by J. A. Comley
“They will be alright, Protector Valana.”
Valana bit her tongue, noticing the tightness around the girl's eyes. Both her mothers were out there. She new the girl was frustrated. She had been denied the opportunity to join the fight. She was untrained and still Bound. She would be a liability.
The wind whistled past her carrying the scents of battle and Valana felt another wave of fear clutch her heart. I can't stand here doing nothing any more, the Chief's orders be damned!
“Karicha, take this.” She turned to the young girl and handed her a long, curved dagger. “This is yours now. Use it to protect our tribe. I must go. I must join the battle.”
The girl held her blood-aunt's gaze for a long moment then nodded, taking the offered blade. She was a Nightstalker, too. Not pure-blood like her blood-aunt, but it still meant that she was a Protector.
Valana glanced quickly at the elders, who all nodded solemnly.
Then she was running. Her eyes glowed faintly as she pushed her Nightstalker abilities as far as they could go, her body blurring as she raced to fight for her tribe. She was the Protector of the Kazori and, in her heart, she knew that they needed her.
***
Mukori noticed the dust trail on the horizon, coming from the west, and quickly raised his spy-glass again, training it on the edge of the battle, knowing it would be pointless to try following the trail itself.
Within moments, she appeared out of the dust like a spectre of death. Her dual-blades gleamed in the failing moonlight. The purple shield strapped to her back bore the three black fern leaves of the Kazori. He could not see the colour of her eyes from here, even with the aid of the glass, but he had no need for the confirmation they would bring. She moved like an unstoppable force of nature, felling anyone foolish enough to try and stop her from reaching the few Kazori still alive.
“She will do well for our cause,” Okano murmured, as six warriors fell to her fury.
Mukori just managed to stop himself from starting in surprise and carefully lowered the looking glass. “Yes,” he said, glancing over at the other man, who watched the battle intently, with no need for a spy-glass, “with the two of you helping us, we cannot fail.”
Okano huffed, ears shifting in response to sounds too small for Mukori to catch. “If you can get her to agree.”
Mukori looked away again. “Nightstalkers are Protectors. The events unfolding below are just further proof that they need to start protecting the world, not just the tribe they were born to. She will agree. You did.”
Okano nodded, watching as the battle ended abruptly when those still fighting realised that a pure-blood Nightstalker prowled the battlefield. Another tremor rocked the ground, the chasm ripping its way further across the land, cutting off any retreat to the east. Those fleeing made for the north, running hard. Okano had no doubt that they were praying hard, too. Praying that the Nightstalker let them go.
Mukori watched the people begin to flee and turned to the rest of their group.
“We shall soon be ready,” he announced, a smile in his voice. “The three worlds of Trianon have fallen into chaos and ruin. For the past two hundred years, Trianon has been blighted by drought, famine, floods, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and land-swallowing waves.” His small group had turned to him, their eyes beginning to burn with a familiar fervour. “The people of Trianon grow desperate! Brother betrays brother, mothers abandon their children, even the beasts of the air, land and waters have become feral, killing without cause.” A shudder ran through his followers at his words. Those here had seen horrors, had suffered loss. “The ones meant to lead us cower behind their walls, hiding in their palaces. They are afraid.” Mukori let his voice drop to a whisper, never losing its compelling edge. “But we are not afraid. We are the ones brave enough to look chaos in the face and not falter, no matter the price.” Mukori paused a moment, looking at each of the four people before him. “We must restore order from this chaos. We must heal our lands. If we stick together, I know that we can and will save the worlds of Trianon.”
“We are with you, Lord Mukori,” said an elderly man, dropping down one knee and throwing off his dark hood. His hair was short like most of Hipotarali's citizens, his clothes, beneath his cloak, too colourful and delicate to be from anywhere but Aurelia's only city.
“Please, do not bow to me, Tanoril. We are equals.”
“You are our head. We, but the body you command.” Tanoril's usually languid speech filled with the passion of his beliefs, becoming almost ardent.
