Pawns (The Wielders of Arantha Book 1)

by Patrick Hodges

  “Maybe you didn't understand me, Vandan,” Mizar said, raising his voice to a yell. He held his hands out from his sides, splaying his fingers. “It is you that needs to walk away.”

  Voris scoffed. “Why would I do that?”

  “There is most assuredly a patrol not far from here, and if you leave now, you might just avoid being captured and executed.” Mizar moved his hands in front of his body, holding them palms-down. His eyes were still locked on Voris. “But if you touch that girl again, I'll save them the trouble.”

  Voris's face scrunched up in anger. Turning to the Vandan who'd drawn his sword, he yelled, “Kill him!”

  Holding the hilt of his sword with both hands, the man rushed at Mizar, who didn't move. With a primal scream, the man swung his sword in a wide arc, intent on separating Mizar's head from his body.

  With a quickness belying his age, Mizar ducked under the sword as it sliced through the air. Calling upon his abilities, he directed a powerful bolt of compressed air right at the swordsman's gut. A moment later, the man was flying backwards, his limbs flailing as he flew past his cohorts. He hit the water of the stream, but didn't stop there. His body bounced across the surface like a stone being skipped, coming to an abrupt halt when he crashed head-first into a large rock that stuck out of the ground on the other side. There was a sickening crack of bone upon stone, and the man's head fell limply under the water. It did not rise again. Only his feet and chest protruded above the surface, right next to a large red stain that now decorated the stone.

  The stupefied look on the faces of the three men was almost comical. Composing himself, Voris gestured to the two archers, whose bows dangled slackly in their hands. Gibbering with rage, he spluttered, “Shoot him!”

  The archers were only ten or so yards away from Mizar. At this close range, anyone with even moderate skill would be able to hit their mark. In one motion, both men raised their bows, pulled back on the drawstrings, and fired.

  Mizar only had a second to react as the two arrows split the air on their way to him. With a slight wave of his hands, he changed the flow of air around him, thereby directing the arrows to zip past his head, continuing on their harmless trajectory.

  Before they could hit the ground, Mizar turned in the other direction and waved his arms in a circle. As if they'd developed a mind of their own, the arrows changed direction, one banking left and the other right, sweeping around in a wide arc and climbing high into the air.

  Mizar whirled around to face the Vandans again, moving his arms in a practiced, precise series of gestures, bending the air to his will. The raiders watched, goggle-eyed, at the arrows that seemed to defy gravity. Mizar thrust his hands forward, and the two arrows decided on a new direction. Before the archers could even react, the arrows embedded themselves in their throats.

  Voris's jaw dropped, his knife hand shaking visibly as he watched the last of his men topple to the ground, blood gushing from their necks and staining the grassy earth.

  Satisfied, Mizar affixed Voris with his steeliest glare. “Only you and me now, Vandan.”

  Voris didn't move. He could only croak out a barely intelligible, “Wh-what are ya?”

  “I am Mizar, High Mage of Darad.” He dropped his hands to his sides, but didn't take his eyes off Voris.

  All at once, Voris found his courage again. “Yer a dead man!” he screamed, charging at Mizar with his blade held high.

  Mizar didn't even wait for Voris to get within striking distance. He raised his hands, and a violent gust of air appeared from nowhere, lifting the enraged Vandan off the ground. Mizar thrust his hands upward, and up Voris flew, higher and higher until he was above the level of the reesa trees, his screams growing fainter and fainter.

  Forming his hands into fists, Mizar made a downward tugging motion like he was pulling on the rope of a bell. Voris's rapid ascent stopped, and was instantaneously followed by an even more rapid plummet. The raider's screams grew louder and more frantic until he hit the surface of the stream with the same impact as if he'd been thrown from a two-hundred-foot cliff. There was a bone-jarring crack, a loud splash, and then silence.

  Mizar looked around at his handiwork, at the four corpses that now littered the countryside. It was not the first time he had killed; the last time had been many decades before, when King Armak ruled Darad. Like now, he'd been forced to kill Vandans. As much as he wanted to condemn his own actions, he just couldn't. Vandan raiders took what they wanted, and they never spared their victims. If these men had been captured, they would have been executed per King Aridor's orders. They deserved no less, and he had given them fair warning.

