Sacrifice (Book 4) (12 page)

Slowly, the trail made its precipitous turn, the sheep track they followed led along a narrow shelf that jogged southward. The path was strewn with loose rocks and provided a walking space so narrow that it required hugging the cliff face to avoid a deadly fall. As Gen expected, the company’s movements backed up as the pace slowed to a miserly crawl so the men could safely negotiate the dangerous passage. Some had already fallen off the ledge. A quick look to the rocky floor of the ravine revealed three soldiers dead on the rough shale field below. Gen turned back toward the trail, the Uyumaak finally flooding onto the ridge line behind them. Hunters scrambled after the stalled line while the Archers pulled their bows, taking aim at the fliers.

Gen glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t observed and used Trysmagic to create a bow and arrows for himself. With all the speed ingrained in him by his training with Samian, he launched an assault on the Archers opposite him to keep the arrows off the soldiers who were already pressed to keep balance. He had only taken down a handful of Archers before the Hunters rounded a boulder just behind the fleeing soldiers, dividing his attention. His piercing arrows ripped through two and three at a time, their bodies falling and tripping up the ones following.

With smooth, fluid movements, he kept the arrows singing through the air in a chorus of death, creating more in his hand as he needed them. His deadly assault turned the Archers attention on him, and he found himself forced to use Duammagic to nudge the uncannily accurate arrows away with bursts of wind. But despite his best efforts, he knew the sheer number arrows would overpower him and exhaust his magic. His resistance had allowed the last of the soldiers to push some fifty yards head, and he turned and ran down the dangerous trail after them. His training allowed him to negotiate the obstacles without the vertigo and balky movements of his companions. But the Uyumaak kept coming, the Hunters and Warriors pressing onward as the human army passed out of easy bow-shot range.

Again Gen bought time, the single file nature of the trail allowing him to hold it easily with nothing but his sword until at last the soldiers finally passed onto the southern ridge and safer footing. Muscles tiring and soaked in blood, Gen turned and sprinted ahead, the Uyumaak following cautiously. If they managed the southern ridge, they would hound the desperate army until every last man was dead. Gen turned, seeing the entire ridge trail lined with every type of Uyumaak, slowly making their way toward them.

Gen exhaled and dug deep, calling forth every last shred of Trysmagic he could muster. With nothing but a thought, he disintegrated a crack of rock across the entire bend of the sheep track. He stumbled, lightheaded, at the immense effort. Out of sheer will, he drew in the power of Duam and incanted the words to shake the rock he had just weakened. Exhausted, he collapsed in unison with the rocky shelf, the sound a thunderous roar through the ravine that shot frightened birds into the sky. The Uyumaak fell to be smashed and crushed in the avalanche of rock, a cloud of dust rising from the impact. Three Uyumaak that had pursued him the most closely escaped the calamity, but Gen’s vision swam and his limbs didn’t want to work.

A Warrior raced toward him, sword high for the killing stroke, when an arrow took him in the throat. His two companions fell in like manner, leaving everything in peace. Gen smiled as Maewen approached and bent over him, face concerned. Once convinced he was unhurt, she turned her gaze across the ridge.

“There are still a number of Uyumaak on the other side,” she said, “though only a small portion of the original force, I think. Even if they do decide to take the long way round and pursue us, we should be able to deal with them. Well done. How long are you going to be useless?”

“I don’t know,” Gen answered truthfully. “I pushed it too far.”

“It was a mighty work.”

“You can push ahead with the rest. I’ll catch up.”

She answered by sitting down by him and pulling out her knife to work on her fletching. “I’ll stay. It would be a shame for you to win such a victory for us and then be devoured by a wolf or a bear. Besides, there are a few arguments I wish to make while you are less able to reason.”

“I will watch tonight, Gen,” Maewen insisted. “You provided the victory today, and that is enough. You cannot go on without rest.” Gen, eyes heavy, nodded a reply. Embracing his sword, he reclined against the gentle slope of a bulge of white granite rising out of the ground, his cloak behind his head serving as pillow. It had taken nearly four hours for him to regain his ability to walk in a straight line and another two for them to catch up to the main body of soldiers. The army had pressed on through the early afternoon but stopped early for a chance to rest.

Maewen and Gen camped well ahead of the rest of the party, both to scout forward and to keep Gen away from those who might recognize him. Behind them on the trail, the soldiers lit fires and started a victory celebration, breaking into song for the first time in weeks. After days of terror, their enemies were finally dead or miles behind and powerless to reach them. Maewen disliked the ruckus and told Gen as much. Gen smiled at her and said nothing.

Sitting cross-legged, Maewen watched over her stubborn friend until his chest rose and fell in a regular, slow pattern, and then she rose and turned back toward the trail that ran along the edge of the Blue Canyon. Rather than walk the trail, she skirted along the edge, threading her way between fragrant boughs of spruce and pine. Moonlight slanted through the boles along the edge of the forest, providing just enough illumination for her to see with clarity in the darkness.  She drank from a gurgling spring that filled a small pool near the trail, the stars and dark trees reflecting on its surface until she dipped her hand in and scattered them. The water, borne underground from the mountains to the east, refreshed her and calmed her mind—and she needed all the peace she could muster.