Mukori had never quite pin-pointed the reason why the man had started to view him this way. Tanoril had been a friend of his father's and had joined Mukori after his death. Perhaps this devotion was because he had led them to so many more victories than his father had ever done and so he had earned Tanoril's respect and loyalty for himself.
In response, the other three also bowed, all swearing fealty to Lord Mukori and his cause.
Mukori shifted uncomfortably. He knew that every group needed a leader, but being a ruler was not something he wanted. He glanced back at Okano. The Nightstalker hadn't moved, his eyes still trained on the battlefield below.
The faintest half-smile curled his lips and Mukori fought down a smile of his own. At least he could always count on Okano to remain sensibly distant. The man had sworn his allegiance to Mukori fifty years ago. Since then, he had never once fallen to his knees or made any such proclamations of fealty. Apart from the respectful deep nod to a leader and the public use of his title, Okano never seemed to see Mukori as anything other than a man.
If Mukori had been less sure of him, this may have been a cause for concern. As it was, it filled him with relief.
The others stood once more, their eyes still shining from the effects of Mukori's speech. As one, they joined Mukori as he turned back to the battlefield.
Okano's mouth turned down in distaste and he shook his head at the wastefulness that had left the ground littered with bodies. This was insanity. Mukori was right. Desperation had consumed all the lands and their people like a plague, infecting everything. They, the Unseen Hand, would set things right. With Mukori's guidance, they would fight for peace and a system-wide alliance that would allow the survivors of the Breaking to wait in safety until the Sacrileons managed to bring the forces of nature to heel and work together to rebuild afterwards.
“It is over. The fighting has ceased.” Okano said, his deep voice cutting easily through the distant rumble from the Elder Mountain.
Mukori raised his spy-glass briefly, watching a single figure move slowly over the bodies, then nodded in confirmation of Okano's words.
“Indeed.” He pocketed the glass and turned to leave. “Let us go and meet her, then.”
“What?” Okano resisted the urge to shake Mukori. “We must wait.”
“She is why we are here, Okano.”
Okano sighed, “Yes, but she may still be lost to the Killing Calm with all her warriors dead. She could attack us if she is not given enough time to ready her mind.”
Mukori raised an eyebrow. “We need her, Okano. We cannot wait. With her on our side, we will finally be able to achieve the order we have been fighting for for so long. It will take us a while to reach her. She will have had time to regain sense.”
“And if she has not?”
“Then you, our Nightstalker Protector, are here to guard us.”
The others chortled and followed their leader off the outcrop to the elpion-driven cart that awaited them.
Okano watched them leave, trying to smother his exasperation. He looked out over the battlefield again and watched the woman plunge her blade into some unfortunate soul who was wounded but not yet dead. He narrowed his eyes and sighed. Mukori was going. He would follow, even if it was total madness.
An Aurelian warrior knows better than to confront a Nightstalker on a bloody battlefield, especially that Nightstalker. A brief memory flashed to mind of the Champion's Fields full of talking and cheering, Moon Lak
e reflecting the light like a giant, round mirror. A young Nightstalker was beating him, despite being three years his junior. She was beautiful and deadly.
He hadn't seen her in more than a century. I am not certain I can best her, even after all these years of fighting and hardship.
Hearing the wheels of the cart begin to creak into motion, Okano pushed the memories of happier times away and rolled his massive shoulders, crouching and tensing his muscles, his eyes locked on a piece of dark ground far below. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself from the high outcrop, spiralling through the air to land lightly on the balls of his feet, surprising the elpion and the people. All except Mukori. A small smile was all he let show of the grin that threatened to break through when the Hands, all cloaked and now masked, startled like children at his sudden appearance. They always seemed to forget what he was. The elpion stamped its six feet in agitation and swung its massive horned head in Okano's direction, but its ears were turned back, towards Mukori, who whispered words of reassurance, calming the big animal.
