any way of knowing which direction the river had thrown them. She would have to rely on Tyla; he would have a better idea of where to go.

  He opened a water skin and crumbled a small greyish block into it. Then he passed it to her and urged her to drink. The sharp metallic taste of the solution made Aviti grimace, but he held it to her lips forcing her to swallow a large mouthful. Tyla took a small sip himself and then replaced it on his belt. She felt a rush of energy released into her system, revitalising her exhausted legs, giving her stamina the boost it needed to tackle the task ahead.

  The desert opened up before them as they crested the soft slope of the initial dune. Endless dunes covered the land out as far as she could see. They would not be reunited with their companions soon. There was no chance that they could cover this distance in a day, even if they could manage to walk through the night. She tugged on Tyla’s loose sleeve. She held her arms wide open to him. She had meant to trust his choices, but upon seeing the bleakness of the path he had taken, her resolve had faltered. In reply, he smiled and pushed her onward.

  Slipping down the back of the dune, she recalled her submersion in the Corb. She had been amazed by the initial part of that journey. The sense of peace and tranquillity that had permeated her thoughts returned to her now. The chaotic panic that had resulted from the turbulent rush of the waters was gone.

  Was this how her father had felt when he had left Mashesh for the first time? He could only have been as old as she was now when he had first made this journey. Had he felt the same doubts and uncertainties? If she could hold her nerve and walk out into the desert, then maybe her parents would have been proud of her.

  She watched as the Lyrat glided across the constantly moving surface. He barely seemed disturb the sand before he took his next step. She grimaced as she looked at the large troughs she had ploughed through the dune. Her feet were scorched from contact with the sand. She bit down on the pain and forced her legs to carry her up the steep face of another dune.

  The light wind that blew along the length of the dunes brought no relief; carrying sand and grit within, the air bit at Aviti’s exposed skin. The effects of the tonic that Tyla had given her had long since evaporated. He pulled her toward him as they came to the latest trough. Perhaps he had sensed her energy dissipating or, more likely, he had noticed that her pace had dropped. He offered her another draught of the potent liquid, although he warned her to take only a single mouthful this time. Without question, she obeyed and swallowed the bitter liquid. Its restorative effects washed through her once more and after a brief moment, they pressed on.

  After several more dunes had been crossed and the sun was close to setting, Tyla turned them sharply north-eastward and they walked along the bottom of the slope they had just descended. In the shadow of the sands, she felt a shiver pass over her body. The blistering heat of the day had passed now and even the uncomfortable warmth of evening was beginning to wane. Aviti had expected Tyla to stop and offer her a further drink, but he showed no signs of halting. Instead, Tyla had picked up his pace and she soon had to jog to keep up with him. The effort she had to expend stopped her from worrying about the plummeting temperature.

  Harder ground began to emerge from under the sand, dark rocks and boulders protruded through the smooth surface. Soon she felt her feet hitting solid stone. Tyla had found a path among the dunes, but where was it leading them? Aviti’s keen eyesight was failing in the growing twilight. She felt the path descend, but she did not dare to take her eyes from the Lyrat’s back for fear she would be lost in the deepening gloom. Then Tyla held his hand out behind him to halt her.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said and slipped into the night.

  Aviti peered after him. She had lost sight of the horizon as they had walked the sloping path. They must have entered a bowl or depression. She could see where the sky lightened, past the line of the wall she now faced, but could not determine how far away it was. Stripped of possessions and purpose, she stood alone; isolated and unattached.

  Fear fought with a new emotion in Aviti’s heart: hope. Fear was all too familiar for her - normally she would smother it with anger and rage - but it had been a constant companion during her flight from her past life. She understood fear; knew its cold touch. Hope, however, was an unexpected challenge. She had experienced hope before, of course, but only as a child would wish for a gift. Now, with her life blossoming before her, she was daunted by the implications of hope. Hope meant that she had a future. Hope meant that she would have to move on. She almost laughed aloud as she realised that it had taken immersion and near drowning in the Corb for her
to realise one grim fact: she wanted to live.

  Tyla strode out of the darkness and gestured to her to follow him. With her energy nearly spent, she pushed herself on, not wanting to look weak in front of him.

  It was not far until they reached their destination. At a sheer rock face, he had collected some sticks and branches, surrounding them with stones. 'Please sit and I will start the fire to warm us,’ he said.