  His reverie was disturbed by a plaintive call from behind him. “Master?” came Sen's voice. “Is it over?”

  “It is,” Mizar said, striding over to where the unconscious girl lay. “Quickly, Sen, before she dies.”

  Sen ran out from his hiding place, bringing his satchel with him. He less-than-gracefully hopped over one dead archer and nearly tripped over the other before kneeling at the girl's side. As Mizar watched, Sen felt the girl's forehead before putting his ear to her mouth. “She's breathing, but just barely,” he said.

  Without waiting for a reply, he reached into his satchel and brought forth a small bag held tight with a drawstring. Unknotting it, he dug out two thin leaves that Mizar recognized as carmista, an herb that promoted blood coagulation. Sen pressed the leaves between his palms and closed his eyes, absorbing their healing properties.

  “I need your help, Master,” Sen said shakily. I can't heal her with arrows sticking out of her body. We need to pull them out.”

  Mizar was not a healer, and knew little of the art, but he knew this was a dangerous gamble. “Are you certain?”

  Sen nodded. “The arrows are deep inside her. If I help her blood clot without removing them, it may kill her.”

  “And if you remove the arrows, she could die anyway.”

  Despite the bad light, Mizar could see Sen's pained expression. “I know,” the boy said.

  “Very well,” Mizar knelt down next to Sen. Which one first?”

  “The one in her side.” He brought out the knife he used to clean the jarveks, rinsing it as best he could in the stream and wiping it off with a clean cloth. Then, casting an embarrassed glance at the girl's face, he carefully cut the leather of her tunic, exposing her bare skin. Both men winced at the sight of the arrow, its head submerged inside her body. The tissue surrounding the wound was red and swollen. Mizar was thankful the blood hadn't adhered the leather to her skin.

  Sen placed his palms on either side of the arrow, looking up at Mizar. “Pull it out as cleanly as you can.”

  “I will try.”

  “On your count, Master. Whenever you're ready.”

  “Alright. On three.” Mizar drew in a deep breath. “One, two, three.”

  With a grimace, Mizar pulled the arrow out of the girl's side. At that moment, her eyelids sprang open, and she let loose the loudest scream he'd ever heard. It only lasted for a few seconds, though, before she slumped back to the ground and closed her eyes. Her breath slowed to a raspy gurgle, and her face was pallid.

  Sen, uncovering his ears, replaced his hands on her skin, and concentrated once again on his task. Mizar imagined Arantha's will penetrating the poor girl, repairing the damage, trying to pump life back into her body before it shut down completely. As he watched, the blood oozing from her gaping wound slowed, then stopped.

  Mizar watched his apprentice with pride. The lad had come a long way from the inexperienced, overwhelmed kid he was when he first stood on the Nexus of Arantha.

  “Now the leg,” Sen panted.

  Removing the second arrow was easier than the first, but there was just as much blood. Thankfully, the girl didn't scream this time. By the time that wound sealed itself, Sen's face was ashen. His head drooped, and he almost collapsed on top of her. Mizar grasped his shoulder, keeping him upright. “Are you all right, Sen?”

  He nodded, his eyes
closed.

  “Is she healed?” Mizar asked.

  Sen opened his eyes again, still catching his breath. He put his ear to her mouth again, and an exhausted smile materialized on his face. “She's breathing better now.” He straightened up again. “I think she's healed, but it's not safe to move her right now. She's lost a lot of blood, and she'll be weak for a while. We need to keep her warm.”

  “Agreed. I'll build a new fire right here,” Mizar said.

  The sun had almost set, so while Sen tended to the girl, Mizar gathered a few sticks, forming them into a pyramid-shape over a bed of dead grass. A wave of his hand later, he had a small fire going. “It's a start,” he said, satisfied. “I'll get some more wood after I move the bodies a little further downstream. I'll also secure the Vandans' merychs.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Sen was barely listening. He stared at the girl, pushing a few strands of her long, straight hair away from her face, which looked soft and peaceful in the dim firelight. “She's beautiful,” he whispered. “She can't be much older than me.”

