by J D Abbas
Waadar tugged on his sleeve, reminding Mishon of his responsibility. He looked up at Withia. “What do we do now? These ones need beds and food, but I don’t know where this tunnel leads or what’s in Alsimion. I should probably find Charaq and the other Guardians before they worry about them.”
“Not yet, dear one,” Withia said. “Creatures from Nandhur, the middle realm, have entered the forest. They’re hunting you. You’re safer in our world.”
“Your world?” It felt like someone was poking needles into the back of Mishon’s neck. “Are we in Nandhur?” He glanced around. Everything looked solid. Normal. “But if these hunters are from your realm, can’t they find us here?” The other children started pushing closer, gathering around Mishon, looking scareder than his sister, Amia, used to when she saw a snake.
The liora spread her arms wide and lowered them, palms down, a soft smile lighting her face. The children immediately stopped clamoring and just gaped at her. “There are different rules in our realm. Movement and place are more—how shall I say—fluid. The creatures hunting you are not ... gifted when it comes to moving in this realm. They will not find you.”
Another liora approached. “We have prepared food and beds for you, if you will follow me.”
“I heard you aren’t supposed to eat fairy food. That it can trap you in the fairy world forever,” Mishon said with a stiff nod.
“As we told you, we are not fairies.” The liorai laughed again. Mishon scowled. They wouldn’t dare mock Charaq or Zarandiel like this.
The tall one held up a hand, and their giggling stopped. “We meant no offense, young master. I do not know much about fairy food or if they indeed have any power to trap humans, but I do know that you need not fear. The food we offer is from your realm. We do not have bodies such as yours that must be fed and rested, so some of our sisters did some gathering from the forest ... and beyond.”
Beyond indeed, Mishon thought at the smell of fresh baked bread. Even the Guardians didn’t have access to that on the road. The liora swept her arm toward a branching tunnel to the right. “This way, my friends.”
Mishon followed with the others straggling after him like a litter of hungry suckling pigs ready to wrestle for limited teats. He hoped he was doing the right thing and that Charaq wouldn’t be worried or angry.
~
Charaq circled the burned thicket. Other than the blanket they’d found by the entrance, there was no sign of the children. He heaved a sigh and scratched his head. They’d been here. He was certain. Why would Mishon have led them in here? And how had they gotten out of the thicket with the Zakad surrounding them?
“Ah, Mishon!” He kicked the dirt. It was his job to keep the boy safe. He’d sworn to Borham that his son would reach manhood. The boy hadn’t even made it to seven.
A firm hand on his shoulder brought Charaq out of his morose thoughts. “That boy is resourceful,” Qalam said. “He’s in this wood somewhere, those other kids with him. And I’m sure Alsimion is helping them.”
Charaq’s brows pulled down. “You believe in tales of the forest’s magic?”
Qalam laughed and gestured toward the thicket. “Did you not just witness the same thing—trees coming to life and stomping out a fire? How can you doubt?”
Charaq blew out a hard breath. “Because I’m a senseless fool.” A smile curled the corner of his mouth. “How does one raise a child? It muddles the brain.”
“Indeed,” Qalam agreed clapping him on the back.
A sentry’s voice sounded. “Zakad in the camp!”
Charaq spun around and shouted, “To the tents!” using the screams going up as his guide. He heard Qalam on his heels.
Charaq’s sword was swinging before he even thought to act. A massive hairy head fell to the ground. Then another. Wolven creatures swarmed around the children’s tents. Dozens of them. Some on all fours. Some upright like men. All with grotesque snouts that looked as if their faces had been stretched and covered with coarse hair. Large fangs hung over elongated lips. Blood and entrails dripped from one as he exited a tent. Others looked hungry as they sniffed around. Charaq gulped in air to keep his stomach from heaving.
His men quickly surrounded the camp, where Guardians were already at work, carrying children to safety or hacking at the intruders. They had half a dozen creatures encircled when a dark line appeared about a foot above the group. A Zakad grabbed it and pulled. The line widened into a hole in the air. The creature leapt into it and disappeared. Two others followed before his men could stop them. Charaq gaped at the impossible vision.
