Alora

by Tamie Dearen

  “Great idea,” said Alora. “And will you bring me back a granola bar?”

  ~16~

  Markaeus quit struggling against his captor when he saw the other children. The three boys might’ve had a year or two more than him, but they were sobbing and shaking, obviously terrified. Bound with chains, Vindrake’s guards had lined them up in a row, laying them on the ground like logs waiting to be put on the fire. Of course, the Water Clan guards didn’t know Markaeus could have freed himself at any moment.

  When the woman had called out from across the river, asking him to help her corral her horses and get them to safety away from the fire, he hurried over the bridge, not noticing her bondmark until it was too late. He supposed the other boys had been captured the same way.

  On closer inspection, he found the boy lying beside him was actually a girl, but she had quite a few scabs on her shins—always a sign of a decent girl in his mind.

  “Hey. What’s your name?” Markaeus whispered, nudging her with his toe. “What’s your name?”

  Sniffing hard to stop crying, she peered at him through her thick wet lashes. In the firelight, her round gray eyes shone like silver coins.

  “I’m Kavella. Who are you? I’ve never seen you before.”

  A sharp kick in his side took his breath away. “Stop talking! Master Vindrake wants quiet.”

  “I’m only helping them calm down,” Markaeus retorted. “Vindrake’ll probably turn you into a wendt if they all keep crying like this.”

  “Indeed, I might. Perhaps you should listen to the boy’s advice, Spugen.” A flickering shadow fell across Markaeus’ face as Vindrake loomed over him. “What’s your name, boy? You look familiar.”

  His pulsed raced. Vindrake would recognize his name and he couldn’t lie to a judge.

  “My sister calls me Trouble.”

  Markaeus held his breath and noticed Spugen did the same. When Vindrake let out a rumble of laughter, Spugen joined in, wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.

  But Vindrake’s joviality was short-lived. He grabbed Spugen’s tunic, shoving him away and speaking in low urgent tones.

  Kavella’s whimpering obscured his voice.

  “Shhh,” Markaeus urged. “I need to hear this.”

  Vindrake murmured in low tones, “Finding their leader is your task, Spugen. Many have been killed in the battle and most others are fighting the fire, so we cannot delay.”

  “Where should I search? In the square?”

  “I believe you’ll find a few surviving leaders at the base of the Craedenza, but you must not step foot on that rock. Speak to them from a safe distance. Don’t dismount your horse.”

  “But what should I say, Sire? Should I tell them I’ll kill them if they don’t surrender?”

  Markaeus had a feeling this man was gifted in strength rather than wisdom, and perhaps he was missing some of his normal wisdom allowance, as well.

  “No, you imbecile! If sixty of my best warriors couldn’t kill them, why would they believe you could do it alone?”

  “Yes, Master Vindrake.” He ducked his chin as if expecting a blow.

  “Simply tell their leader I’ll return these four children, unharmed, and all I wish in return is full control of the Craedenza. In exchange for their cooperation, I won’t interfere with their daily lives in Glaenshire. When I find my particular scroll, I’ll be on my way and return the Craedenza to their control. The leaders should be receptive to that message.”

  The scroll—of course! Arista stole the scroll from Vindrake, and he wants it back.

  “Master Vindrake! Master Vindrake!” Markaeus called. “I know where your scroll is.”

  His words were truth. He knew exactly where the scroll was. In a green bag, inside the Craedenza. And not only inside the protective stone walls, but also inside the secret room Meravelle neglected to mention to Markaeus. Markaeus chose the gressor-hidden room as the perfect hiding place, reasoning the scroll needed as much protection as possible.

  But he had no intention of taking Vindrake to the scroll. No... he had a much better notion.

  **************

  What little patience Vindrake had disintegrated into ashes.

  The boy insisted the other children must be released before he would agree to lead Vindrake to the scroll. The boy wasn’t lying—he truly believed he knew the location of a manuscript that, from his description, must surely be the Maladorn Scroll. On the other hand, he was only a child, and could be mistaken.

