by J D Abbas
Giara cut faster. The next coil snapped as the glade’s giant trees stirred to life. With thrumming sighs, they raised their heads and shook out their long, silvery tresses. As the nearby mountains exhaled, their music swelled. Each tree had its own distinct tone. The thousands of iridescent leaves tinkled like miniature chimes, merging into a soothing harmony that wove its way into the umbral fissures of Giara’s soul. She longed to wrap herself in this serenity, wishing Alsimion would just absorb her and save her the trouble.
The blade slipped sideways and nicked Giara’s arm. Blood trickled. Maybe she should just slice her wrists and be done with it.
No! I want to die with my hands free.
The throat is quicker. No chance they can save us. Anakh doesn’t care how damaged we are as long as we’re returned alive. Don’t give the Farak that chance.
Giara tried to get a better grip on the hilt, but her palms were slick with sweat or blood or both. She took a deep breath and straightened the blade, feeling for the next layer of the leather thong.
Urged on by the chilly mountain gusts, mists rose from the forest floor. They swirled and danced around Giara to a cadence that pulsed from the tree roots like a tapping foot. Gradually, the vapors coalesced into the ethereal spirits she awaited. Her mind drifted, mesmerized by their beauty. Diaphanous dresses whirled rainbows of color with each sweep of an arm, each flick of a foot, stepping over her captors without a care. She envied their graceful, fluid movements. They were so joyful, so free.
Giara tested her bonds; they held fast. The Farak had tied them too well. She chewed her lip as the blade sought the next coil of leather. She needed to get this done before the specters left; she didn’t want to die alone.
Lyrical whispers formed into gauzy phrases in Giara’s twilight mind. The apparitions’ voices were nearly as elusive as their gossamer forms.
“Her hair looks like shafts of sunlight.”
“Now, but not always. She’s a strange one. I’ve never seen anything like her.”
Giara wanted to shush them, afraid of waking the Farak, but her captors didn’t seem to see or hear any of the forest’s magic.
“Are you certain this is Athebria? She looks too young.”
“So young, and yet so old inside.” A feathery finger stroked her cheek. “Don’t give up, dear one. We need you.”
Although she heard the specters’ words, Giara’s mind was too overwhelmed to grasp their meaning. All she wanted was to embrace them—she tugged at her bonds again; this time there was some give—tell them how much she appreciated their kindness during the past week, how she prayed they would forgive her for her frailty. But words failed.
She focused on their movement through misty eyes, longing to dance, to be free of the imprisonment of her physical form. As the woodland spirits spun through the clearing, kicking up tiny whirlwinds of dust and shimmering leaves, her mind twirled with them.
“They’re coming!” a distant voice hailed.
The words snapped her meandering thoughts into sudden, sharp focus.
“Who’s coming?” Giara whispered, frantically yanking one hand free.
The specters stopped their dancing and gathered around her. She shivered as each one caressed her face before whisking toward the north end of the forest. As Giara reached toward them, a new possibility ignited.
“Wait, take me with you,” her frozen lips begged. But the apparitions continued to flutter away.
“Fear not, dear one,” a voice drifted back. “It is time.”
Giara tossed aside caution and called more loudly, “Don’t leave me to die alone. Plea—”
A fist clouted her on the side of the head, blackening her vision. “Shut up, girl. We sleeping here,” a voice growled in slurred, broken Borok. “Who you talk to? Your guard spirit? Not even Qho’el care about you.”
When she scooted away from the disgusting Farak, he laughed and kicked her in the stomach. She folded in on the pain, gasping for air.
Hope died its final death.
Giara closed her eyes and embraced the chill of her living tomb. Nothing could be worse than this. Clenching her teeth, she uncurled her body. She could do this, had to do this. She would not go home and be sold again.
Afraid her captor might move closer, Giara rolled onto her back to cover the broken bonds and the knife. Panic rose when she felt nothing beneath her. Oh no, it has to be here! She wiggled around, hands stretching, fingers probing the earth and leaves. Lifting her head, she searched the ground. Oh, no, no, no...
She looked to the north, and the betrayal hit her with the force of a blow. The woodland spirits had taken it. Pain blossomed in her chest, pulling tears from ducts long dry.
