The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

‘I did not bring you here, Gilwyn. This is not the place of the dead.’

  She had read his thoughts, and her answer confused him. ‘No?’ Gilwyn looked around, but could see nothing familiar, only darkness. ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Your mind, Gilwyn,’ said Ruana. ‘This is your mind.’

  The emptiness seized him. ‘My mind?’ He groped through the blackness. ‘What’s happened to me?’

  ‘You must awaken, Gilwyn. You must try very hard. Do you understand? Try now.’

  It was like a horrible dream, but this time there were no monsters chasing him or molasses to slow his feet. Ruana’s words meant little to Gilwyn, yet they frightened him. His lungs filled with air, yet still he couldn’t breathe. If this was his mind, then it was an empty void he couldn’t fill.

  ‘Gilwyn, you must rouse yourself,’ Ruana continued. ‘You are very close. That is why I can reach you now. Are you listening? Can you wake yourself?’

  ‘From sleep? Am I sleeping?’

  ‘You are ill, but you are coming out of it. Wake yourself now, Gilwyn.’

  ‘Ill? What’s happened to me?’

  ‘Find your body. Connect it to your mind.’

  Ruana’s urgings made breathing unbearable. Gilwyn searched his empty mind — a great field of nothingness — for the mortal part of him. He felt a wave of nausea, then pain.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Ruana, noting his fear. ‘That is your body, Gilwyn. Go back to it.’

  ‘What’s happened to me?’ Gilwyn asked. ‘Ruana, I’m afraid.’

  Ruana’s face suffused with kindness. She stopped urging him and gently smiled. ‘You will be all right soon. I promise. But you must return. That pain you feel — it is necessary. It is your body calling you back. Go to it, Gilwyn.’

  ‘Don’t leave me. .’

  ‘I am always with you, Gilwyn. When you awaken I will be there.’

  There was no sense to her riddles. Gilwyn surrendered to his puzzlement. The pain he felt was growing enormous, and though he wanted to flee, he felt it calling to him, dragging him into its nauseating maw. Before him, he watched as Ruana shimmered and dimmed, her beautiful face yielding to the darkness. He began to cry, yet as she vanished she smiled.

  ‘Ruana!’

  Then she was gone, and the strange, empty world began to fade with her.

  8

  Gilwyn awoke to the sounds of his own cries. His ears heard the noise, and when his eyes snapped open he saw figures overheard, swarming in a fuzzy haze. He breathed hard, struggling to find his breath. His head swam with pain. Trying to move, he felt a thousand stinging needles prick his naked skin. A swollen tongue filled his mouth, dry and tasting of medicine. Sweat drenched his face and matted his hair. Barely lifting his head, he fought to focus his eyes, squinting at the figures, but they were unfamiliar to him, their features distorted by his broken vision. He coughed, a great hacking series that shook his body. The effort made his lungs burn. A dark figure stooped to touch his forehead. The touch of the soft hand made him whimper.

  ‘White-Eye. .?’

  The hand cupped his forehead, gently caressing it. He smelled perfume. Had he been sleeping? If so, awakening was exhausting him. His vision faltered and his eyes shuddered closed. As he drifted off he remembered something of Ruana, and how she wanted him to wake.

  For hours more, Gilwyn slept, and when at last he awoke again he could not remember when he had taken to bed. This time when he awoke his vision had cleared. His head still ached and his body still burned with pain, yet his breathing had relaxed and his terror had subsided. He wakened peacefully, in a chamber darkened with night and lit by golden oil lamps. Alone and naked in a bed of soft blankets, he slowly turned his head to study his surroundings, realizing with surprise that he was in a tent. Moonlight sifted through the fabric walls. The air of the pavilion smelled of flowers and scented oils. Outside, Gilwyn heard voices, softly murmuring. He raised himself off the bedding, barely an inch. Finding the effort too depleting, he collapsed.

  ‘Hello?’ he croaked.

  From the corner of the pavilion a figure stirred, coming toward him. Gilwyn felt no fear as he noted the woman, young and pretty, with dark skin like White-Eye’s and the silken garb of a desert lady. She looked at him and smiled, obviously pleased he had awakened. Looking deeply into his eyes, she nodded. She touched his forehead, reminding Gilwyn that she had done it before. Her touch soothed him. He tried again to talk.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, his voice gravelly. ‘Where am I?’