  Reasoning that a single child could still serve as a hostage if the scroll was not the one he sought, Vindrake acquiesced. To be doubly certain the boy couldn’t escape, however, Vindrake hobbled him with a short chain cuffed between his feet.

  Chaining his feet, unfortunately, resulted in a slower trip, as the annoying urchin hobbled ahead while spewing a nonstop monologue about nothing of consequence.

  “Do you never tire of talking?” Vindrake griped.

  “Not really. My sister says I could talk to a brick wall, although I’m uncertain what that means. But I wish to be a storyteller someday. I have dreams at night, and each one seems real. Have you ever dreamed such a dream? I have. The dreams are so real I wish I might never awaken. One time—”

  “Enough about dreams.” Vindrake cut him off. “Why is your hair cut in such an odd fashion?”

  “I like it short. I don’t care to bathe often, and long hair gets dirty faster. I once knew a man who had hair down to his knees, and it was so dirty that mice had nests in it—”

  “I care not about this man’s filthy hair. Tell me about your scroll. You say you hid it? How did you come to possess the scroll?”

  “Yes, Master Vindrake. It’s a beautiful scroll with lovely lettering, although I don’t know what the words say. I can’t read.”

  “This scroll isn’t in a language you could read,” said Vindrake, not bothering to mask his irritation. “At any rate, you may not have the scroll for which I’m searching.”

  “Oh no, I’m certain this is the one you want. Kaevin says this scroll is evil... just like you, Master Vindrake.”

  Vindrake was both shocked and pleased when the boy mentioned Kaevin, realizing this was most likely the genuine scroll stolen from his trunk. But for some reason, Vindrake objected to the boy’s frank assessment and felt compelled to respond.

  “I’m not evil. I’m simply determined to fulfill my God-given destiny. I don’t allow conventions of predetermined morality to impede my goal. When I’m king of all of Tenavae, I will bring peace. Then all will know the truth and give me the praise I deserve. Do you understand the difference?”

  The boy didn’t respond at first, and Vindrake found himself unduly anxious to hear his opinion.

  “Master Vindrake, I believe you must be quite gifted in wisdom, for you speak with a great number of big words.”

  Vindrake chuckled. Of course, the boy doesn’t comprehend these complex matters.

  As they approached the river, the smoke grew thicker. But rising from the gray fog stood the white-stoned Craedenza, glowing like a beacon at the top of the hill. Clomping over the bridge, Markaeus knelt at the base.

  “Here we are. This is where I hid the bag.”

  Dropping to his knees, he groped deep into the weeds and withdrew a bag with unusual stitching. Ripping the bag open resulted in a loud rasping noise.

  “What is that sound?” Vindrake inquired, leaning over to scrutinize the strange sack.

  “It’s called Velcro,” the boy replied, offering no further explanation as he fumbled inside the bag. “Ah! Found it! Look, Master Vindrake!”

  Vindrake’s heart raced at the thought of being reunited with his precious scroll.

  He heard a strange hissing, just before wet fire engulfed his eyes.

  **************

  Arista hadn’t been gone long when Charles heard an eerie wail floating through the air and swirling around up from the valley. It sounded something like a wounded coyote. He stood up in the portal ent
rance for a better view through the wispy smoke down toward the river.

  Perhaps the fire has spread into the forest on the other side, and the animals are being chased from their homes.

  As the sound morphed to a scream of rage, Alora joined him in the doorway.

  “Is that Markaeus?”

  Alora pointed down the hill into the wispy smoke, and Charles squinted at the small dark figure moving closer at a rapid pace. The moon shone bright, causing a ghostly glow that looked like a light show in a dry ice fog during a rock concert.

  “It’s him!” Alora cried. “Someone’s chasing him. Run, Markaeus!”

  “He’s got my bag.” Relief flooded through Charles, like cool water in his veins. But it changed to fire at Alora’s next word.

  “Vindrake,” Alora breathed the name like all the air had whooshed from her lungs, as she grappled the portal opening for balance. “It’s my father! He’s chasing Markaeus.”

  “Hurry, Markaeus! Run faster!” Charles shouted.