The knife was gone—and with it, any possibility of ending this nightmare.
Giara fled in the only way she knew how. Racing through internal gates and halls and oaken doors to her one hiding place, she abandoned her flesh.
A gentle breeze stirred in the now hushed Alsimion, gathering a litter of crumpled leaves around the girl’s hollowed husk like an embracing hand.
Chapter 2
After leaving Giara, the liorai glided swiftly across the forest until they reached the northern edge of Alsimion. They watched as two men separated from their company and trotted toward the woods on majestic stallions. When the riders finally reached the shelter of the trees, dozens of hands clapped with enthusiasm and relief, making no more noise than the flutter of hummingbird wings.
“Celdorn’s so handsome. I just want to nuzzle every inch of that brawny body.” A guttural sound rumbled through the liora’s chest as she spoke.
“Show some respect, Yolena. He’s the Lord Protector of the entire Shalamhar, not some stable boy. No wonder people confuse us with nymphs.”
Undaunted, the liora approached the foremost rider, a massive Rogaran Guardian, and wrapped herself around his leather-clad torso. Caressing his broad form, she spiraled up his chest, around his neck, and through his long, dark hair to murmur in his ear. “We’re so glad you’re here, friend of Alsimion. We’re in need of your skills and your sword, our great Lord Protector.”
Another liora twirled around the neck of Celdorn’s steed, a magnificent Ilqazar, and playfully kissed his dark muzzle. “Be welcomed, ancient brother.” The stallion tossed his head, ears twitching, and gave a gentle whicker.
Two others approached the second rider, the Elrodanar prince, whose flesh shimmered more brightly than the surrounding woods. He, like all of his race, was infused with light that coursed through his tall, lean body, pulsating just beneath his pale skin. Even his blue eyes and white-blond hair glowed. The liorai hovered near him but didn’t presume to touch his flesh.
“We’re honored, Elbrion, Prince of Light,” the voices crooned.
The liorai twisted and swirled until they’d formed a loose column that bowed to the men as they passed. “My Lord,” to Celdorn, “My Prince,” to Elbrion, sang one after another.
“It is time,” a primordial voice rumbled through the forest floor, and the liorai scattered.
~
Celdorn gazed up as the morning mists wrapped around him. A smile spread across his weary face, and he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, moss-scented air. A familiar tingle ran up his spine. It was like returning to the embrace of an old, cherished friend. Next to Queyon, he held this enchanted place most dear.
An odd rumble passed through his chest, and he tipped his head, brows drawn together. “Did you feel that?” He glanced toward the rider at his side. “There’s something different about Alsimion today. It’s as if the forest is more...alive.”
Elbrion’s gaze fixed on the swirling mists. “Hmmm. Something is definitely stirring. Look at Malak and Drendil.” He nodded toward their stallions, whose ears were flicking from side to side. “It seems they are hearing things we cannot. Perhaps they see them as well.”
Celdorn stroked Malak’s sleek neck and leaned in closer to his ear. “If only Silvandir were here to con
vey your thoughts. I wonder what you’d tell us.”
Malak tossed his head and neighed, giving his body a vigorous shake.
“I don’t need a translator for that. ‘Get off my back and give me a rest.’” Celdorn chuckled. “Soon, old friend. After we rejoin the others, we’ll take a break.”
The two companions rode on in silence for a time, listening to the play of tones in the trees and absorbing the tranquility of the forest, or at least Celdorn made the attempt. His body ached from weeks on the trail, and his mind flitted from thought to thought. No matter how hard he tried to relax and just enjoy this respite, he couldn’t make his mind cooperate. A dread of Kelach, their southernmost stronghold, overtook him. Even though fond of the men who worked there and in spite of the undeniably beautiful setting, the past shrouded Kelach like a dark haze that threatened to suffocate him the nearer they drew. He let out a heavy sigh.
“Kyola?” Elbrion kept his eyes focused ahead.
Celdorn shot him a withering look. “Just once, couldn’t you pretend not to know what I’m thinking or feeling?” After a grumbling pause, he conceded, “Yes, Kyola. As much as I love Alsimion, it maddens me that I still find it necessary to come here before I can face Kelach.” His gaze followed the dancing lights through the treetops. “Will I ever be rid of her?”