  “She'll live, Sen. Thanks to you.”

  “How's the chava?” Sen glanced at the poor animal, a dark silhouette lying unmoving on the ground about ten yards away.

  “It's dead, I'm afraid,” Mizar said sadly.

  “I thought chavas were wild.”

  “They are. They roam the Plains of Iyan.”

  Sen looked up at Mizar. “I've never heard of anyone riding one like a merych.” He took the girl's hand in both of his. “Why would a teenage girl be in the Celosian Forest by herself?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “But … you said you had a vision.”

  “I did.”

  “And Arantha didn't show you what was going to happen?”

  Mizar shook his head. “No. He just showed me where it was going to happen.”

  Sen drew in a sharp breath. “If you hadn't been here –”

  “If we hadn't been here,” Mizar corrected, “she would have died.” He smiled. “Arantha sees everything.”

  The tiniest of sounds escaped the girl's mouth. She was stirring, murmuring something under her breath. Her eyes were still closed.

  Sen leaned down closer to her. “Don't try to move.”

  At the sound of his voice, the girl's eyes popped open, and she stared directly at him. Her mouth was slightly agape, but no words came out.

  “Hello,” Sen said, “How are –”

  He didn't get another word out because the girl, moving faster than someone with her wounds should have, swung her left fist around, cracking Sen square in the jaw. The impact sent him flying backwards. Because of his weakened state, he was out cold by the time he hit the ground.

  Mizar's eyes widened as the girl, having apparently used all her energy in that one punch, slumped back to the ground. Her head lolled to the side, and her eyes closed again. He stood up, regarding the two unconscious teenagers at his feet, and smiled wryly to himself. “Well, almost everything.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “S he didn't tell you anything?” Sarja said, loosing another arrow at the target, missing just left.

  “Not a thing,” Nyla said.

  With all the drama surrounding Kelia's return and Susarra's dismissal, Liana canceled Nyla's Wielding lesson for the day. She returned home with her mother and Liana, where Kelia informed both of them that Liana would be taking Susarra's spot on the Council. It took a lot more convincing than Nyla would have expected, but Liana finally acquiesced. A swearing-in ritual in front of the entire tribe was scheduled for the next day. Kelia then told Nyla she could have the rest of the day to herself, so with nothing else to do, she decided to join Sarja on the archery range. She sat on the ground, her knees pulled up to her chin, watching her friend practice.

  “It's such a mess, isn't it? Arantha sends my mother across the desert, and this,” she made a sweeping gesture with her arms, “is what she comes home to.”

  “I know,” Sarja said, nocking and firing another arrow, missing just to the right. “But there's nothing we can do about it, is there?”

  “I should have stopped her, Sar. Why didn't I stop her?”

  Sarja pulled another arrow from her quiver, not meeting Nyla's gaze. “What could you have done, Ny? Used your Wielding on her? Hurt her? Knocked her out?”

  “Yeah. I could've done that.”

  “I don't think so. She's your friend. She's our friend. If she thinks she's doing the right thing, who are we to question her?”

  Nyla shot her a glare. “She only did it because Susarra told her to! Great Arantha, Sar … what if she never comes back?”

  Sarja aimed and fired, missing by a wide margin. “She'll be fine. I just know it.”

  “How?” Nyla begged. “How do you know?”

  “Because it's Vaxi. If anyone can survive out there, she can.”

  “I hope you're right.” Sarja still looked concerned, so Nyla gave her a disarming smile. “Thanks, Sar.”

  “You're welcome.” She fired once again. This arrow fell well short.

  Nyla stood up, taking a few steps forward. “What's wrong with you today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Nyla pointed at the untouched target. “You've missed every shot. I haven't seen you this off since you were ten.”

  A glum look came over Sarja's face. “I'm just distracted, that's all.”

  “By what's happened?”

  Sarja shook her head.

  An uncomfortable sensation swept through Nyla's body. “By me?”