“Watch out!” Qalam’s voice called. Instinctively, Charaq rolled to the side just as a curved blade thrust into the space where he’d been. He pulled his left dagger, found his knees and flung the blade at the Zakad’s head. It hit him square between the eyes, and his body fell with a thud. Charaq scrambled to his feet, retrieved his blade, and entered the nearest tent.
Before his vision could adjust to the deep dark, he saw a black mass moving toward the rear of the tent. He reached for the creature’s scruff and yanked his head back, burying the blade in its throat.
Muffled screams erupted to his right. Another creature crouched over a bedroll, legs spread to trap the child beneath. A sound halfway between a growl and a snigger filled the tent as the wide teeth spread. Charaq grabbed the Zakad by its tail and yanked with all his might. The creature yelped and tried to spin round to bite at Charaq’s hand. He thrust his second dagger into its throat with such force his hand jammed into flesh. Charaq tossed the dying creature outside the tent and crawled toward the child who’d been beneath him. He yanked the covers back and found a trembling girl, blood dripping from her bare shoulder where nightshirt and flesh had been torn from her. He cut a strip from the blanket and wound it over the shoulder and under her arm, pulling it tightly to staunch the flow of blood.
“Hang onto this,” he told her, handing her the end of the makeshift bandage. “And keep it pulled tight.” She whimpered and nodded.
He turned to the other child. When he pulled her covers back, her wide eyes stared toward the ceiling of the tent, unblinking. He pressed his hand to her cheek. Warm flesh. She was alive, just terrified. The other two bedrolls were empty. One was disheveled and reeked of urine and blood. Charaq almost lost his stomach contents, but he willed it down with a grunt. When he could find his voice, he asked, “Where’s the other girl?” They had put four to a tent, so there had to be one more.
A squeak of a scream. A pointed finger. Charaq turned just as a pale body lunged at him, its arms and legs limp as wilted stems. Then he saw the dark mass behind the corpse shield, all teeth and claws and angry snarls. Charaq swung a punch around the girl, connecting with a solid chest. Teeth bit into his other forearm and tore at the flesh, sending them into a roll. Charaq couldn’t tear his arm loose. The creature wrestled him to the ground, working to rip his arm from his body. White fire tore through his limb, blinding him to all else. He punched and kicked with no clear thought. Then, suddenly, the creature collapsed on top of him, and his arm broke free from its grip. Charaq shoved the creature off and pulled himself upright, hugging his injured arm.
He found the girl with the wounded shoulder standing over them, blood dripping from her hand. Her gaze was fixed on the back of the Zakad, her mouth frozen in an O. The hilt of his dagger was sticking out of the back of the creature’s head, at the base of its skull. She must have retrieved it from the carcass of the first Zakad. Smart, brave lass.
Her knees collapsed, and she crumpled to the ground, pale as death. Charaq scooted closer and hugged her to his side, his other arm screaming at him. “I need some help in here,” he shouted.
The flap of the tent rose, and one of his men peeked in. “Charaq, is that you?”
“Aye. I’ve got an injured girl, and my arm’s torn up.”
His head disappeared. “Norad, we need you here. Charaq’s hurt.”
Reyon reached them first. He had a lantern with him and a pack f
ull of supplies. When the healer’s apprentice reached for Charaq’s arm, he pulled back. “Help the girl first. Her shoulder’s torn up.”
Reyon obeyed and set to work without a word. Charaq pulled the end of his tunic up and wrapped it around his arm, yanking it tight and cradling it into his body. Norad appeared a few moments later and did his best to repair the arm quickly.
“How are things out there?” Charaq asked.
“Quieter now. Most of the Zakad are dead or gone. Lots of injuries to tend, however,” Norad said, succinct as ever. Charaq was grateful. It would have taken too much concentration to deal with a flood of words right now.
“Guardians or children?”
“Both, but mostly our men. They did a good job protecting the little ones.”
Qalam stuck his head in the tent and his brows went up. “You’re injured!”