“Perhaps you are not meant to be,” Elbrion replied. “Perhaps you are to carry her with you and learn from her.”
Celdorn glared. “Learn what? That I’m weak and foolish when it comes to women? I’ve already learned that lesson. That’s why I stay away.”
Elbrion gazed at him sideways. “It is neither a weakness to trust nor a fault to love deeply.”
“Unless one lacks the discernment to judge the recipient wisely.”
“Celdorn, you are too harsh with yourself. That was twenty-five years ago. You were a young man.”
“I was nearly thirty—old enough to have known better. If only I hadn’t been so bent on rebelling against my father. My stubborn foolishness cost the lives of so many. Ahh,” he huffed. “That’s why I come to Alsimion first, hoping the light of this sacred place will somehow cleanse me, absolve me, but even after all these years, I never find relief, never see things differently.”
Elbrion took a deep breath, and Celdorn knew he was about to receive some unwanted, albeit sage, advice.
“Perhaps you torment yourself in the futile hope that if you suffer enough, the guilt will go away. It will not. You must come to peace with your error and the limitations that plague us all. You will not always be wise; you will not always choose perfectly. You are human.” Elbrion paused and turned to look directly at Celdorn. The compassion and sorrow in his eyes nearly undid him. “You are one of the most merciful men I know. You recognize and allow for the shortcomings in everyone else, but you have no mercy with yourself. And so she, and the guilt, stay with you.”
That wasn’t at all what Celdorn had expected. Elbrion often knew him better than he knew himself. He was silenced.
“My friend, all you have experienced, all the wounds you carry in your soul, have made you the leader—”
Elbrion’s words were lost in a deafening roar as a luminous orb tore through the treetops and exploded ten feet in front of them. Brilliant, blinding light erupted, filled with a physical, throbbing energy. Celdorn threw his arm up to shield his face, just as Malak reared, nearly unseating him.
“What was that?” Celdorn yelled, his sword drawn and ready. He scanned the woods, his vision mottled. Rarely was he caught off guard, and it angered him.
But there was nothing—no movement, no sound. It was, in fact, eerily quiet as if all of Alsimion held its breath.
“I do not know,” Elbrion replied, studying the area, seemingly unruffled by the display. “A warning, perhaps.”
“A warning? From whom? For what purpose?”
When Elbrion didn’t answer, Celdorn glowered. At times, his friend’s calm, enigmatic responses irritated him. He waited, but when no further revelation came, he urged Malak forward. The stallion snorted and stomped his hoof, refusing.
Celdorn laid his hand on the side of Malak’s dark neck. “Do you sense something?”
Malak shook his head then jerked his muzzle in the opposite direction. Celdorn, trusting the ancient wisdom of the Ilqazar, gave the stallion his head and allowed him to retrace their path. Malak took them on a lesser used trail, one almost lost in the sprawling undergrowth of ferns and mountain laurel.
They hadn’t ridden far when again the air thundered as an even more potent burst of light blocked their way, shaking the ground beneath them and bathing their surroundings in an ethereal, bluish glow for nearly half a minute.
Celdorn’s heart hammered against his sternum as a bead of sweat trickled down his back. He drew rein and frowned. “What in the name of all that is good…?” His eyes scoured the woods for some sort of explanation. He glanced at Elbrion, who sat motionless, eyes focused toward the south. “Any insight?”
Elbrion slowly shook his head. “I sense something, but it is too elusive to follow.”
Celdorn looked at Malak and Drendil, whose ears flicked and nostrils flared. Otherwise, both were motionless as if waiting.
Celdorn knew the explosions must mean something but couldn’t discern what.
Just as he urged Malak to move on, a single, piercing scream shot through the rock bluffs bordering Alsimion then scattered into a dozen reverberations. A chill skittered up Celdorn’s spine, raising the hairs on his neck. He straightened in the saddle and listened intently for the source of the cry, certain it had been a woman, which was odd. They were deep in the woods, far from any of the villages.
A sound of clanging metal came from the southwest. Malak took off at a gallop. Celdorn called to Elbrion to follow, but Drendil was already on their heels. The stallions moved noiselessly on the earthen floor with the effortless poise only Ilqazar steeds possess.
