by J D Abbas
“The little girl appeared again and required soothing. Elena has returned to herself and is sleeping now. Braiden is feverish and in a great deal of pain, both internal and external. I told him about Shemeron. He took it hard. I don’t know how he’ll do with all of this. He’s such a sensitive, tender man.”
Celdorn rubbed his right shoulder, which was stiff from battle, and followed his wandering thoughts. “I’m amazed at Elena’s gift of foresight. She knew this attack was coming and warned the others long before the enemy arrived. That’s the only reason Braiden and Dalgo are still alive. They would have been easy targets. I regret that I didn’t foresee that possibility myself. But Elena did, and it’s not the first time. I don’t know why this troubles me, but it does.”
Elbrion studied Celdorn. “What is it you fear?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not the truth. You know, but you do not want to admit it aloud.”
Celdorn laughed wearily, shaking his head. “You’re right, as always.” He struggled to find the right words. “I ...I fear the shadows in her. I fear what evil may have taken root during her development and that some of her gifts may not come from the Jhadhela but from darkness, and that is why she can sense its presence. The only other ones with these powers serve the Zhekhum. The very ones who surrounded and controlled her until just a short time ago. How could she not have been impacted by that evil?” Celdorn stopped and shook his head again. “I feel as if I’m betraying her.”
“Celdorn, my friend, light is born even in the darkest of places. The Source of All Light chooses his vessels, and some would not be our choices. We do not know what other vessels he may likewise be preparing. Anakh does not know or control all. Just as Elena has developed contrary to their plan, so others have and will.
“I have walked within Elena’s mind. There is less evil in her than in you.” He arched a brow at Celdorn with a playful glint in his eye. Then he sobered. “She is extraordinarily gifted, and while it is certainly true that her gifts lived in the shadows for a long time, their source is the Giver of the Jhadhela. Of this I am certain.”
Celdorn found himself nodding in agreement, comforted by Elbrion’s words. “I’ve caught glimpses of what you’ve seen and have been humbled by them. I know you’re right. I’m ashamed for doubting her. You’re certainly correct about there being more evil in me. I’ve proven it tonight with my mistrust.”
Elbrion laughed and patted Celdorn on the shoulder. “Oh, my friend, you have already proven it many times over.” Then he grew serious. “There is no evil in having questions and doubts, Celdorn. You have not had the advantage of exploring her internal world as I have.”
“Again, you’re right. Though I must confess I find your ability to walk around in someone else’s mind a bit unnerving at times, almost uncanny. Perhaps it is you I should fear,” he added with a grin. “I will check on the others and then I am going back to the cave to relieve Dalgo. Get some rest, Elbrion.”
“I would say the same to you, but I am not the one in command.” He grinned. “You will do as you always do.”
When Celdorn returned to the cave, he found Silvandir sitting by Elena, watching her sleep. He was relieved to see that she was still herself and resting. Dalgo was on his bedroll, snoring rhythmically.
As Celdorn approached him, Silvandir started to rise. Celdorn motioned for him to remain where he was and sat next to him.
Silvandir hung his head. “I must beg your pardon, Lord Celdorn.” He glanced at Celdorn sideways, his eyes troubled. “You ordered me not to leave Elena’s side, and I disobeyed you. I found out from Dalgo that had Elena not been able to overcome her fear and were she not so gifted, she and Braiden would both be dead.” His head drooped lower, his long dark hair shielding his face.
Celdorn patted his shoulder. “There’s nothing to pardon. You made a difficult choice in an uncertain situation. How we all wish we had the gift of foresight.”
“The thought of that man coming in here with Braiden and Elena so defenseless, it—I don’t want to imagine it.”
“It’s over. They’re safe. Elena did well. Don’t trouble yourself further.”
“Yes, sir.”
He said the words, but Celdorn noticed he didn’t look any less distressed. Celdorn smiled; Silvandir was so much like he had been at that age. He understood him all too well.