  The woman frowned at his questions. She was older than he was, though not by much. Suddenly his nakedness embarrassed him.

  ‘Where are my clothes? Who are you?’

  Again his queries went unanswered. The woman knelt beside his bed and dipped a bronze ladle into a shining bowl of water. With one hand she lifted his head. With the other, she gave him drink. Gilwyn sipped carefully, grateful for the water. His parched tongue cooled immediately. He coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘No, no more. Tell me where I am.’

  ‘In a good place,’ said the woman.

  Gilwyn had not expected her to speak his language. Again he tried sitting up. ‘You understand me,’ he said with surprise. ‘Tell me what’s happened to me.’

  ‘Too many questions. Lay quietly now.’

  ‘No. .’

  Gilwyn tried to keep himself up but could not. Overwhelmed with fatigue, he put his head back to the silk pillow and looked pleadingly at the young woman. Weary-looking marks darkened her eyes. She had obviously been with him for hours. Yet she was beautiful to Gilwyn, if only because he felt so alone.

  ‘Am I sick?’ he asked. He began to remember what Ruana had told him, though it seemed so long ago.

  ‘Sleep,’ directed the woman. She rose from his bedside and turned to go.

  ‘I won’t sleep,’ he warned her. ‘I’ll keep you up all night unless you start answering my questions.’

  The woman sighed heavily, and for the first time looked annoyed. ‘You have kept me awake for days already.’

  ‘Days? How long. .’ He broke into coughs. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Long. We have tended to you.’

  ‘Yes, I remember others.’ Gilwyn closed his eyes, recalling the figures gathered over him. ‘I need to know where I am.’

  ‘You are in a good place.’

  ‘You told me that already,’ said Gilwyn sourly. ‘It doesn’t help.’

  He sagged at the empty conversation. Seeing this, the woman came closer. Because his bed lay very near the floor, she took an emerald pillow from a nearby pile and sat down next to him, cross-legged. Almost unable to lift his head, Gilwyn managed to smile at her.

  ‘I am called Harani,’ she said. ‘I speak the tongue of the continent. There are not many of us who do. That is why I was chosen to care for you.’

  ‘Harani.’ Gilwyn liked the way she spoke her name, almost musically. ‘Are you Ganjeese?’

  ‘I am Voruni,’ said the woman. ‘Do you remember what happened to you?’

  Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Not really. You’re Voruni?’ He thought a moment, then became frightened. ‘Are you one of Aztar’s people?’

  ‘You are in the camp of Aztar,’ said Harani. ‘Perhaps we should not talk about this. If you do not remember. .’

  But suddenly Gilwyn did remember. ‘The rass.’

  ‘Yes.’ Harani smiled. ‘You are blessed by Vala, truly. To have survived the rass you must be blessed.’

  ‘I was riding,’ Gilwyn recalled. ‘There were raiders. They attacked me. And then. .’

  He stopped himself. It was he who had summoned the rass. He remember that now, but he could never confess such a thing. He opened his eyes to see Harani nodding at him earnestly.

  ‘Good that you remember,’ she said. ‘Your mind is clearing. You have been very ill. We did not think you would survive.’

  ‘Because of the rass?’ Gilwyn asked. ‘Did it bite me?’

  ‘Your arms and legs
— they burn, yes?’

  Gilwyn nodded. His limbs burned like fire.

  ‘That is the poison of the rass,’ explained Harani. ‘You were stiff like a branch when they brought you here. On your chest you have the scar.’ Harani traced her finger lightly over his chest, pushing the blanket. ‘Here. That is where the fangs cut you.’

  Even the gentle pressure made Gilwyn wince. ‘Who brought me here?’ he asked. ‘The men chasing me?’

  ‘They were Voruni men,’ said Harani. ‘You were still alive when the rass attacked. They escaped with you and brought you here.’

  ‘They were trying to kill me. Why would they save me?’

  Harani touched his face to calm him. ‘You are safe.’

  The answer did little to relax Gilwyn. Suddenly he remembered everything, even how his captors had claimed they were taking him to Aztar. ‘Is Aztar alive?’ he asked. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Aztar lives. You will see him when you are stronger.’