Mukori cut him a severe glance then urged the elpion back into motion, the strong beast making quick work on the flat ground. Okano swallowed his grin, put on his own mask and followed on foot, his matching dark cloak swallowed up in the twilight of ash and fire.
***
Karicha's ears twitched nervously atop her head as the moon dipped lower. She thought she had heard thuds or shifting stones several times now and wished again that she was old enough to be Unbound. At least then she could protect the young children and elders better. But the Kazori's Makhi had been killed eight months ago as she travelled to Hipotarali to meet other Makhi at their annual gathering. Only a third had survived the attack on their meeting. Most other Tribes had managed to find a new Makhi, but the Kazori had not.
Just like the Nightstalkers, Makhi were being hunted and eliminated, their abilities making them targets of the fear that infected the lands.
She glanced at the group again. They were watchful, their ears flicking this way and that just like hers. Only the babies and young toddlers had managed to find refuge in sleep. She smiled at her baby brother, her blood-brother, sleeping soundly in her blood-grandmother's lap.
“They will be home soon, Nulto,” she cooed softly, patting his downy head gently. His tiny ears twitched.
Her head snapped up as the sound came again. This time it was more distinct, as if whatever was coming had decided it was not necessary to be stealthy. Her heart leapt as she identified the sound. Footsteps. Not too many footsteps. Maybe three or four sets. It could be some of her people returning, or it could be trouble. She glanced automatically at her blood-grandmother, seeking the guidance of an adult. Her grandmother listened hard for a moment then shook her head, worry filling her ancient eyes. Karicha's heart sank again, fear tightening her chest and making her palms slick on the hilt of her dagger.
They are most likely after the Ever-Spring. All the tribes want a sustainable, easily defensible, source of clean water now. Perhaps if we surrender it and fall back, they'll leave us be. After all, we are children and the elderly. There is not a single warrior among us. The Laws of Honour will shield us.
Making her decision, she sheathed her dagger and caught her grandmother's eye. She pointed back, in the direction of the battlefield. They could find shelter somewhere along the base of the plateau and hide there until their warriors returned along that route.
Her grandmother nodded silently in agreement and rose slowly. The others followed suit, careful not to jostle the sleeping young. The footsteps were on the outskirts of the village now, shadows of dark-cloaked people visible in the ashen air. Their dark cloaks had worked well, shielding the natural pale white Aurelian skin from standing out in the moonlight and allowing them to approach unnoticed. Her hands trembled as she noticed that they all bore masks covering half of their faces, flashes of silver in the deep shadows of their cowls.
They are only four. That must have been why they were sneaking. But now they can see there are no warriors here. No-one to fight.
Karicha raised her voice a little, trying hard to keep it steady. As a Nightstalker, even Bound, she ranked highest in this group.
“I am Karicha, Nightstalker of the Kazori. I surrender the Ever-Spring to you.” Although the words tasted bitter, she forced them out in a calm, if small, voice. She had learned young that if you could not win a battle without losing too many lives, then you survived it. As a future Protector, it was her duty to save the people entrusted to her care. Her pride did not matter.
One of the shadows laughed, a short bark of amusement. “We are not here for the Ever-Spring, Karicha, Nightstalker of the Kazori.” The woman's voice was strange, a mix of both a tribal accent and the more languid cadence of Hipotarali.
Who are you?
Karicha swallowed hard. Whoever it was, her voice was pitiless, an empty, chilling sound that seemed to freeze her blood. As she opened her mouth to ask why they had come and who they were, one of the huts exploded into flames.
She jumped back from the unnatural purple fire in fright. All around her, children screamed and elders grabbed what weapons they could, even though they must know as she did that steel was of little use against Makhi.
She spotted a flash of white robes as another masked shadow lowered its hand, the staff within it still glowing slightly.
“Please!” she shouted over the wailing. “What do you want?”
“Ah, that is simple, but as you will be dead soon, there is no point in troubling you with it.” As the statement ended, the woman speaking flickered a pale hand from under her coat, loosing a throwing blade.
