Shackles of Light (The Mal'Ak Cycle Book 2)

by Christopher A. Nooner

  He sighed and shifted his weight. There was no rhyme or reason to the movements of the Hatak Haski. Probably because they were searching and not guarding.

  That might serve him well because they weren’t expecting any kind of intrusion. Or they were confident they could handle whatever came their way. That made him a little nervous.

  He turned east and walked slow and low through the trees until he could clearly see the back of the house. He would enter there and make his way to Kaga’s room, and then he would pray he had enough time to find the missing piece. If he could find it. The thought trailed off in his mind. He wasn’t prepared for that eventuality.

  Ammonih offered to pick them off, but Keezie suggested it might be good for now, but later they would know someone was around and would start to hunt them. They didn’t need that. Stealth was the best option. They still had to stop whoever it was from summoning more of those nightmares and figure out what the big play was.

  Eli could do it.

  His heart went numb. The man was hard to read, and tough to deal with sometimes, but Joseph wished he would show up and save the day like he habitually did. He just couldn’t get it to sink in that Eli was dead. Or Kaga for that matter.

  A twig crunched under his foot, bringing him to a halt. He stayed frozen and scoured the yard for movement targeted in his direction. He berated himself. He had to step up and own his responsibility.

  Satisfied that the snap had been unheard, he resumed his walk.

  He stopped behind a tall chestnut tree and peered around it at the Hatak Haski. It took a moment before their movements cleared from random to strategic.

  One of the Mahan’s warriors started in the yard on each side of the house near the midpoint of the dwelling and walked with measured steps in opposite directions so one faced each direction at all times.

  When they reached their respective ends of the yard they took a step away from their previous line of march farther from the house and headed back the way they had come. The only complication was occasionally one would stop and yell, “Halt,” then he would examine the ground. After a moment would stand and yell, “March!” While the one searching the ground knelt to look, the other would rotate slowly to keep watch on the yard.

  He studied four full sweeps before he noticed there was a brief blind spot he could exploit. It occurred when they reached their respective edges of the house and the warrior in the back was walking away from Joseph’s vantage point.

  If he timed it correctly he could make the back door before the soldier in the front yard cleared the house and re-obtained a visual on his line of entry.

  His egress would be a different story and might require exiting from the front.

  First things first, he thought trying to calm himself, I’ve gotta get in.

  He waited, still and quiet, until they again reached the corners of the house.

  He called on the spirits to guide his feet and left his hiding place at what he judged to be twice the speed of their measured steps, just careful enough to minimize any sound his feet may produce.

  He cursed silently as rebellious beads of sweat stung his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to rub the salty offenders from his brow and eyes, but only succeeded in spreading the burning devils further.

  This is it. This is when I die, Joseph lamented. I’ll trip and fall or run into something, like the unlucky dude in a horror movie.

  He put his eyelids on speed blink and powered on.

  He put his hand out as the back door swam into view and caught the handle.

  “Halt!” the soldier yelled from the front.

  Joseph pressed himself against the chipped paint of the worn siding and slipped inside. His heart screamed in his chest, and that terrified excitement drew his lips into a grin. He knew he should be more careful, but this was too much fun.

  To be fair, he probably was a bit crazy from all the years he had spent with Kaga.

  Joseph chuckled and turned to make his way back to Kaga’s room.

  “Ananani!” he spat as the point of a particularly large sword bit into his shoulder.

  He looked up to find the smirking face of a Hatak Haski that matched the size of the sword being pushed into his shoulder.

  The ground shook with violent intent, followed by the Ogress’ guttural displeasure.

  Eli cracked open the door and looked down the dim hallway as the Ogress pushed in. She squirmed and wiggled to enter the cramped space.

  His hopes surged. If he could make it to the end of the passageway before she pushed completely into the room he might make it through this alive; if there was enough left in him to make it happen.

  He burst from the room and lurched down the hall. He screamed silently as his body defied him once again.

  The Ogress bellowed when she caught his scent and redoubled her efforts to squeeze into the narrow space. It would be a toss-up as to who gained the advantage.

  Halfway down, Eli pulled his new weapon and prayed he wouldn’t stumble and fall on the icy blade. It would be a miracle if he could survive four or five more days.

  He was a little hazy on the actual timeline, not that it mattered. Dead was dead no matter what day it happened to be.

  The Ogress clawed and pulled her way fully through the ragged gap. Bits of stone scattered on the floor with each surge. She was almost in, and Eli was just beyond the middle of the hall.

  Fear jolted his body and gave him the burst of energy and speed he needed. He covered the remaining space as she pushed herself upright. He ducked her first swipe but couldn’t avoid the backswing. He crashed into the wall, and she cried out in pain as his new blade bit into her arm.

  He righted himself and stayed close to the wall, hoping to control the space, and her ability to swing at him with any power. He was lucky he wasn’t trapped against the other side, since that would limit his range of motion with his sword arm.

  Being so close to a hard surface did pose the risk of her smashing him against it, but it was the best he could manage.

