Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (41 page)

The next dawn Baro continued to lead Michael’s tour of their subterranean home, telling him that they would soon finish the lower city, after which he would lead him under the upper city. Michael was beginning to find the symbols in the walls more easily, although was still struggling to interpret the horizontal and vertical lines that indicated their precise position underneath the city.
 

It was only mid-morning and Baro had been telling Michael about some of the people who lived underground. Rather than relate the tragic tales of each individual, he had been telling humorous anecdotes; many of which revolved around the attempts, sometimes comically so, of the men to woo the much smaller number of women who lived with them. Michael hadn’t laughed in a long time and felt the tension in his body slowly fall away as he slowly started to learn of the people who resided here. They had no realistic hope of ever leaving the dark tunnels; of re-joining their families in the city; of leading the sorts of lives about which they had dreamed as small children. And yet they had found a way to live here, apparently happily, despite the fears that had led them, and kept them, here.

He remembered Silha’s words: the hatred she harboured for the Guardian. She would never be able to avenge the splintering of her family that he had forced, but she had managed to build herself a new life, preventing her anger from eating at her soul.

Michael wanted to ask whether there was a woman in Baro’s life, but instead decided to risk something he hoped was less personal. “I haven’t seen any children,” he said, leaving the statement as a question in the air.

When he didn’t continue, Baro joked, “We are not celibate if that is what you ask.”

Michael laughed, quickly pushing aside the question of how a couple would find privacy when all the tunnels and rooms he had seen could have been entered by anyone at any time. “No… I just mean, well, you know. If men and women are getting together, you would expect a baby would occasionally come along.”

As soon as he said it, he remembered Silha telling him that Baro had been the only child born in the tunnels and felt a pang of guilt for having enquired about something that was really quite personal after all.
 

But Baro didn’t seem to mind as he replied, “We do not know why no children are born to us. It is something that has long occupied our minds but none has been able to learn the reason.

“It pains some,” he explained. “You will know that somehow my parents escaped the curse of barrenness in these caverns just the once. And of course I was then born with a Weaving. The others wonder whether all children born here would similarly be blessed. And, of course, it is the heart’s desire of many to cradle a child in their arms.

“However,” he finished, “we trust in Ashael’s wisdom.”

After a pause, Michael opened his mouth to speak again, to ask about Baro’s Weaving, but the man suddenly stopped, holding up his hand to command silence.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered.

Michael strained, angling his head so that his ear faced ahead, but could hear only the stony silence of the darkness; he shook his head.

Baro remained still, however, and after a few seconds, Michael began to hear a distant sound: rattling. Not the rattling of a steady rhythm, but rather an uncontrolled clanging of metal; sometimes soft and then occasionally louder.

The volume was growing, and soon Michael saw his guide’s face grow worried. “How?” he asked of no-one.

The sound continued to get louder, and Baro cried, “Run! Quickly!”

Michael could hear no fear in the man’s voice, but he had seen the worry briefly cross his brow and knew that there was danger. He followed as best he could, but Baro had to slow several times when he looked behind him to see Michael lagging. His feet were more secure on the tunnel from his time walking them, but not secure enough, and he still slipped several times.

As they rounded a corner, Baro halted abruptly, Michael falling over as he stopped to avoid crashing into him. But his companion didn’t notice, simply saying, “Impossible”.

They turned around again and darted down another tunnel. Michael was already out of breath and perspiring from both the exertion and the fear that was building within him. Baro had grown up in these caverns; they were his home. If even he was running, and struggling to avoid whatever it was in the dark tunnels, then fear seemed an appropriate response.

Again Baro stopped suddenly, and again Michael fell as he copied his leader. “Pillit!” The older man swore.

As Michael looked ahead, he could now see light and shadows making their way around the corner ahead of them. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Follow me!” Baro replied, “Quickly!” There was an authority in his voice he hadn’t heard before, and he scrambled back to his feet to follow him once more as they again turned back on themselves and tried another tunnel.

Their pursuers were gaining ground on them. Guilt again flooded him as he called, “Look, you go. I’m just slowing you down.” But Baro ignored him, turning to ensure his charge was nearby and urgently gesturing him on.

But two more turns and when they stopped this time, Michael knew they were trapped. They halted again, a river in front of them. Their pursuers were now too close for them to be able to retrace their steps. There was no point searching for the hidden entrance that would allow them to cross the water, for on the far side stood a score or more of soldiers, a full half of them with their bows already drawn.

It was mere seconds when the soldiers chasing them had entered the tunnel behind them, also quickly arranging themselves into an attacking formation.

Michael was breathless, but he remembered what Baro had done the last time he had been faced with the city’s soldiers; had seen the reality behind his confident threats against them. “Can’t you do your fire thing?” he whispered. Even speaking so quietly the silence that had now descended was deafening, and Michael worried that his words had carried.

But their attackers showed no sign of hearing him or Baro’s whispered reply, “It takes a few heartbeats. They would see. It would be too long.”

Michael felt his resistance drain again, but his adrenaline was only briefly doused as a familiar face stepped through the crowd of soldiers just beyond the water. Even from here he could see the depth of the dark eyes that returned his gaze; the tidy beard that spoke of the importance of appearances.

“You are not easily caught,” called Jashmarael, his voice loud above the sound of the raging water between them.

“Why do you want me?” Michael shouted back. “I’m nobody. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

When they had met so often in the moons before, Michael had found the Guardian’s laugh gentle and warm, but now it sounded menacing, “You have no idea, do you?”

“You killed my mother!” Michael now screamed. He tried to take a step towards the river, but Baro placed a hand on his arm, holding him where he stood.

“I would be delighted to claim such an honour,” Jashmarael now bowed in mock courtesy, “but sadly I cannot.”