Karicha's tenuous calm snapped in an instant as her blood-grandmother sank to her knees, blood spurting between her fingers as they clutched her throat, the other arm still holding a crying Nulto.
More huts exploded as spells hit them. Arrows arched out of the smoke and fire, uncaring of the innocents they speared.
Panic rose in Karicha's throat as the elders charged their enemies, limping and brandishing walking sticks or pots and pans. The screams grew hollow, the cries of pain echoing oddly. One thought cut through it all and she clung to it.
The house before her threw up a wall of smoke and Karicha turned and fled, trusting her knowledge of her own lands to guide her through the blinding, choking air, where her enemies would stumble and fail.
Valana. I must get to Valana.
2
Blood and Ashes
The relative brightness of the near-full moon waned into the dim twilight of day. The clashing of steel, the screams of pain and death had all faded with the moonlight. In the sea of bodies, only one figure still stood, pulling a blade free from a corpse.
Valana breathed slowly, quietening the roar of her blood in her ears. In. Out. In. Out. The rusty tang of blood clung to the air, mingled with the ash that tried to choke her. Her silver eyes flashed open as she glared at the offending mountain, far in the distance. Its near constant eruptions at the beginning of the Breaking had caused the Hitori to flee their lands and, within a century, had transformed them into a tribe without Honour. They had led this attack. They were the reason the Tribes hadn't banded together. She kept her eyes on the mountain, not yet ready to look down, to see the faces of friends and family staring blankly past her. The Elder Mountain rumbled and another plume of ash soared high. She turned her back on it. That ash cloud would spread and the air would become unbreathable for a time.
She glanced towards home and felt a pain in her heart. There would be no time to say a proper farewell to all those she had come to save. She shut her eyes tight. She had failed them. Pain, anger and shame rose and fell in waves with every heartbeat. Why hadn't they listened? She let her thoughts drift back, anything to postpone the moment of accountability.
One hundred and eighty six years ago, the Demilain had caused the Breaking. The Hitori and Dralog tribes had both been forced from their lands by mother nature. The Frelok tribe had hidden in their
caves, killing all who crossed their borders, hoarding their underground stores and water. The Jensolir had agreed to take in the Hitori if they offered protection from the Torik tribe and the Kazori had taken in the bedraggled Dralog. But many had caused blood debts in the mad scramble for survival and the Conclave wasn't answering the call of the Chiefs. Valana had watched the cycle begin in silence, but the night this stupid battle was agreed to, she could stay silent no longer.
“War with our neighbours is not the answer!” she had all but shouted at Nizara, the Chief of the Kazori.
She had clenched her teeth all through yet another speech of a blood-debt owed, but her conscience rebelled against the silence.
“Protector, know your place,” Chief Nizara had said, yellow eyes hard.
“Speaking out against a needless war is my place,” Valana countered. “I am meant to protect you. I can begin by stopping this madness. We are meant to be bound by a pact of Strength and Honour.”
The Tribe member who had claimed a blood-debt owed laughed derisively. Valana turned from the Chief and met her sister's wife's pale-ochre eyes calmly.
Harima kept her gaze. “The Hitori have become honourless savages!” she declared, looking around the small gathering in the Chief's home. “They attack our outlying villages nearly every month. They killed my mother, Ferika's little boy, Eldori's wife, the list is endless.” She turned back to Valana. “And you, Nightstalker of the Kazori, have not Protected us.”
Valana dropped her gaze. Yes, the Hitori attacked indiscriminately. Yes, many Kazori had fallen. No, one single Nightstalker was not enough to protect the entire tribe, especially when hunger forced them to range further and further from the Ever-Spring to find food. With the tribes all desperate and forced into such close quarters around the Champion's Fields, just leaving the main village was an invitation to death. The ancient pact of Strength and Honour that Felantha had used to bind the tribes seemed to be falling apart.