  She sat with her back to the rough stone wall, glad to finally rest after the eventful day. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Tyla smiled at her and continued his work. ‘Please try and rest your throat. Once the fire is properly lit you may get some rest.’

  ‘Is it safe to light a fire?’ she asked.

  ‘We are sheltered from prying eyes in this bowl,’ he said to her. ‘And a fire will help keep away some of the larger animals that may have bothered us otherwise.’ He worked at the base of the pile of wood, furiously rubbing the small sticks he held in his hands. After a few seconds, he began adding kindling to the smoking pile, and she watched entranced as sparks began to leap and catch. Soon the fire was well under way. She had seen this done many times before; indeed, she would start the fire every morning as part of her chores in her father’s kitchen, but there was something entrancing about his efficient movements.

  --*--

  High above the pair huddled around the growing fire, a man sat and watched the blaze take hold. He had walked for a day and a night at the suggestion of a man he was not sure had even existed. Not that it mattered now. His rage burned unchecked and that was enough to keep him going. He was certain this was not the man he sought, but he could smell the corruption from this pair. One of them was a Lyrat, one of those foul demons that had crucified his precious city. The other was certainly female, a prisoner perhaps? Maybe, he did not care. He would slaughter them both. This was God’s will. He was the instrument of God’s vengeance.

  Was this the first test? If so, his hand would be true. He would not fail.

  10 - The Frayed Ends of Sanity

  Faric slumped forward on his mount, his vitality sapped by his battle with the overflowing river. Wist had begged him to rest while his strength returned, but he had replied that only a full day’s rest would allow him to recover fully. The Lyrat had then forced Wist to lift him on to the horse and then he tied himself to the horse’s tethers.

  As the powerful beasts stepped through the littered landscape, Wist noticed a subtle change in the desert on this side of the river; this part of the arid tundra was alive. Wherever he looked, the signs were there. Twisted and tortured sequoia trees were scattered across the vista; small rodents scurried from one dark hole to another, and in the distance, a group of large birds circled ominously. ‘I never knew so much life could exist in such a barren place,’ he said, more to himself than to the Lyrat, who remained passively propped atop his horse. ‘Perhaps I haven’t been looking closely enough, or in the right places.’

  ‘Do you need anything, Faric? A drink?’ he asked. Faric managed a shake of his head and urged them onward towards their destination. The sun, long past its zenith, was on the wane, and the blistering heat of mid-afternoon had given way to a more tolerable level of warmth. Any vestige of the soaking they both received at the river had long since evaporated.

  The rate at which the river had receded had been astounding. As they had left its side, barely a trickle flowed along the muddy bed: broken trees, branches and detritus littered the riverbed. The worst part had been the stench of putrefaction that had risen as the river had fallen. Where the bottom of the river had churned up the dirt and soil, it was as if the very earth itself had been rent and a poisonous, open sore exposed. Wist had been only too glad to get away from that place. After they had left the riverside, Faric’s energy had diminished with every passing mile. Wist knew he should be exhausted too, but the need for sleep seemed insubstantial.

  They had ridden true north from that point. The mountains had soon come into view after a league or two; the pure white peak of the largest mountain juxtaposed with the ochre desert. As the range of peaks revealed themselves on the desert horizon, some of Wist’s intrinsic fear ebbed away. Surety and purpose grew in him from that point. He had never been to those distant peaks and was certain that he hadn’t seen them, but he couldn’t set aside the feeling of restoration and reclamation that grew in him.

  A mouse darted out in front of his horse, distracting him from his reverie. Tiny and fearless, its feet propelled it safely from the path the horses trod. Without stopping to ponder the massive intruders on its doorstep, the tiny rodent vanished from sight, leaving Wist with an after-taste of jealousy for its simple life. After a glance back to the horizon where the birds still circled, he reflected that perhaps a simple life was not necessarily one without danger.

  Wist looked back over to Faric. Was he asleep? Perhaps he didn’t even have the energy to lift his head. ‘Faric,’ he called. He had to repeat his shout twice before Faric stirred. The Lyrat turned his head and looked groggily at him. ‘Faric, where are we going? The sun’ll set soon and we’ve travelled for two days with virtually no rest. You’re exhausted: without sleep and food, I don’t think you’ll last much longer. What you achieved at the river was nothing short of miraculous, but I can’t believe that your endurance is endless.’