  ‘No,’ Gilwyn protested, forcing himself up onto his elbow. ‘I can’t wait. I have to go. I have to get to Ganjor.’

  ‘Not until you are well and not until Aztar speaks with you. That is why the others brought you here.’

  ‘They captured me for Aztar?’

  ‘There are others outside. If you try to go they will stop you.’

  Desperate, Gilwyn gripped the blankets. ‘Harani, I can’t stay here. Aztar wants to question me — you said so yourself. When he’s done he’ll kill me.’

  ‘The prince did not keep you alive to kill you,’ Harani assured him. ‘And if you do not lay back you will not get well.’ She pushed him back into the soft bedding. Gilwyn yielded, mostly because he hadn’t the strength to fight. Whatever had happened to him had left him weak, too weary even to argue. Harani fixed the blankets around him, covering him against a feverish chill that suddenly swept through his body. Then, she surprised him with a simple question. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘My name? Gilwyn. Gilwyn Toms.’

  ‘Gilwyn.’ Harani grinned. ‘That is a strange name.’

  ‘Not where I come from.’

  ‘You have been here for many days, Gilwyn. You need to know how close to death you were. Do you remember anything more?’

  Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Just the rass. After that. .’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’ He looked earnestly at Harani. ‘How long?’

  ‘Many days. Nearly twenty.’

  ‘Twenty?’ Gilwyn gasped. ‘In bed like this?’

  ‘Yes. Do you understand now? The rass poison should have killed you, but it did not. Aztar says that you are blessed, Gilwyn, and I believe him. No one should have survived it, but you did. Aztar told me to care for you, to keep you alive.’ Harani eased back from the bedside. ‘And now that you are awake, I must tell him.’

  Gilwyn but didn’t argue. For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, Aztar wanted him alive. It might be for information, or the simple sport of watching him squirm, but Gilwyn was determined to face the prince bravely. The mere fact that Aztar still lived earned him a certain respect.

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Go and bring him.’

  Harani laughed. ‘One does not summon Prince Aztar. I will tell him you have awakened and that you can speak. He will come when he is ready.’

  For three more days, Gilwyn waited for Aztar. Mostly, he fell in and out of sleep, comforted by Harani who was always there with a dipper or water or offer of food. When he was sweaty, Harani bathed him, and when he was despondent she smiled, reassuring him even as she avoided his questions. Gilwyn gradually felt himself grow stronger, and by the third day he was able to sit up and dangle his legs from the ends of the bedding. He ate very little, for his stomach still rebelled with nausea, but he discovered an insatiable thirst for water that required him to relieve himself in a pan that Harani and the other women emptied for him without complaint. The days in the pavilion were unbearably warm, and though the fabric walls shielded them from the worst of the desert sun Gilwyn nevertheless longed for night to fall each day. He had very few visitors while he recovered, among them Harani’s husband, who had come to check on his wife and the upstart boy she was looking after. He was a fierce man, so like the image of a Voruni raider, with suspicious eyes that barely left Gilwyn even as he spoke to his wife.

  Aztar, however, was not among those who came to the pavilion, and by the end of the third day Gilwyn began to wonder if the prince truly had survived, or if Harani was merely playing a ruse to keep him in bed. It seemed an elaborate pantomime, especially from the woman whom Gilwyn had come to trust. She was, as she had explained, one of the only people in the camp who could speak the language of the north, having learned it from her father, a Ganjeese merchant who had traded with the continent before his death. Harani had learned well from him, but then she had met the Voruni named Mazal, who became her husband. Together they had heard the call of Aztar. Harani adored Prince Aztar.

  That night, Gilwyn found himself alone in the pavilion. Harani had left for a rendezvous with her husband, and Gilwyn had let her go with a promise that he would not get out of bed or try to leave the tent. Leaving, Gilwyn had already discovered, was impossible, for the Voruni guards posted at the exit would have no trouble at all stopping a groggy boy with a clubbed hand and foot. So he lay awake in his bed of colourful pillows, watching as moonbeams slanted through the walls and wondering how much longer he would have to remain. He had not forgotten his mission to find Thorin. Thoughts of his old friend plagued him. It had been weeks since he’d left Jador. By now, he should have been halfway to Liiria.

  ‘I may never get there,’ he whispered. ‘Or see White-Eye again.’