“Aye, the bloody thing tried to rip my arm off.” Charaq winced and bit down on the edge of his cloak as Norad’s needle pierced his skin again; the thread tugged mercilessly at the damaged tissue. When he could breathe again, he asked, “Did they take any of the children?”
Qalam slid into the tent and dropped to his knees. He glanced at Norad’s work and away with an involuntary shiver. “Three were spotted jumping into their rabbit hole with kids in their arms. There could have been more that we didn’t see. We’ll do a head count once we find Mishon’s group.”
“Any sign of him?”
“Not yet.”
The image of Mishon wandering around the forest followed by a litter of defenseless children made him sick. Mishon must be so frightened. I’m coming, little man. Hang on. Against all hope and reason, he prayed Mishon would hear his heart. Qho’el guard you till I get there.
Chapter 39
Mikaelin rode behind the wagon, feeling compelled to watch over Braiden as they continued onto Queyon, in spite of the fact that it meant having to be near Elena as well. Guilt and shame overwhelmed him in both relationships. With one, his cowardice at not doing more to alleviate his pain, with the other, the cowardice of his lie and the pain he’d heaped onto her already overburdened soul. He was a wretched human being who did not deserve to be amongst this fine company.
The travelers made slow progress the first day, stopping frequently to check on Elena and Braiden. Elena was managing well, at least physically; Braiden, however, was experiencing a great deal of discomfort. It was difficult for his battered body to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his injuries. Every bump in the road, each jerk of the wagon, sent spasms of pain through him. After just a few hours, Braiden was in a pool of sweat, gritting his teeth, constantly fighting the urge to cry out.
Mikaelin wasn’t doing much better. Although he’d done his best to strengthen his wards, he was still sharing fully in Braiden’s pain. When the cart bounced over a rock, a jolt of agony shook Mikaelin’s body. His stomach twisted every time Braiden contorted with pain. With each paroxysm, Mikaelin’s guilt increased.
Mikaelin had wrestled with himself ever since Braiden’s battered body had been carried into the camp below Roth Rock. He had avoided seeing or speaking with the young healer after discovering that Braiden had been raped. Mikaelin should have been willing to help, should have taken on the injuries, but he was convinced it would break him.
Each time Braiden’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, all he could see was the young man’s innocence, his vulnerability. He had such a sweet, tender, healing spirit. Mikaelin had once been that innocent, that vulnerable, and he could still vividly recall the aftermath of the first invasion of his body—the pain, the confusion, the humiliation, the self-loathing. Over time, however, he had numbed parts of his soul, grown calloused, developed defenses. If he’d been the one to return to Kelach, if the attack had happened to him, he could have tolerated it. He knew how.
But Braiden...the assaults were dismantling him. Every hour that passed brought the hammer down on another section of Braiden’s soul. The shattered pieces were visible in the flecks of his deadened eyes.
I need to put a stop to his suffering, Mikaelin told himself, trying to summon the courage.
Just then, the cart went over a large rock and bounced as it dropped into a pothole on the other side. Braiden and Elena both flew into the air then hit the bed of the wagon with a thud. Braiden let out a yelp and curled onto his side holding his ribs. The driver pulled the cart to a stop and sent a rider to find Dalgo.
When the healer turned Braiden onto his back to examine him, he found his tunic soaked with blood while his face held a bluish cast. He opened his shirt and poked around gingerly on the young man’s chest.
Celdorn rode up. “Is he all right?”
Dalgo shook his head. “It looks as if one of his ribs may be pressing into his lung. He is having difficulty breathing.”
Mikaelin drew his horse nearer, watching from the shelter of an overhanging tree.
Dalgo jumped down from the wagon and stepped off to the side with Celdorn.
“What can be done?” Celdorn asked.
Dalgo lowered his voice. “If the rib has punctured his lung, I am not sure there is anything I can do. If it hasn’t, I could make an incision and possibly pull the rib back into place. But either way, he can’t travel in this condition. He hasn’t made it half a day, and we have much more difficult terrain ahead of us.”
“What are you saying?”
“We either leave him behind, or we don’t move on,” Dalgo replied, his eyes sagging with weariness. “To force him to continue would be to torture him unnecessarily.”