“Lie down by Elena and get some sleep, Silvandir. I’ll keep watch.”
“What about you? Aren’t you tired?”
“No, my mind is busy, so I might as well keep watch. I wouldn’t sleep anyway.”
Celdorn moved to the mouth of the cave. He wrapped himself in a blanket and sat down with his sword across his lap. Come morning, they had more tough decisions to make.
~
Silvandir kissed Elena lightly on the head then lay next to her, making sure they were a respectable distance apart. He propped himself up on his elbow and gazed at her for some time, wondering what their future would be like. How long would these enemies pursue her? How would he keep her safe?
And the child—what kind of life would she have? Would she know that he was not her father? Anger rose as he thought of Domar. How could a father do that to his own child? He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away, and lay down.
Silvandir couldn’t stand it. He slid closer and put his arm around Elena, snuggling into her back, his need to touch and protect her overriding his sense of propriety. She’d killed a man tonight. He wondered what that would do to her. He still recalled the first time he’d taken a life, how it had haunted him for weeks. Then he cringed as he remembered that she already lived with this pain, only from a much more torturous situation.
His chest shuddered with a suppressed sob. Her life seemed to be one horrific blow after another. Silvandir prayed their future would be brighter and their love would ease some of her agony. Did he dare hope? He’d come so close to losing her tonight. What if ... Silvandir buried his face in her hair, unable to follow that thought. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He would keep her safe, keep them safe. He couldn’t lose them; to do so would be the end of him.
Chapter 31
Zarandiel let out a long, low whistle. He reined in his Ilqazar on the crest of a small rise overlooking a dale that swarmed with activity. His men pulled to a stop behind him, all of them gawking.
A dozen campfires burned to the west of the Flatland Road, the main thoroughfare that ran the length of the Shalamhar Valley, from the Pallanor Gap in the north to the Tulegar Gap in the south. Hundreds of men and children bustled around the fires, preparing food and raising tents.
Although he knew to expect over two hundred rescued children being transported to Queyon and an equal number of Guardians accompanying them, his imagination had not been expansive enough to envision this sight. There would be no hiding their movement, no hope of traveling undetected. If enemies pursued these children, they would easily be found. Charaq, the leader from Greenholt who was in charge until Zarandiel arrived, had been wise to set up camp close to the eastern border of Alsimion. The magic of the forest frightened most folks, especially those with evil intent.
In spite of all his years of service and experience in battle, including the horrors of the attack on Shefali, Zarandiel was unprepared for the potency of the emotional waves that washed through this shallow valley as they rode closer. Sorrow gripped his heart and refused to let go. Fear twisted his gut. His mind clouded with the thumping pulse of physical pain that throbbed in the very air. Several of those with him grabbed their heads and bent over in their saddles. Even the Ilqazar sidestepped and shook their massive heads as if flies bit at their ears.
“Set your internal wards the best you can,” Zarandiel called out to his men as he urged his stallion forward. “We’re going to be with them for some time.”
Sentries announced their approach. Near the edge of the camp, Charaq and another Guardian in Greenholt livery appeared, tailed by half a dozen children. Familiar
dark curls bobbed on the boy in the lead. The six-year-old grasped the hilt of his tiny sword with one hand while holding out his other arm as if to keep the other children behind him for their protection. Zarandiel grinned as Mishon stopped, spread his small feet, hands clasped behind his back, and puffed up his chest, ready to report to the incoming commander. The other children halted behind him as if they had rehearsed this many times.
Charaq glanced at the boy with pride then took up the same stance as the men from Marach approached. “Silothani, Zarandiel,” he said with a nod.
“Silothani, Charaq. And Mishon.” He gave each a dip of his chin. Mishon tried for a stern expression, but his eyes were dancing. Zarandiel lifted his hand and those behind him pulled to a stop. He dismounted and approached Charaq. They clasped left wrists, right fists on their hearts, before embracing.
“Good to see you are well and unharmed,” Charaq said.
