Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1)

by Jeffrey Collyer

  Although the solitary window in the room faced east, the first light of dawn was just touching the sky outside, the cloudless blue of the heavens growing into a lighter shade. Joh’s chair was facing the window, and the old man didn’t move his stare from the pane as he spoke, “I am sorry. Oh, Eramica my friend of so many summers, I am so sorry.”

  “What have you done?!” Michael now shouted.

  “The soldiers will be here soon. They know of the secret tunnel, and I am afraid you will not get far,” he said, his voice flat.

  “But why?”

  “Quickly.” Eramica called, gathering the sacks they had prepared the previous night. “We must go.” Her voice was still hurt for her friend’s betrayal, but held the necessary urgency.

  “No,” Michael insisted, turning back to face the old man. “I don’t suppose another minute will make much difference, and I want to know. Why?”

  Joh’s face fell as he finally replied with a sigh, “It is for Tahla. They said they would kill her.”

  Michael paused for a moment, trying to remember the name. Finally it came to him, “Tahla, that’s your granddaughter, isn’t it. They were going to kill her? Why?”

  Taking another deep breath he replied, “You are very important to them, Michael. I do not know why.”

  He raised his face again to look out the window, “Somehow they knew you had arrived at my dwelling, and they found me. If I did not keep you here until they arrived, they said they would kill my Tahla.”

  Michael thought he could detect a shake in the old man’s voice as he was remembering the threat that had forced his action, “What choice did I have?”

  The short explanation was all they had time for, but Michael paused again despite Eramica’s urgent gestures, “So why warn us now?”

  “Because I am an old fool,” came the reply, distant sounding, as if all hope had now vanished from the man’s life.

  Michael wondered what the repercussions of his decision to warn them would be; whether the Guardian would have this man’s granddaughter killed, despite the fact that he had kept them until morning. Even though Joh had betrayed them, he felt a desire to help him somehow, “But they’ll know you warned us. What can we do? We must be able to do something. Make it look like maybe we overpowered you?”

  Joh looked up at him at the suggestion, and Michael could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I think they will still catch you in the tunnels, but perhaps it would save my Tahla.”

  Michael quickly scanned the sparse room, eventually picking up a stone plate. He was weighing it in his hands when Eramica came to him. “Go, Rami,” she said, “Joh is my friend. I will do it.”

  Though Michael was confused as to why being his friend should make his mother the right one to strike the old man, he moved obediently towards their escape.

  He waited at the side of the tunnel entrance, still able to peer through the door at his mother now hovering over Joh. They seemed to be talking in quiet whispers, as if saying their goodbyes, or apologies, or whatever else it might be when friends depart in tragic circumstances. Eventually she left his side, stepping behind the chair. As she raised the plate above his head, preparing to strike, Michael felt a tinge of relief that he would not have to give the blow; not sure whether he would have been able to.

  But the plate never hit the old man’s head. With her arm still raised, Michael heard the glass in the window shatter, saw his mother’s body stiffen. He watched, frozen in place as her fingers released the plate; heard the stone object crash against the floor.

  Suddenly released from his spell he ran towards her, as Joh leapt from his seat. Michael just reached her before her body hit the floor, carefully catching her back. Lowering her gently to the ground, he could now see the reason for her collapse, the feathers of an arrow protruding from her chest.

  He didn’t hear Joh scream; couldn’t spy the horror that was now displayed on their betrayer’s face, as the scene of his own wife’s murder all those winters before was now replayed in front of him. Michael didn’t notice the old man shaking again; the violent sobs that were tormenting his body as a reflection of his soul, as the consequences of his betrayal were made manifest before his eyes.

  No, Michael only saw his mother’s gaze. She was still alive, though even Michael with his inexperience could sense that it would not be for long. She stared at him, and if he had been able to see into her heart he would have known that she was trying to force all the love that she possessed into her gaze. They hadn’t known each other for long. After two lifetimes of searching, they had finally found each other. Their reunion had been the happiest moment of his life. But the mother’s love he had for so long craved was already being torn from him, this time everlastingly.

  Struggling with her strength, Eramica managed to lift one hand to touch Michael’s cheek. Even now through her body’s weakness, she was able to transmit tenderness in her caress.

  Michael leaned forward as she whispered, the soft sound of her voice barely carrying through the morning’s renewed stillness. “Do not grieve for me, Rami. I found you, and that is enough. You are more than I had hoped. You cannot know the pride I feel for you.”

  She coughed, blood now appearing at the corners of her mouth. Michael’s tears were now falling, mixing with those of her own that were sliding down her cheeks. He tried to hush her into silence, but using her last strength she exhaled, “How I love you, my Rami. Promise me you will live.”

  Michael fought against the hyperventilation that was threatening to overcome his body, his crying throwing itself relentlessly against his chest. But something inside him gave the realisation that making this promise was the most important thing in the world he could do, and so he forced his sobs to ease just enough. “I promise.”

