Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (38 page)

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 cocked, 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.

Michael instinctively threw himself to the earth, lying as close to the ground as possible, and turning his face towards the tunnel-dwellers as he did so, not wanting to see the inevitable arrow that would end his life. The missiles from the residents of the tunnels had already flown over his head, finding targets amongst the Rist, and Michael was stunned when he saw one of the archers move like the wind. His arms were a blur as arrow after arrow came flying from his bow, each one somehow loosed with delicate precision. He had only seen that once before: Erena had been her name, and he had last seen her as she was trying to defend the Elahish from a pack of Chet’tu. Could there really be a Bow Weaver down here?

A handful of arrows were making their way back over the river from the Rist, but not nearly as many, and Michael knew that the battle was terribly one-sided. Even against a full Rist, the tunnel dwellers would prevail. But his attention was soon caught on the leader, as the man closed his eyes. Raising his hands in front of him as if holding a football his concentration intensified, and Michael was stunned as he began to see a ball of glowing flame appear between the man’s hands.

Beginning as a faint glimmer, it rapidly grew into a raging inferno, the man opening his eyes and hurling it in front of him. It sailed as fast as any arrow over Michael’s head, and in a heartbeat, he heard an explosion behind him. Screams of men ablaze were heard only briefly before the rolling sounds of the conflagration entered their lungs, the gurgling of flames in their throats lasting mere seconds. Waves of heat threw themselves against him, and he found himself closing his own eyes; praying to an unknown god that if he died now that it would be painless.

But he didn’t die. The sound of the blaze died away behind him, its fuel of flesh quickly used up. The heat too soon dissipated, and when he opened his eyes, he was left with the vision of the dark-haired man and his cohort staring at him from across the water.

Carefully he sat up, but as he realised that his pursuers were now gone the events of the short day caught up with him, the adrenaline that had kept him going now fleeing his body. His mother; their betrayal; his escape; his mother; the soldiers; the arrows; his mother; his rescuers; the burning flesh; his mother. Whether it was his body or soul that broke he didn’t know, but no sooner had he raised himself into a seated position than the world began to spin around him. He collapsed back to the ground, and everything went dark.

***

It was to the smell of cooking fish that he awoke some time later. He knew it would always be dark in the tunnels so had no idea what time it was. Slowly raising himself into a sitting position, he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a circular room maybe fifty feet in diameter. Torches hung from the wall every few feet, and a pit was placed in the middle of the room from which a low fire was burning. There were several exits dotted around the room, but otherwise there was nothing of interest to note.

A handful of people were present, most ignoring him, although one light-haired woman in her late thirties approached him once she spied his movements. It was only as she came close that he realised she carried a plate that bore some of the fish whose scent he had already detected. After he had accepted her offering, she turned and left, ignoring his thanks.

He wasn’t sure whether to be happy for the time alone with his thoughts, or whether the distraction of new conversation would have been preferable. The memory of holding his mother in his arms; his final sight of her lifeless face from the tunnel entrance in Joh’s home: these were the thoughts that crowded out all others. He wanted to forget them, but felt guilty for such a wish.
 

What could I have done differently?
he wondered. Surely there could have been something that would have averted the disaster. Eventually, he remembered that he had insisted on staying for an extra few moments to ask Joh questions about his betrayal rather than making the quick escape and realised that if he had just gone with Eramica when she had first called him, it would have been different. She would still be alive. Her death was at least partially his fault.

As his emotions threatened to overcome him, he forced his mind away from his mother, thinking instead of Joh. He couldn’t say that he felt no anger towards the man: he had betrayed them, and his actions had led to his mother’s death. But Michael knew that Joh had been forced into an impossible position: choosing between a friend and his granddaughter. No, his real anger was directed towards the Guardian: the man who had seemed so kind when he first arrived here, who for moons had expressed concern for his welfare.
 

Why?
The question appeared in his mind with equal measures of confusion, anger, and despair.
It doesn’t make any sense. I’m just not that important. Why? He helped me find my mother.
Then his thoughts returned again to holding her body close to him as her life slipped away.

And so his thoughts moved in circles, occasionally remembering to take a small piece of food from the plate he had been given.

It was some time later when he noticed someone walking towards him, and he soon recognised him as the dark-haired man who had led the small group that had saved him. Pushing his despairing thoughts and questions to one side, he tried to focus on the man as he arrived; watched him sit down next to him, leaning his back against the wall.

Neither one of them spoke for a few minutes, the stranger eventually breaking the silence, “I am called Baro.”

As Michael looked at him now, he realised that Baro was probably in his forties. He briefly wondered how the man’s face could look so weathered when he lived underground, where no sun or rain broke through, but realised that his life had probably been one of hardship in these tunnels.

“Hi,” he finally answered, “My name is Michael.” When Baro raised an eyebrow, he added, “And that’s what I’m called too.”

His short elaboration seemed to satisfy his new companion, who spoke again, “I have never before known a full Rist to enter the tunnels. You must be important to them, Michael.”

The implied question again stabbed at Michael, and he sighed, “I guess so. But, honestly, I have no idea why.”

There was further silence before Baro said, “There are some who believe you are a spy from the Guardian, but I do not think so.”

Michael groaned inwardly.
Not again
.
Everywhere I go in this place, there are people who don’t trust me.
But remembering what he had seen when they had fought the soldiers a thought came to him, “Don’t you have a Sooth Weaver? They could let people know if I’m telling the truth.”

Baro’s expression changed at Michael’s suggestion, a flicker of alarm cross his face. But he quickly restored his countenance as he asked, “That is an unusual thing to propose. Tell me why you believe we might have a Sooth Weaver.”

A hint of hardness had entered the man’s voice, and Michael worried that perhaps his initial willingness to believe him had already been eroded by his mention of a Sooth Weaver. But he couldn’t possibly understand why, so decided to press ahead, “One of your archers was a Bow Weaver, wasn’t he?”
 

He thought of mentioning Baro’s own strange power with fire but decided against it as he continued, “So that means there must be people down here who have a Weaving. I don’t know how many people live in these tunnels, but if there are enough, I guess I just assumed that there might be a Sooth Weaver here too.”

“Why do you believe that Dari is a Bow Weaver?” his companion asked, his eyes still carefully studying Michael.

“Because I saw one once before,” he replied, “A while ago now, but… well she moved exactly the same way as yours.” He paused for a second as the image was replayed in his mind. “It’s like… I don’t know, everything is in a blur when they use their bow. It’s kind of beautiful… in a morbid way.”

The lines on Baro’s face had softened, his look now more one of curiosity. “You said ‘she’. The Bow Weaver you saw was a woman?”

He continued when Michael nodded, “Hmm. I would not have thought… Where did you see her?”

Michael wasn’t sure how much to say, but he had started this line of discussion, so decided to risk the truth, “I lived with the Elahish. Not for long… just a few dawns really.” His own voice had quietened as he said the words, the memory of his time with Aneh surfacing; the knowledge that it would not be repeated bringing a melancholy.

His eyes had fallen to the floor, so he couldn’t see the excitement grow in Baro’s eyes; didn’t see his breathing increase, “You lived with the Elahish… with the Wanderers?”

Again Michael just nodded, and the two of them sat in silence again. Eventually, Baro climbed to his feet, speaking as he did so, “So it is true.”

Michael was bemused by the statement but just stared at the man.