  She advanced with caution, wary now of the sword. He could see her undersized brain work as she tried to decide how to approach. He felt like a rodent with sharp teeth, he could draw blood, but sooner or later the big bad Ogress would find a way to smash him to a gory pulp.

  Unless could make her turn. If she did, she might get stuck in the narrow hallway. Maybe he could even get behind her.

  Eli backed up slowly. He didn’t want her to spook or get claustrophobic. He just needed a little space.

  He grinned as she took the bait and followed. She had to turn sideways for her shoulders to clear the walls.

  He inched back, counting each step and each breath.

  She groped at him tentatively, her poor eyesight of no help to her in the dark. He put the tip of his blade into her large finger, which earned a vile belch of sound from his assailant.

  She jerked back and nursed her wound.

  He knew this was the best chance he was going to have.

  He lunged forward to force a reaction more than to injure her again. Her response was slow, and put him a little too close for comfort, but she pulled back just enough for him to dart by her.

  She flailed like a cartoon woman fleeing from a mouse, and a swinging hand sent him into the wall.

  His breath rushed from his lungs with a whoosh. He slid onto the floor. He shook his head. It took him a moment to regain his breath. He was behind her, but he felt nauseous and dizzy from the blow.

  He watched in horror as the monster turned, her eyes blazing with hate and death. He tried to work his legs, but they slid ineffectually on the stone floor.

  He raised his arm to fend her off and realized the sword was gone.

  He searched frantically.

  It was hard to see in the dim light, but the bright hilt caught what light there was and sparkled like a star. He whooped in relief before his elation plunged to despair.

  It was too far away.

  He closed his eyes and thr
ew his arm across his face to shield himself from as much damage as he could.

  A breeze and a roar made him flinch. When no pain followed he snapped his eyes open.

  She was stuck. Her shoulders were firmly wedged between the walls.

  Finally, some decent luck.

  “Ha!” He squeaked and scrambled to his feet. He kept his face to her as he retrieved the sword. He scooped it up and advanced.

  She struggled to free herself, the light of fear blooming in her piggy eyes, but the power of her turn had wedged her too tight.

  The terrified look in the beasts’ eyes almost turned Eli from his task, but he couldn’t have a furious monster at his back.

  She was reaching down as she turned, so her face was just above his head. He steeled himself and ran the cold blade into her eye. He pushed as far as he could to skewer her tiny brain.

  He watched ice spread over her skin, and her eyes dim as the light of life seeped away.

  He turned and limped away, feeling as if he just murdered an animal in a poacher’s trap.

  He returned through the library, the debris pile now just splinters and dust. He passed the broken doorway into the main hall and then out to the thoroughfare that led to the center of Kwanokasha.

  He paid no attention to the city as he passed, and by the time he struggled into the town square he was livid and certain he had, once again, found himself being used by someone else for their own ends.

  His anger stoked the fire of his adrenaline, and that helped him stand taller and straighter against his pain and exhaustion.

  He was composed and furious when the Dagwanoenyent roared from one of the alleyways into the street only feet in front of him.

  His frosty blade severed the giant skull in two. He didn’t slow his stride as his path took him between the falling halves of the monster. He didn’t look back to see the infernal fire in its empty sockets die nor did he notice the aftershock as the demon’s essence was carried back to the depths of Xibalba.

  He would have kicked the gates open had they not swung out at he approached.

  His eyes blazed as he bore down on the three tiny cretins. They stared, eyes bulged in disbelief and looked up and down his frame.

  “Oh my, Mal’Ak…” Tomtum greeted.

  “Where did you…?” Chukka’s voice trailed off.

  “That’s not…” Tubba muttered before a heavy hand from Chukka silenced him.

  “Take me back. Now,” Eli commanded.

  Tomtum bobbed his head up and down.

  The other two stepped aside as he stormed past.

  Tomtum hurried to catch up to him, but wisely kept his mouth shut. For once.

  The tinkle of coins behind him just made his fury grow.

  He placed his hand on the little Kwanokashins back and shoved him roughly into the lead.

  “If any of my friends are dead I’m coming back to hang every one of you little pukes from the gate,” Eli promised.

  A trickle of blood snuck past the tip of the sword and jaunted down the inside of Joseph’s underarm. It tickled as it continued its slow roll down his side.

  The old floor creaked under him. It strained to hold the weight of his transforming body.

  He grinned at the stupefied look on the other man’s face. The point of his sword slipped out of and off the granite that replaced the soft skin of Joseph’s body.

  A swift strike crushed the man’s windpipe and sunk him to his knees. The sword clattered to the floor as the man’s hands clawed helplessly at his throat.

  He grimaced at the crunch the soldier’s skull made on his second strike. It was a sound you never really became accustomed to. He hoped.

  He lowered the body quietly to the floor and moved deeper into the house, every sense alert. He had no wish to repeat the previous surprise.

  His adrenaline spiked, which made it even more difficult to move quietly, but any faster and the pressure of his increased weight might take him through the floor.

  That would be inconvenient at the very least.