  At his words, Eramica smiled. Her face displayed a peace that Michael had never before seen, and though in later summers and winters, its memory would give him strength; at this moment it was too much. As her shallow breath stopped, and her loving eyes grew vacant, Michael howled: a pain greater than any he had ever felt overcoming him. His body was racked with shaking, as he pulled the lifeless body of Eramica as close to his own as he could in a final embrace.

  And if he had been aware of his surroundings, of the sounds that were beginning to stir outside of this makeshift building, he would have heard Jashmarael laughing.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  Escape

  A promise made in love surpasses the power of other vows.

  From the Wisdom of Ashael

  ***

  Michael would never remember how long he knelt on the floor, holding Eramica close to him, but he realised too soon that Joh was shaking him, trying to get his attention.

  “You must go,” he whispered urgently. “Quickly. You promised Eramica you would live. You must go.”

  The words reminded Michael of his promise, and he reluctantly lay her back on the ground, carefully releasing her, as the old man spoke again, “They will be here any moment. You must hurry.”

  He felt numb as he moved back to the entrance to the tunnel, taking the two sacks as Joh passed them to him. He threw them over his shoulders, one on either side to balance the weight, and then took the lantern that the old man offered, though his movements were mechanical.

  When he had climbed down three rungs of the ladder, just his shoulder and head still in the small room, he looked again through the doorway. He could just see Eramica’s face, her eyes now closed and her mouth forever shaped in her dying smile. This is how he would leave her: lying cold on a dirty floor with only her betrayer as company. The guilt swept over him, but he knew he had no choice. Looking to the old man who knelt before him, he was too numb to know what expression Joh bore. He would later try to remember whether it was sorrow, shame, regret, guilt, or worry. Or perhaps it was all of them.

  As Joh looked into Michael’s eyes, he said simply, “Live. And find your mother.”

  The statement didn’t properly register, and it would
be many marks later that he would consider it. For now, he just looked at the man who had betrayed them: whose actions had lead to the death of Eramica. Something in the back of his mind refused to hate the man for what he had done, however. Though there was an anger that was beginning to grow within him, it was a fury at the world and its cruelty; at the Guardian and his servants, rather than at the pitiable figure now kneeling before him. Somehow through it all, he remembered that this man had a granddaughter whose life he had been trying to save, and that made his choice at least understandable. Without thinking, he stretched his free hand towards the only thing he could reach: a small stone cup that lay next to some rugs. And without saying a word took it. In a single swift motion, he swung it at Joh’s head, knocking the man back on to the floor. He hoped it would be enough to convince the soldiers that Joh been overpowered rather than had told Michael of his betrayal.

  He didn’t look back after that. Rather, he grabbed hold of the ladder and carefully began his descent. Halfway down he realised that he had left the door to the tunnel open, but quickly decided that it wouldn’t be worth the risk of climbing back up to close it. The soldiers would find it soon enough anyway.

  The climb felt like it took him a couple of minutes, and when his feet reached the damp ground at the bottom he glanced upwards, thinking that the tunnel entrance now looked distant. He thought he could hear some noise coming from Joh’s dwelling above, though, and soon saw the flicker of a shadow in the light above, so hurriedly started to move.

  He knew that with the light from the lantern the soldiers would find it easy to track him, but he also knew that without his lamp he would be in pitch-black darkness. He had been relying on Eramica to lead him through the tunnels. Now he was alone: a lost, scared boy. But he had neither the time nor the energy for self-pity, and he turned to the right, it seeming no worse a choice than going to the left, and ran as quickly as he could. That wasn’t fast, though; the lantern gave only enough light to see five or six feet ahead.

  He could hear the sounds of pursuit – shouts from high up – and knew that they would be descending the ladder; would shortly be able to see his light. As soon as he reached a crossroads, he turned left, quickly deciding that he would alternate between left and right turns in the hopes that it kept him going in roughly the same direction, while also turning around enough corners to hide the light he was carrying.

  But if anything, he soon had to slow his pace as the floor beneath him became more slippery. He hadn’t yet seen any underground streams or rivers, but Joh had mentioned that the tunnels had been built for them, so he wasn’t surprised that there was a moisture in the air that spread to the ground. It was distinctly unhelpful, however, as the slower pace meant that it wasn’t long before he could hear the pursuit getting closer.

  His heart raced, a new fear starting to take hold of him. He briefly considered running around the next corner and then extinguishing his lantern, hoping that sitting in the darkness would prevent them from locating him. Michael discounted that, though. He was probably leaving footprints in the earth beneath him, making him easy to track, and if they found him like that he would then have nothing to relight his lantern with. So he kept going.

  But twice more he slipped, once falling completely to the ground. He was able to avoid the lantern hitting the earth and breaking, but he had made a racket and knew that if his light hadn’t been enough for the soldiers, the sounds would be. Scrambling back to his feet, he peered behind him and could see light dancing around the last corner he had turned. Before he reached the next crossroads, he saw the first soldiers appear, one of them shouting as soon as they saw him, “There he is!”

  He now burst into a run, not caring about his footing, as he sought the next turn. It came upon him more quickly than he expected, however, and as he tried to suddenly slow so that he could make the bend, his feet slipped again. This time, his legs came right out from under him and he crashed onto his side. As he fell, he felt something whistle just over his head, and then clatter against a wall.