  Sarja closed her eyes, then nodded. “But you don't want to talk about it.”

  Nyla and Sarja had been best friends their whole lives. Ever since they could walk, they'd played together, ate together, explored the world around them together. Nyla admired Sarja for her loyalty, her friendliness, her sense of humor, and for the rebellious streak she seemed to showed more and more infrequently. If Sarja had one weakness, it was her single-mindedness. Now she'd gotten this idea about the two of them becoming companions in her head, and she wasn't going to let it go.

  “You're right, I don't,” Nyla said with more than a little regret, “but it's not because of you. I'm only just starting to figure out who I am, you know? Everyone expects so much of me: my mother, Liana, the tribe … before I started Wielding, I didn't care about any of that. But all that's changed now. I don't want to be the brat anymore. I see how some people look at me, and they think it's Mother's fault that I turned out this way. But it's my fault. I've failed her.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don't know,” Nyla said despondently.

  “Well, whatever happens, I'm behind you.”

  Nyla looked at her friend's face, her gentle smile, and felt better.

  “Come on, let's go get something to eat,” Sarja said, taking Nyla's hand. Together they walked down the path toward the village.

  * * *

  A minute later, they were passing by the cave where the Stone was housed when Kelia came charging out the entrance, nearly bowling them over.

  “Mother!” Nyla cried, grasping Kelia's sleeves for support.

  “Duma.” Kelia's eyes flicked from Nyla to Sarja. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Nyla said. She scanned Kelia's face. She was alarmed to see Kelia's eyes red and swollen, and the remnants of tears staining her cheeks. “Mama, what's wrong?”

  Kelia, as if suddenly aware of her present state, wiped her face with her hands and straightened herself up. Within moments, she was the Protectress again: stoic, austere, and emotionless. “Nothing,” she said. “Everything's fine.” She glanced away, down the river. No Ixtrayu were nearby.

  Nyla grabbed Kelia's wrist. “Mama, please tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help!”

  Kelia looked at Nyla, conflict written all over her face. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. “There's nothing you can do,” she said.

  “I don't know what's going on,” Nyla said determinedly, “but I can
help you. I know I've let you down before, but I can control my abilities now! Let me prove it to you!”

  “Please, Protectress,” Sarja piped up. “Let her try.”

  Kelia's eyes narrowed into slits. “What is it you're asking of me?”

  Nyla squared her shoulders. “Let me touch the Stone.”

  “No. You're not ready.”

  “Mother –”

  “No!” Kelia yelled, raising her hands. “I say you're not ready, and that's final!”

  Nyla, taken aback, moved to stand by Sarja's side. Her fingers brushed the young huntress's, and she felt them interlock. Nyla did not pull away.

  Rather than match her volume to Kelia's, Nyla instead spoke with a calm, even tone. “How can I prove myself to the tribe—-to you—-if you never give me the chance?”

  “Your time will come, duma,” Kelia said. “Now please, girls, I have things to attend to.” She threw another look down the path before facing them again. Her stern visage had been replaced by a look of sadness, almost despair. “Dinner will be served shortly. Why don't you head there now?” Without waiting for a response, she strode at a fast pace along the path next to the river. Within moments, she disappeared from sight.

  * * *

  Dinner with Sarja was eerily quiet, with barely a word spoken. Minutes passed as their sister Ixtrayu came, ate their evening meal, and left, most without so much as a sideways glance in their direction. The upheaval caused by Vaxi's departure, Susarra's removal from the Council, and her mother's ultimatum to the tribe had cast a pall over the village.

  After dinner, Nyla returned to her home with Sarja in tow. Kelia wasn't there, and Liana was on her way out, likely to attend some preparatory session for her induction to the Council. Nyla asked her great-aunt for permission to spend the night at Sarja's home, and Liana approved.

  Runa and her companion of fifteen years, Amya, one of the tribe's foremost cloth-weavers, had gone on a total of four Sojourns between them before the Sojourns were stopped. Sarja was the only daughter born to either woman. They often expressed regret that they couldn't provide Sarja with a sister, but they all accepted it was Arantha's will, and both of them were loving mothers.