  ‘God damn it, Faric, don’t you know you can’t go on forever?’

  After a short pause, the Lyrat shook his head and then gestured to the brow of the next hill. Wist began to argue, but then he caught sight of their goal. A small copse lined with trees, sat in shade of the next dune. Thin warped branches intertwined around the edges of the central clearing, forming a circular barrier to the desert. There was only one entrance, which faced them.

  ‘How the hell did you know that was there?’ asked Wist. Despite his exasperation at Faric’s, he couldn’t help smiling at the thought of stopping. Wist's legs were numb from maintaining his stance on the horse. He had been riding alone since they had lost Aviti and Tyla back at the river and his muscles ached from the tension.

  The final mile of the approach was the hardest. Once he spotted the trees, Wist’s entire body rebelled at once and the pain he’d been subduing with sheer determination came pouring out. Only the sight of Faric’s failing strength helped him retain some focus. It was up to him to guide them now. The Lyrat was almost unconscious for the last few steps; Wist had to hold the reins of Faric’s horse and stop him from falling off. He slid the semi-conscious man from his horse and laid him flat on the ground its feet. After tethering the horses at the edges of the enclave, he collapsed alongside the Lyrat.

  Wist stared up into the deepening blue of the sky. Where were Aviti and Tyla? Yet again, he had failed. He had broken the promise he’d made to Cairn once more. That promise had been his sole possession, his only link to another person. He fervently hoped Aviti would return to him unharmed. It wasn’t a purely selfish thought; whilst he wanted someone to talk to, he’d be satisfied if he could be certain she was safe. Her bluster and aggression provided relief from the cold and emotionless Lyrats. They had shown glimpses of what lay beneath their rigid exterior, but too seldom for Wist to catch a grip of anything real.

  ‘Get some rest,’ muttered Faric. ‘We shall be on the move before sunrise.’

  ‘I thought you were sleeping,’ Wist said with a start. ‘I’ll – I’ll try. I just wish I could understand what’s happening. The last time I was here everything was so simple. There was a war to fight, an enemy to be defeated. But what I remember most was that, until the very end, it wasn’t about me - it wasn’t my fight. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to fight, but I was just another warrior.’

  ‘It is the responsibility you fear,’ said Faric. ‘When you adopt another’s struggle, you relinquish control. They make the decisions that shape your life.’

  ‘I haven’t felt in control of anything for so long,’ said Wist.

  ‘Failure to accept control of your life does not remove t
he burden of responsibly.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me,’ he snapped back.

  ‘I am not your mentor,’ said Faric, remaining motionless as he spoke. ‘I simply state a fact. You cannot make a mountain disappear by refusing to see it. Allowing others to make decisions that you should take, can only lead to failure.’

  ‘Any other quaint desert sayings you’d like to share?’ Bitterness dripped from Wist's words. Exhausted, Faric simply exhaled.

  Wist fumed as the darkness deepened around them. Initially, this animosity was directed towards Faric. He was growing tired of the condescension and the Lyrat’s supercilious attitude. What infuriated him though was that Faric was right. He’d allowed his path to be chosen by someone else - anyone else - rather than make a decision. Why was he so scared to make a mistake?

  --*--

  Kerk’s deep state of meditative prayer was the only barrier between himself and his prey. He used it to find his centre: his focal point. The longer he prayed, the clearer the answer had become. This was his test.

  God had taken everything from him, just as he had warned the congregation at his church. How often had he delivered his impassioned sermon on greed? Preachers had even travelled across the vast desert to hear him, to witness God’s right hand deliver His lessons. Pride had been the cause of his fall, just as it had been before he had found The Way.

  A lifetime ago, he had ruled the streets of Mashesh with fear. Entire sections of the city could only be entered on his authority and even the City Guard would not dare trespass on his territory; or so he had thought.

  A handful of years after he had entered his manhood in the slums of the lower city, he had risen to lead the largest, most ruthless gang. A few years later, and with countless murders committed, many by his own hand and the rest at his direct order, there was no-one left to oppose him. They had either fled, sworn allegiance to him or been slaughtered. But his triumph had been short-lived. He had been too busy revelling in his “victory” to see the impending disaster. The Guard had stormed his sanctuary; his ‘loyal’ men had either been paid off or were too intoxicated to fight. He had killed at least half a dozen before he had been taken down and brutally beaten. That had been the last time he drank anything other than water.