While Celdorn and Dalgo were discussing the situation, Elena’s head suddenly popped up over the side of the wagon. She glanced around as if searching for something. Then she looked straight at him. “Mikaelin, is that you?”
When he didn’t answer, she said, “You’re glowing again.”
Lazhur began to move toward the wagon. Though he had initially urged him on, Mikaelin now wanted to stop him, but couldn’t find his voice. He braced himself.
Celdorn and Dalgo turned and immediately moved toward the cart to intercept Mikaelin.
“Whoa, Lazhur, hold up.” Celdorn pulled Zhalor alongside Mikaelin’s Ilqazar and grabbed his bridle. “Mikaelin, you need to weigh this carefully. Braiden’s injuries may undo you,” he whispered.
Mikaelin glanced into the wagon. “Look at his face, Celdorn. He can’t breathe. He won’t survive long.”
Braiden looked up at Mikaelin. “N-no,” he rasped. “D-don’t. I can m-manage.” Braiden made a valiant attempt to sit up but collapsed with a groan. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he stared up at Mikaelin, mouthing a silent no, his color turning to an ashen gray.
Without another thought, Mikaelin reached over the side of the wagon and laid his hand tenderly on Braiden’s cheek. The healer sucked in a gasp of air as Mikaelin felt a kick to his own chest, the breath forced from his body. He crumpled over Lazhur’s neck and whispered, “Get me away from here.”
The stallion immediately galloped off into the trees, as if knowing what Mikaelin required. When they were out of sight, he stopped. Mikaelin clung to his neck, clutching handfuls of his mane, as he slid to the ground, writhing in pain. Lazhur stood over him protectively, his head bent low.
~
As soon as Mikaelin disappeared, Silvandir urged Windam to pursue him. It took him several minutes to find where Lazhur had stopped. He saw his friend lying face down, pounding the dirt as he tried to pull his knees under him. Silvandir watched as Mikaelin’s body suddenly flew through the air for several feet before hitting the ground with a thud. He dismounted and stood horrified as his friend’s body reenacted the attacks against Braiden, being pummeled and assaulted by vicious phantoms. Silvandir tried to intervene, but some invisible power shoved him back. He was forced to helplessly watch the entire ambush play out, including the rapes by multiple assailants, sickened to the core by what he was witnessing.
When Mikaelin’s body finally stopped contorting, Silvand
ir approached him.
“Leave me,” Mikaelin rasped, his face in the dirt. “Go.”
“No, my friend, I will not leave you.” Silvandir knelt beside Mikaelin and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t touch me.” Silvandir quickly let go, and Mikaelin curled onto his side.
“Leave me,” he demanded again, this time with anger in his voice.
Silvandir hesitated.
“Go!” he yelled. “This is humiliating enough. I don’t need you watching.” Pools of blood were forming around Mikaelin.
“I can’t leave you like this. What if you die?”
“It would be a mercy ...” His words faded into a growl as his body twisted with another wave of pain. Panting, Mikaelin pulled himself to his knees. “Go away!” He slumped forward as if he’d used all his strength to yell those two words.
Silvandir moved back into the trees, but he couldn’t bring himself to go further. He watched his friend crawl to a tree and drag himself into a sitting position, but the pain of that forced him to roll back onto his knees. He clung to the trunk trying to pull himself up. When he was half-standing, rivulets of blood trickled down his legs and side. Silvandir was horrified when he saw his mutilated face—it was as if he were looking at Braiden when Celdorn first brought him into the camp. Mikaelin’s sides heaved as his breath gurgled in his lungs.
Silvandir couldn’t help himself; he ran back to his friend, put his shoulder under his arm and helped him to stand.
“Get away from me.” Mikaelin tried to shove him, then broke into spasmodic coughing that ended in him spewing blood.
“I won’t watch you suffer like this and do nothing,” Silvandir said. “There was no one there for you when you were a child, but you don’t have to endure this alone. You have no more reason to be ashamed than Braiden did. You’ve done nothing wrong.” He adjusted Mikaelin’s weight over his shoulder and braced his legs. “Now, shut up and let me help you.”