  Being morose wouldn’t help him, Gilwyn knew, but he had already struggled for days to find an answer. Maybe there wasn’t one, he realized. He was still weak. Worse, he remained in the clutches of a sworn enemy. He supposed Prince Aztar — if indeed he was still alive — was simply playing a cruel game with him and would kill him as soon as he was strong enough to walk up a gallows. Did the Voruni hang their prisoners the way Liirians did? Or did they just behead them with scimitars? Gilwyn rolled onto his side, thinking he would try to sleep, then glimpsed a shadowy figure entering the pavilion. It wasn’t Harani; Gilwyn knew that instantly. He held his breath, squinting for a better view. The figure paused in the threshold, then reached out a hand to pinch out the oil lamp, leaving only the one by Gilwyn’s bed lit.

  ‘Hello?’ Gilwyn called. He sat up, alarmed but curious. ‘Who’s there?’

  The figure — clearly a man — took a silent step closer. Gilwyn could barely see his face, shadowed as it was by darkness. Moonbeams and lamp light shone off his richly textured vest. A thick belt of gold surrounded his middle. He was tall, but stooped. He moved with effort, hiding himself in the darkness. An air of importance followed him into the tent. Gilwyn sat up tall, unsure what to expect.

  ‘You look well,’ said the man. His voice boomed in the silence, sounding neither pleased nor angry. ‘Better.’

  Gilwyn didn’t know whether to speak or stay quiet.

  ‘I am Aztar,’ the man pronounced. ‘And I live.’

  The words chilled Gilwyn. Aztar moved no closer.

  ‘Your name is Gilwyn Toms. You are from Jador?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are blessed by Vala.’

  ‘Your men saved me.’

  ‘You are blessed by Vala,’ repeated Aztar. ‘His hand is on your shoulder. It must be so for you to have survived the rass.’

  ‘Harani told me your men brought me here. I’m grateful for that.’ Gilwyn shifted, uncomfortable under the gaze of Aztar’s unseen face. ‘They could have left me to die.’

  ‘And you’re wondering why they didn’t.’

  ‘They saved me because you willed it,’ said Gilwyn. ‘That’s what I’m wondering about.’

  Prince Aztar stepped closer, still keeping himself in shadows. He was called the Tiger of the Desert, but he did not move like a tiger. His legs
worked stiffly, as he compelled himself across the floor, going half the distance toward Gilwyn before pausing. When he stopped he looked at Gilwyn, studying him. Gilwyn stared back but could not make out Aztar’s features, except to note his beardless face, an odd thing among desert men.

  ‘You have a question,’ growled Aztar. ‘Ask it.’

  ‘I’m surprised is all,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You speak my language — I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Voruni are not stupid.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Gilwyn struggled to see Aztar’s face. ‘You hate northerners.’

  Aztar seemed to sag. ‘Vala has taught me.’

  Gilwyn barely understood his meaning. ‘The battle of Jador,’ he said. ‘We thought you died.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have waited months to speak to someone from Jador,’ said Aztar. ‘That is why my men pursued you. Not to kill you, but so I might speak to you.’

  ‘Speak to me? About what?’

  ‘I wronged Jador.’

  The confession shocked Gilwyn. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at me, Gilwyn Toms. Have you not seen yet? Do you not know how beautiful I was before Vala’s fire?’

  Gilwyn asked, ‘You think it was Vala who made the fire?’

  ‘Your leader, the little one — she commanded the fire. I know that. But only Vala could have created such a thing. It was Vala’s hand coming down from heaven. . to teach me.’ Aztar sighed, then finally stepped into the light of Gilwyn’s lamp. Instead of a handsome, confident face, Gilwyn glimpsed an ugly mask, reddened with scars and painful burns. ‘A lesson learned.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you,’ said Gilwyn. Beneath the scars and obvious confusion, there was kindness on Aztar’s face, even regret. ‘And I am grateful for you saving me.’

  ‘The rass would not have attacked you if my men had not given chase. You were theirs — and mine — to protect. Vala would have it no other way.’

  ‘Harani told me I’ve been here for twenty days,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I haven’t been out of this tent in all that time. I don’t even know where I am.’

  ‘We have kept you safe here,’ replied Aztar. ‘This is my place — my kingdom.’