“We had some injuries in the Gap but most were minor.” Zarandiel turned to Mishon. “And you, young man, what have you to report?”
Mishon pulled himself to his full height and lifted his chin. “The camp has been set up and is ready for your inspection. The children are well—most of them anyway. The sickest ones are in the tents over there.” He pointed toward the edge of the forest. “Healers are tending them.”
As Mishon spoke, a smaller boy with thick blond curls inched toward Mishon and grasped his arm, staring up at Zarandiel with wide eyes. The child trembled and looked like he might wet himself any moment.
Mishon threw his arm around the boy and said, “It’s okay, Waadar. They’re friends of mine. They look big and mean and all, but they’re really nice.”
Zarandiel frowned. Waadar? He wondered if the boy knew what his name meant. Anger rumbled in his belly, but he forced out a smile and knelt down. “Good to meet you, Waadar. I hope Mishon has been taking good care of you.”
Waadar nodded, his unruly hair bouncing above turquoise eyes.
Mishon leaned into Zarandiel and whispered, “He doesn’t talk. They cut out his tongue.”
The boy said it so matter-of-factly, as if this were commonplace. Zarandiel wanted to roar—or weep.
The other children started clamoring around Mishon saying, “Introduce me too.” “What about me?” “Can we ride on their horses?” “Mishon, don’t forget me.”
In spite of his young age and small size, Mishon had garnered an ever-growing cluster of admirers. Over a dozen children swarmed around him.
Mishon held up his hands. “If you’ll line up, nice and orderly like, I’ll introduce you to my friends and request permission for you to ride.” Surprisingly, the children didn’t say another word but skittered into a line—a rather wavy line, but not bad for ones so young.
Mishon was true to his promise and formally introduced each one to Zarandiel and his men. Zarandiel honored the other half of their request, helping the boys and girls to mount. Several shrank from his touch, but when he explained that there was no other way to seat them on the Ilqazar, they reluctantly agreed.
Zarandiel and Charaq led the entourage around the edge of the camp until they reached the tents.
“All right, Mishon, it’s time for your unit to get some work done. You’re on firewood duty tonight,” Charaq said.
“Yes, sir.” Mishon put fist to heart then extended his arm in formal salute. “Dismount and fall in,” he called to the other children.
Zarandiel wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. This boy should be running through fields, wrestling with friends, not shepherding a group of damaged children, most of whom were younger than he was.
~
A hand shook Mishon awake with a muffled sound. Even before he opened his eyes, Mishon knew it was Waadar. He wrinkled his nose. The boy had wet himself again.
Waadar shook him more urgently. In the glow of the campfire through the tent walls, Mishon could see Waadar’s arms gesturing.
“Another nightmare?” Mishon asked.
Waadar shook his head and pointed across the camp then to his ear.
“I don’t hear anything.”
The boy’s arms signaled something and then he pointed to his ear again. When Mishon didn’t respond, he mimed being stabbed in the belly and falling over dead. Then his arms flapped wildly.
“Someone’s coming?” Mishon asked. Waadar nodded. “For the children?” The boy’s head bobbed frantically. He tugged at Mishon’s arm and pulled him toward the tent opening.
Mishon heard a distant howl, and it sent a shiver through him. He jumped to his feet and peeked out of the tent. None of the Guardians were in sight. His mind raced. Charaq had told Mishon it was his job to watch over this cluster of tents. If something happened, he was to keep the children out of harm’s way. But it seemed to Mishon that they were easy targets here. No place to hide.
All of a sudden, he knew what to do and sprang into action. He woke the other two boys in the tent. Whispering, “Trouble’s coming,” he pushed them through the opening and started to follow. “Wait.” He grabbed his scabbard and strapped it on. “Okay. Let’s go.” They hurried to the next tent, rousing the four boys inside.
Mishon pointed to two of them. “You, go wake those in the next tent. Hurry.” Down the line, he went ordering the children to alert others. They couldn’t get to all the children, but they would do their best. “And be quiet about it,” he warned.