  He breathed in the smell of his life. A spicy aroma with a hint of decay and paper. It calmed his racing heart and helped clear his mind. It was childhood and memories, laughter and tears. It was all he could remember life ever being. All nestled in this place he’d shared with Kaga.

  He turned sideways from habit as he traversed the collections that lined the hall. He brushed and steadied piles, knowing which were stable and which were not.

  He paused outside the door to Kaga’s bedroom. He hated that he was in a hurry. He wanted to take his time and relish the memories he found here.

  He leaned against the doorway and sighed as the wall shifted. He straightened and walked into his mentor’s private space.

  As always, he was surprised at the order and neatness of Kaga’s room. It was fundamentally different from the rest of the house.

  Kaga’s bed was made, the top of the old brown and green blanket folded back ready for him to slip inside. The dresser and nightstand were clean, free from dust or clutter, and the old shaman’s rod leaned in one corner.

  The rod had been a gift, but he couldn’t remember from whom.

  He pushed the door shut behind him and tried to determine the most likely place where Kaga would hide the totem piece.

  Would he place it in an obvious spot, or was there a hidden compartment somewhere?

  He crossed to the dresser and spilled the contents of Laura’s satchel onto the faded wood.

  If only he knew which of them were the other totem pieces.

  He concentrated, closed his eyes, and opened himself to the flow of power from Mother Earth. The Tribeless were bound to her will and, since he was the only Tribeless left, he hoped she would feel his need and grant him wisdom and discernment.

  He waited. The blackness of the space behind his shuttered lids an infinite pool of patience.

  The emptiness crept on. Joseph pushed down his feelings of anxiety and waited on the stream of revelation he hoped would be his reward.

  This had never been his forte, being a man of action and less a man of reflection, but he could focus and retreat into this disembodied state of awareness. Sometimes.

  He pushed the distraction of his self-reflection away and sat carefully on the floor before he gave himself over again to nothingness.

  Red and orange lines danced on the curtain of his lids, but he refused to notice them, and finally they too receded.

  Stray thoughts floated before him. These, he acknowledged before brushing them from his mind.

  An image spun with terrible slowness and materialized from the ether of his subconsciousness.

  It was the ammolite salamander. It spun side to side, front to back, and gave him a clear view of what it should be. He examined it as it spun.

  It was not the same as the one in his possession. Rather, it was, but there were additions. It had a silver eye with a bright turquoise pupil, and its rough belly bulged down as if it had recently eaten. He could see the belly was stone.

  Its tail was lined by short cream and brown quills, their points hidden in tiny holes.

  He noted the additions, recalling the feelings he had when he retrieved them from the corpses of the Elders, and when those feelings were etched into his memory and soul, he looked for the missing piece.

  His pushed his awareness up the tail from the quills, past the belly to the eye. It was there he realized. In the sunken space on top of the skull. A walnut half. It was glazed so that it was solid, but the visible meat inside looked like a miniature brain sliced neatly in half.

  Confusion clouded his thoughts, this was not what he was searching for. It wasn’t even close to the memory of what Kaga’s piece had been. What is going on?

  Then the shock of realization slapped him through his fog. He recognized it. He had seen it every day of his life. It hung around his neck, just above the medicine pouch that housed the energy he used to become stone clad. Kaga had given it to him after a long day of exhaustive trainin
g and failure to reach his stone clad state. The old man told him it was a symbol that each worthwhile thing had to start small and be sheltered before it could become massive and flexible enough to withstand the storms of life.

  Reverently he pulled it from his shirt and over his head. He set it beside the other pieces and swept the extra items out of the way.

  All the parts were there. All were accounted for.

  He gathered them up to place them in the satchel when an image flashed into his head.

  The image was the totem, complete and assembled.

  He scowled and opened the satchel. He had no intention of putting it together. There was no way to tell what it would do. He just had to keep the pieces safe.

  Fire jolted up his arm and the image reappeared.

  He dropped the totems and shook his hand fiercely.

  His lip curled into a snarl.

  The image flared again, but brighter.

  The dresser shook and rattled the pieces. They skittered across the wood and forced him to lunge forward to catch them before they could tumble to the floor.

  Once they were in his hand the trembling in the room stopped.

  “Fine,” he growled, and set the pieces on the dresser once more. One by one he removed the small totems from their leather bands and bindings, laying each beside the salamander.

  He had to remove the silver cap from the glass vial of Bucking Horse’s piece to get the quills. He spilled them onto the dresser. Then moved them into a pile near the tail.

  Joseph picked the salamander up and scoured the other pieces. He wasn’t sure how he was going to put it together with just one hand.

  He set it back down and picked up his walnut half. This should go last. The thought was quiet. He would have dismissed it, but it was too strong. He knew that he should listen.

  His hand moved to the eye, the meteor rock, the quills. Yes, the quiet voice confirmed.

  He nodded and picked up a quill. He braced the carving with his stump and inserted the point of the sharp spine into one of the holes at the end of one of the grooves that circled the tail.

  He had to flex the quill a bit to get the other point into the opposite end and was relieved when it snapped into place without breaking.