To their right, granite shelves jutted between the trees and dense undergrowth, the beginning of the foothills of the Mongar Mountains. As they drew near the rocks, Celdorn heard the coarse laughter of men and saw forms moving in a clearing ahead.
Celdorn signaled for Elbrion to circle around to the far side of the glade. He intended to wait until his friend was in position, but a burst of laughter and another agonized shriek propelled him into action.
Charging out of the trees, Celdorn scanned the glade and his mind stalled. Blood thundered in his ears, and he reined in Malak, gaping at the impossible scene before him. Qho’el have mercy... Celdorn broke into a sweat, his breath erratic, vision swimming as images from the past overlapped the present. Not now. He slammed his fist into his thigh, cursing his weakness. Focus.
Celdorn forced himself to take in the scene. At the end of the clearing nearest the stream, there were half a dozen small, vacant tents surrounding a smoldering campfire. Celdorn counted ten men, none of whom appeared to be from the local villages. They were short and heavy, with mangy, raven hair and lengthy beards that matched the fur covering their swarthy skin, distinguishing them as Farak from the western mountains. Judging by the number of discarded wineskins, they had been drinking for days. Some were sprawled on top of each other, a tangle of writhing, biting, carnal madness; others staggered about; none was clothed.
Celdorn’s attention was drawn to the far end of the clearing where one of the Farak dragged a stumbling woman by the hair, hands bound behind her. Two others quickly joined him, cracking whips at her bare backside and shouting lewd comments in Raka, the Farak tongue. The first man forced the woman to stand and attempted to bend her over a large boulder. When she resisted, kicking and twisting away from him, he slapped her so hard her head snapped back, and she collapsed onto the ground. Again, he grabbed her long black hair, pulled her to her feet, and yanked her toward the rock. He stood behind her wavering form and shoved her forward with such force her face smashed into the granite surface, spattering blood.
“Fighting just makes it
more exciting, you stupid whore,” the man yelled in Raka. He sneered and ran his hands over the sides of her curvaceous breasts and hips, kicking her sluggish feet apart. The Farak slavered into his beard like some rabid animal ready to devour and take his fill.
The forest floor quaked violently, and the trees of Alsimion shivered as one. Their tones crescendoed, sharply discordant, as a steady cadence thumped upward from roots like an angry heartbeat.
Awakened by the jolt, Celdorn’s mind snapped into focus, his rage ignited. Anticipating his order, Malak galloped forward. Celdorn drew his sword as they closed the distance, heading to the left of the boulder. The noise of the trees was so loud and the mountain men so consumed in their lust, they didn’t notice Celdorn’s approach. His blade swept down behind the woman just as her assailant leaned into her.
The Farak let loose a primal, agonized howl as he grabbed his groin and staggered back, his body doubling over the pain. Malak swept around the far side of the boulder in a tight turn. As they came full circle, Celdorn launched from Malak’s back, landing on top of the injured Farak with a roar. Celdorn dropped his sword and pummeled the man, shattering bones with his fists, blood flying. When the Farak went limp, Celdorn rose, picked up his sword and lopped off his head.
He then turned to the two who had followed the woman and her attacker. They stared at him, wide-eyed and stupefied by fear and drunkenness. When he moved toward them, they flew into motion. One grabbed a large rock and flung it at Celdorn’s head. He ducked and in two steps towered over the small man. The Farak held up another rock, blocking the thrust of Celdorn’s sword. The impact knocked the rock from his hands. Before he could move again, Celdorn swung, nicked his shoulder, then sliced through his neck. The second Farak hid behind the boulder, but when Celdorn turned, he ran for the tents. Celdorn took off after him. With the Farak’s squat legs, it was like a giant chasing a sprite. He cut him down before he’d gone twenty paces.
Celdorn rejoined Elbrion, who had completed the systematic execution of four men. He'd killed two with one precisely placed thrust of his broadsword as one lay upon the other in a grisly entanglement of severed ears and vicious bite marks, their bloodied limbs still entwined. Another was cut down near a tree, where it looked like he’d been relieving himself. The head of the fourth lay next to a puddle of his stomach contents.