“You’re a liar!”

“Yes, that is true,” he calmly replied, “but I do not lie about this. Think about it, boy. You asked for Eramica’s help, not I. I simply asked young Pava – beautiful Pava – to entertain you. Instead of accepting her generous offer, you ran, collecting Eramica on the way. It was you who ultimately placed her in front of that window. Surely you cannot blame any other. No, it was your foolishness that killed Eramica, so if there is anyone to blame…” he let the sentence trail off.

The words hurt, cutting him to the core. He had already told himself the same thing, and knew it was true.

But the Guardian wasn’t finished. “It is becoming something of a pattern with you, is it not? Think of the
Elahish
,” he pronounced the word with obvious distaste. “It was you who led the Chet’tu to them… and the demons. They died a grisly death because of you. If I remember well, I believe there was a woman you cared for?”

The grin the man now showed was one that Michael could only describe as evil. He was enjoying seeing the torment that his words were causing the boy he sought, “One of the Chet’tu will have enjoyed feasting on her. Or more likely several of the beasts; tearing the limbs from her to claim a piece each; spreading her bones between the trees for Tils and insects to enjoy.”

Michael was shaking now, anger and despair filling him in equal measure. His eyes were beginning to blur: not from tears but from fury. But still Jashmarael continued.

“And here we are again. No sooner do you arrive amongst a new people than they are about to be slaughtered. How does it feel? To be the one who brings misery and death wherever you go?”

Though his anger remained, the threat to the people who lived in the tunnels brought him back to himself a little, allowing the mist to leave his eyes.

“And what if I don’t resist?” he called. “What if I come to you willingly?”

“Michael, no,” whispered Baro. But Michael shrugged off his touch this time.

Jashmarael laughed at the offer, “What does it matter to me if you come willingly or not? You are mine now anyway.”

But after a pause, he shrugged, “But if only because it amuses me, very well. If you come willingly, I will kill only this one. He is troublesome, and I would see him dead. But the others I will permit to live, if indeed their pitiable lives can be called living.”

It was something, he knew, but it wasn’t enough. He knew that the people here depended on Baro. He had seen his Weaving keep them safe. There had to be another way; something he could do.

Slowly an idea came to him, and he nodded, as if agreeing to the terms, before turning to face Baro.

“No,” said his friend quietly. “You cannot give yourself to him. You know he lies.”

“Do you have a plan?” Michael asked. But he could see in his friend’s expression that he didn’t.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered again, now desperately hoping his words weren’t travelling through the caverns. “I have an idea.”

He knew he couldn’t save himself but wanted to save his friend. He had to try. And although there was only a slim hope of achieving it, that was better than the alternative.

“Could you do your fire thing if I distracted them?” Michael asked.

When Baro nodded cautiously, Michael continued, “Okay. Whatever happens, don’t think about me. Just do your thing. Okay?”

There was a pause, before Baro finally nodded again, placing his hand on Michael’s arm to offer encouragement.

Turning back to face the Guardian, Michael now walked towards the water. Towards Jashmarael. Towards his doom.

He stopped at the water’s edge, the turmoil in his stomach matching that of the dismayed water below him. Looking back up at the city’s ruler he spoke again, “Please will you tell me why you think I’m so important?”

Jashmarael again laughed. “You are not important, boy. You never have been. I purely wish to see you serve my ends. And for that, I have my own reasons.”

Michael looked back at him and relief flooded him when he noticed that the soldiers were now also looking at him rather than Baro. He could only pray that the men behind him were doing likewise.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, his allowed his knees to crumple as he toppled forward into the raging river. The swirling current immediately sucked him under the surface, powerful undercurrents of water rendering him helpless. Struggling to turn his body in the water, he opened his eyes just in time to make out a flash of light in the air above the river before he was swept into the darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY:
 

Alone

There may come into a man’s life a time when his travails take him beyond despair, into a world past feeling where the numbness of his soul seeks oblivion. It is at these times that his courage requires him only to take one step after another, or if even that is too much one breath after another. In the most trying of times such a step or breath may show valour greater than that of the most fearless warrior. And surely the rewards that await are worthy of the same. For when the anguish finally departs, as surely it will, the soul that endured will be stronger than the brightest steel, and his power to shape the world around him for good will know no bounds.

From the Wisdom of Ashael

***

As his watery captor dragged him from the expanse of the tunnel, any light that made its way to him was extinguished, his world becoming black. His body was pushed and pulled, limbs being sucked in different directions, occasionally striking the river’s rocky walls. Fighting against the conflicting forces, he managed to pull his body into a ball, his hands protecting his head against the rocks. He then concentrated on holding his breath.

As a child, like many children he had competed with others when their school class went to the swimming pool, to see how long they could each hold their breath under the water. Michael had won those contests, managing it for almost a full minute once. But that had been when he was a child, and he felt his chest already expanding; seeking the air it craved by another means if its hunger couldn’t be sated through Michael’s windpipe.

As his body was again thrown against a boulder lying in the underground river, he almost cried out involuntarily, just managing to catch himself before he inhaled the deadly liquid. His head began to go dizzy, and behind his closed eyes he could see the darkness of unconsciousness begin to draw near. He knew when he had made the decision to enter the river, giving Baro the chance to use his Weaving to escape, that he would likely die. But now that release from his mortality was near his body fought against it, naively believing that a sharp intake of the matter encasing him would bring life-giving air, and demanding compliance. But Michael somehow maintained his awareness; kept his body from forcing the deadly breath.

He didn’t realise he was finally about to slip into fatal unconsciousness, when suddenly the force of the water was released from around him; the powers that had been relentless against his body instantly evaporating. The surprise of the sudden weightlessness finally forced the involuntary intake of breath, but rather than inhale water as he expected, it was air.