  The boy was close, but something trailed from one foot, forcing him to run with an awkward gait. Vindrake was gaining on him, but Markaeus could make it if he hurried.

  And then it happened.

  Markaeus tripped, crying out as he tumbled to the ground. Vindrake was close. Too close.

  “I’ve got a knife! I’ll get Vindrake!” Alora yelled. “Take Markaeus and go!”

  Alora disappeared before Charles could stop her.

  Vindrake tumbled to the ground with Alora on top of him.

  Is he dead? Is she dead?

  Charles stared in disbelief as his worst nightmare unfolded before his eyes. Markaeus climbed to his feet and continued running toward the portal, a chain bouncing along the ground as it trailed behind his left leg.

  Twenty yards away, Vindrake struggled to stand, grabbing the handle of the ceramic knife and ripping it out of his shoulder. With a howl of rage, he bent down and grabbed Alora’s wrist, dragging her limp body with him as he shuffled toward the place where Markaeus had fallen.

  The place where Charles’ backpack lay waiting.

  ~17~

  A loud bang threw Alora into unwilling consciousness. Her ears rang, muffling the sound of the man’s screams like she had water in her ears.

  “My foot! My foot! Brightness! My foot!” His words dissolved into incoherent sobs.

  Alora’s head was pounding. Her eyes stung. Her stomach boiled. Attempting to move her legs made the skin on her ankles burn, raw from the heavy metal binding them. Something bit into her wrists, pinning them behind her back, and her arms ached from their awkward position. Stones gouged her skin where her face pressed into the hard ground. But her pain was nothing compared to her nausea, as saliva poured into her mouth and her stomach turned itself inside out.

  “Interesting...” Vindrake’s voice sent a shiver of dread down her spine. “It caused a hole in your boot without contact, and the boot provided no protection for your foot.”

  The ringing in her ears made his voice sound far away, but she could see him standing not far from her face. Beyond him, the tall trees stood like dark ghostly witnesses, looming around the edge of the forest clearing, illuminated by an almost full moon.

  “Yes, quite interesting. This dark magick must have come from the other realm. Perhaps this discovery will help me recover my scroll.”

  “No! No! Please!” the crying man begged.

  The gunshot silenced him.

  Alora’s stomach rebelled, spasming repeatedly, though she had nothing in her gut.

  “Ah, Alora, I see you’re awake.”

  His boot planted on the ground near her face, and dirt flew into her nose. He settled himself on the ground beside her head.

  “I’m glad to see you, Alora. Your presence has lifted my spirits considerably.”

  Alora’s head wrenched upward, pulled painfully by the roots of her hair. She cried out, and her face dropped back into the dirt.

  “Very good—you’re truly awake. Now answer me this! What is this blade you carried and how did it pierce my skin? No metal can cut me, yet your knife stabbed into my shoulder.”

  Alora grasped at a fuzzy memory of an earlier battle with Water Clan... Vindrake’s shaman Abaddon boasting that his skin was impervious to metal just before Uncle Charles killed him with a ceramic knife.

  “Answer my question!”

  Her hair pulled her face up again.

  “Ow!” she yelped. “I know nothing about your skin.”

  Smashing back into the dirt, her nose throbbed.

  “No matter! You cannot defeat me because God has delivered you into my hands, along with this magick blade and the otherworld weapon of death.”

  Unable to think of a clever retort, she let out a haughty, “Ha!”

  “You don’t believe me? Your very presence confirms my words.”

  He paused, as if she might respond. But she concentrated on breathing, trying to calm her churning stomach.

  “Hear this, Alora. Many years ago, God placed a scroll in my hands—the Maladorn Scroll. He gave me the gift to read it, an ability matched by no other. And with that scroll, He gave me the ability to acquire many gifts... to become more powerful than any other man in history. He’d already chosen me to be Water Clan leader, by my birth. But I knew, with my new powers, I was destined to be more. God chose me to unite all of Tenavae under one rule. And yet you—my daughter—have rejected my role as both your father and your king. This is unacceptable behavior. And that sin is the reason God gave you to me this very day... to punish you and to use you to regain my scroll. To assure my rightful place on the throne of Tenavae.”