  They’re shooting arrows at me! They’re trying to kill me.

  The drawstrings on the sacks he was carrying had got tangled as he had fallen, so he just threw them off his shoulders as he rose again and ran. They hadn’t been especially heavy, but being less encumbered would still be of help as he tried to manoeuvre himself.

  He could just hear the sounds of rushing water ahead now, but tried to ignore them. It was impossible to be certain what direction it was coming from, its sounds echoing through the dark tunnels. He was pleased to find more turns available soon, and hoped that he may have increased his distance from his pursuers, but again as he looked behind him a soldier suddenly appeared, now much closer than before.

  His lungs were burning; his legs ready to give way. He wasn’t trained for this, while the soldiers were. It was inevitable now that they would catch him, but still he wouldn’t stop. Another arrow flew past him, then another.

  Finally he reached another corner, but he had made it only twenty feet or so down the new corridor when he slid to a stop. Part of him couldn’t believe the bad luck. Another part of him thought that he would have been caught soon enough anyway, so what did it really matter.

  It was only now that he was standing in front of it that he realised the sounds of water had grown into a roar. He had reached one of the underground watercourses, but this one was no stream. With the limited light of his lantern, he couldn’t see the far side, but racing by at a frightening speed was a river. Even with his dim light he could see the water swirling violently as it hurried its way towards the cliffs. Entering would be impossible if he wished to live.

  As he looked behind him, however, he saw a handful of soldiers enter his tunnel. When they saw him, they stopped, and Michael could see them smile: the way predators grin when they know their chase has ended and the kill is near.

  He looked at the river again: certain death. Then back at the soldiers: certain death. Well, these are great options, he thought to himself. As the realisation grew that his attempted escape was now over, the last embers of his energy fell away, and he slunk to the ground. He had promised his mother that he would live, but he had failed. Here it would end.

  After a short while, when the soldiers’ lights didn’t get any nearer and he realised that no arrows had struck him, he looked up again. He saw that they had stopped a dozen feet from him. It took a minute or two of studying them before he realised that he recognised some of them. Standing behind them, taller than the rest, was Amafar: the Warmaster of the Rist who had taken him from the forest and brought him to Aperocalsa.

  Though they had barely spoken to him as they had brought him to Aperocalsa, it still pained him to think that these men who had carried him were now laughing as they saw him trapped; that they were trying to kill him.

  He briefly also wondered whether the night they had taken him had even been a ‘rescue’. Oh, they had certainly saved him from the demons – the Nixu. But was that just luck? Had they gone there with the intention of kidnapping him, and simply found a convenient explanation? Had they somehow sent the Nixu as a distraction – were these dark beings in league with Jashmarael? It seemed the Guardian had a strange fascination with him, and had great powers of manipulation. Could he have been seeking him even then?

  As he looked at Amafar and members of his Rist, it suddenly dawned on him that they still were not moving. And as he studied their faces, he realised they weren’t looking at him. He had thought that they were – their faces were all pointed in his direction. But now he understood that they were looking past him, at something behind him.

  Turning back to face the river he saw the object of their attention. Now visible on the far side of the river, perhaps thirty or more feet away, was a small group of a dozen people. A dark-haired and bearded man of average height and build stood at the front, his arms hanging at his sides. Of the remaining, there were three or four who carried torches, while the others held bows; their arrows cock
ed, and strings drawn. They were all men, many whose eyes were filled with hatred.

  After another minute or two, Amafar broke the silence, “We are here on orders of the Guardian. You will…”

  “Ha!” came the interruption from the new group’s leader. “The Guardian does not rule here.” He paused and spat on the ground, the members of his group doing likewise as if part of some ritual, before he continued, “You were foolish to come.

  “Unlike the Guardian,” he continued, “we will however show you mercy. If you turn and leave now, we will spare you.”

  The words themselves seemed to weave tension into the air, and there was a silent pause as all stopped to consider them.

  “I have a full Rist with me,” Amafar finally replied.

  To this the dark-haired man laughed, “You may have a dozen Rists with you. In these tunnels, they would all die.”

  “The Guardian demands…”

  “The Guardian,” came the shouted reply, “can return to the dark abysses for which he has grown so fond over these last thousand winters! Remain here and you will die, no matter what the Guardian demands!”

  Amafar seemed to weigh up the warning he had been given. Michael could see nervousness in the body language of his soldiers, and wondered whether they had ever been in these tunnels: whether they feared them. But they held firm.

  The tension was now palpable in the air, and Michael knew that it wouldn’t be long before one or the other broke it with nervous violence.

  “Well?” the dark-haired man called.

  Amafar held a grim expression, eventually softening, “Very well.” He turned to leave, but as he did so, Michael thought he could just make out a strange shape made by his hands. The relaxed stances that had briefly entered the bodies of Amafar and his soldiers instantly transformed as they swung around, down to their knees and drawing their bows. Soldiers gave themselves partial cover behind each of the side tunnels.