Soon two dozen children were huddled together in the dark. Mishon led them toward the hiding place he had in mind, one he’d found while gathering wood for the campfire. He urged the others to move silently, which they were very good at. By the opening to his refuge, he stopped and ushered the others inside. Just as the last of them moved into the enclosure, a sentry called out something in the distance. Mishon knew they didn’t have much time. He scurried ahead of the other children and waved for them to follow him deep into the thicket.
~
The sentry’s cry roused Charaq immediately. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, strapped on his sword and raced from the tent. Zarandiel hurried toward him just as a stallion galloped into the center of the camp. A Guardian lay draped across the Ilqazar, three arrows protruding from his back. It was one of Charaq’s men.
“Who is he?” Zarandiel asked.
“Torman,” Charaq answered. “He was the sentry about five miles to the southeast.”
Men had already surrounded Torman and were carefully pulling him from his mount. Alive. His eyes searched for Charaq.
“How many?” Charaq asked him.
“Fifty ... on horse ... howling ...” Torman’s head lolled, and his words fell away.
“Get him to Norad,” Charaq told the men carrying him.
“Plangon, rouse the men and mount up,” Zarandiel called. “We’re going to give them a not-so-friendly welcome.” Movement broke out everywhere like an anthill that had been kicked. “Charaq, have your men surround the children’s tents in case any get by us.”
“Unit leaders to me,” Charaq called out. When his men gathered round, he snapped out orders. “Qalam, take the south end of camp. Fan out. Protect those children at all costs. Dornan, take the north end. The same. Keep the children in the tents and quiet. Wallan, your men surround the healers’ tents. Hold your posts until you hear otherwise directly from me.”
Charaq hurried to Mishon’s tent to check on him. When he pulled back the door flap and found no one inside, his heart danced a few beats. “Mishon,” he called.
No answer.
He ran to the next tent. Empty. Six more, the same. Racing to the healer’s tent, he threw back the flap. “Are the children you’re tending all right?”
Norad stared at him blankly. He and an assistant were hunched over Torman, tending his wounds, both covered in blood.
“The children, are they all right?” Charaq pressed.
The healer pushed hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist, looking haggard and distracted. “What? Yes. As far as I know. Reyon’s been checking on them thr
ough the night. Why wouldn’t ...”
Charaq didn’t wait to hear more. He moved to the next tent, relieved to find several children asleep inside. When the healer caught up with him, Charaq told him, “Some of the children are missing from the main camp. Check all your tents and make sure your patients are accounted for.”
“Yes, sir,” Norad replied as Charaq raced back to Mishon’s tent.
He stood outside, took a deep breath, and willed his mind to slow. Grabbing a torch from beside the campfire, he studied the ground around the empty children’s tents. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Where could they be?
Then he noticed a wide slithering line in the dirt, like something had been dragged. It started near Mishon’s tent and moved toward the west. The trail wasn’t wide enough for a body. And the trench it left was too shallow—unless it was a small child. Charaq followed it to the edge of the camp where it suddenly disappeared—at the border of Alsimion. The foliage was trampled all around as if a large troop had passed this way. And then nothing.
“Dorrick,” he called to the sentry guarding the west side of the camp, “have you seen children come this way?”
“No, sir. It’s been quiet.”
“Mishon?” Charaq whispered loudly as he crept toward the forest, hand on the hilt of his sword. He listened. Even the forest was quiet at night; its usual musical tones silenced at sunset. The soft moans and susurrus of the treetops gathered around Charaq, as if the trees were giving him some cryptic message he couldn’t decipher.
Although a grown man and a trained Guardian, Charaq still hesitated to enter the forest in the dark, even with torch in hand. He couldn’t imagine a bunch of unarmed, frightened children going willingly into this wood.
~
“Shhh ...” Mishon whispered into the darkness. He could hear some of the children whimpering, but it was too dark to see who they were. “We have to be brave and be quiet or they’ll find us.”