  There’s no use arguing with him. He’s insane. Not that I have the strength to talk, anyway.

  “You know the scroll to which I refer?” He bent his head down to whisper in her ear, his foul breath assaulting her nose and setting off a new round of dry heaves.

  “I’ve sent a message to the archivists at the Craedenza to let them know my terms for your release. All I require is the return of my scroll.”

  Biting her lip didn’t prevent her from groaning as her brain throbbed and swelled, trying to burst through her skull. She saw him smile and knew he enjoyed her suffering.

  I won’t make another sound, no matter what. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Of course, I have no intention of keeping that bargain. In fact, it’ll be quite gratifying to take your life, though I fear you may expire before I have the opportunity.” He frowned, studying her as he stroked his chin. “Perhaps you need sustenance. I prefer you remain alive... for now.”

  He stood and walked away. A few minutes later, someone else came—a woman, by the look of her hands. She placed two clay bowls on the ground beside Alora, and left without a word. One with water, and the other with some nasty-smelling concoction that could never pass as food. Yet, after a while, her stomach growled, cramping with hunger, and she determined to eat the stuff anyway.

  Kaevin is still alive and fighting for his life, so I can’t just give up. It would kill both of us.

  It took almost ten minutes of struggling before she maneuvered her knees underneath her enough to lift her head. And the humiliation of being forced to eat like a dog wasn’t lost on her either.

  It probably has bugs in it. Thank goodness I can’t see well enough to tell in this moonlight.

  After eating, she dared to reach out with her empathy, to see what Kaevin was feeling. But his undefined mixture of pain and random emotions told her he was still unconscious.

  She lay back down, finding as comfortable a position as possible on her side, and was about to fall asleep when Vindrake returned.

  Her eyes must have widened, because he chuckled.

  “Don’t worry, Daughter. I’ve not returned to torture you. Not yet. Though I must say, your arms have healed remarkably well from our last session together.”

  Something snapped inside her, chasing away her intense fear and, evidently, her common sense. Instead, sh
e felt pure fury.

  “Why, thank you, Father. And, I hope you enjoyed the gift I sent you after our little get-together.” Her sarcastic remark referred, of course, to the dead and decaying wendt she had transported to him shortly after she and Kaevin escaped from his torture. “It was a bit stinky, but it seemed like just your style.” As an afterthought, she added, “Almost as vile and evil as you are.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Or perhaps the right thing. The backhand to her face was so hard, it felt like it broke her jaw, and a sharp, iron taste told her he’d busted her lip as well.

  His laughter rang in her ears.

  “I must admit I’m proud my daughter has such spirit, though I’m forced to put you in your place. Yes, indeed. You would make a fine wendt. Perhaps that would be a fitting end for you.”

  Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t cry or even whimper. Reminding herself of the danger, she tried to avoid the natural tendency to suppress her pain with her empathy gift. As her pain tank was still dangerously full—according to Laethan—she could easily lose control, with months of stored pain exiting at once. Knowing such an accident might kill her, the idea was tempting. Better to die at her own hand than whatever torture Vindrake had in mind. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet.

  “No need to attempt utilizing your gift, Alora, for this area is warded against transport, in addition to your iron bindings.”

  Sprawling on the ground beside her, he rolled up a blanket and tucked it under his head. He was so close, her stomach threatened to expel her gruel.

  “You’re not sleeping here, are you?” she asked, hopefully.

  “I certainly am. I won’t risk the loss of either of my gifts this night.” He patted Uncle Charles’ brown backpack, opening the top flap and sliding his hand inside.

  Maybe he’ll squeeze that trigger in his sleep and accidentally shoot himself.

  The thought brought a smile to her face, until another occurred.

  Or he might shoot me, instead.

  **************

  The next morning, voices intruded into Alora’s sleep, coaxing her awake, though she had to force her glued eyelids apart. Every part of her body ached, more from her constrained position than the hard ground, since Vindrake left her tightly bound.