As she approached the camp, singing, dancing, and shouting drowned out the sounds of wind, water, and birds and set her on edge. Humans lived short lives and possessed even shorter memories, and whatever Gen’s indifference to the noise, Maewen knew that if the revelers had her recollections, they would still be cowering, cold and silent, in the hopes they could escape notice of things they could not fathom or imagine. The victory they won today meant nothing other than immediate survival. Mikkik had far worse creations than Uyumaak and blood beetles at his disposal, and when he found out that his army was defeated, he would send those horrors to find them. He probably had already.

Maewen stayed well outside the light of the fires and the celebrating, giving sign to the sentries of her approach. The Chalaine’s camp always lay in the center of the caravan. The fine, colorful tents and camp arrangements had been left behind long ago, complicating the task of finding where the frail Queen slept, but as soon as she saw Dason standing guard over an improvised lean-to, she knew where the young woman lay. Maewen sat on a bed of pine needles just out of Dason’s notice and started her long watch as a favor to Gen.

She could just make out the Chalaine huddled in a ball and leaning against the tree trunk that formed part of her shelter. Since losing her mother, the Chalaine had fallen into even greater despondency than before, talking little, eating little, and caring nothing for soldiers, strategy, or the impressive scenery around them. While Gen’s death and the tortured appearance of her skin had started her withdrawal, the departure of her mother into the hands of Athan’s men in a ruse to save her had transformed the young woman into a hunching, bitter recluse. Lord Kildan and Ethris no longer sought her for councils or approvals of their decisions, and her role as Queen no longer meant anything to anyone, save Gen.

Dason and Ethris did their best to revive her spirits, but every day the Chalaine grew more feeble and more apathetic, and Maewen worried. Dason’s discomfort in her presence was obvious. The council had wished Lord Kildan’s oldest son to marry her to unite Tolnor and Rhugoth under one rule, but it was clear—and to his credit—that her former Protector would not force the act on her. Maewen wondered if he did this out of respect for the Chalaine’s pain or because her pitiful state dulled whatever feelings he might have had for her when she walked beautiful and vibrant.

Maewen sighed. While she cared for the girl and respected her for the pain she endured, Maewen agreed with most of the talk she heard swirling around her. The Chalaine’s part in the shaping of Ki’Hal had failed and was over. The infant that was to be God had been unmade by Mikkik, and the mighty warrior that was to save him had been killed by the same power. Forcing the Chalaine to lead or to think she had further part to play only tormented her more, and it was obvious she hadn’t the thought or wish to do anything but slink away from the world. But each time Maewen broached the topic with Gen—as she had earlier that day—he would disagree vehemently, claiming that if Mikkik still had interest in her, then she should not be cast aside and ignored. Whatever his words, Maewen suspected Gen watched over the Chalaine not from any desire to see her healed to seek some new destiny but because he cared for her.

Maewen had witnessed centuries of human passion, hate, love, hope, and despair, and Gen’s unwavering and disinterested love for the Chalaine broke through her ancient, often cynical perception of the world and touched her heart. Alrdadan Mikmir was the only other human she had known who possessed such a simple, honest will, and Gen was like him, and better in many ways. If anyone had the power to lift the fog and confusion that hung over humanity, Gen did, and from the moment of his rebirth, Maewen had resolved to push him out of the background and into plain view of the world. But he resisted all of her attempts, and Maewen would not betray him. If he cared only for the welfare of the Chalaine, then Maewen would see her cared for. She hoped that one day he would notice the plight of his people and no longer remain silent and unseen.

Unexpectedly the Chalaine rose, and, after telling Dason something Maewen could not hear, she and Dason left and walked along the trail through the camp. Maewen rose and followed at a discreet distance. Wherever the Chalaine passed, the songs and talk died out and the dances stopped as the celebrants stared at what seemed a wraith’s shadow passing by. So heavy was the power of the Chalaine’s despair that it took a great deal to prompt a return to the festive mood from the suffocating pall that lingered behind her. Maewen heard “Cursed!” roll off more than one soldier’s tongue.

The Chalaine led Dason, despite his objections, ahead of the camp and into the still, blue night. Maewen wondered at the Chalaine's purpose, trusting Dason to prevent her from doing anything rash. Maewen couldn’t fault the Chalaine for wanting to get away from others, for jubilation only tortures the lonely and despairing.

After passing the last sentries, the two of them continued on slowly for a few more minutes and stopped to sit on a long granite rock that was rooted in the ground. Their resting place commanded an expansive view of the canyon, dazzling and mysterious in the moonlight. A low fog hung over the river that roared through the gorge below, the mist threading through low-lying trees. Maewen worked to get closer to the pair, using all her skill to be silent. Getting her bearings, she calculated that Gen slept not seventy-five yards farther down the trail and was thankful the Chalaine hadn’t pressed on.

The widowed Queen sat motionless for nearly an hour, the noise from the camp behind them waning almost completely as the night deepened and grew colder. Dason fidgeted restlessly, standing abruptly from time to time to pace back and forth or to stand uneasily by her. The three moons bathed them in light, and a cool southern breeze washed the scent of campfires and pine trees over them. But Maewen knew that however tranquil the surroundings, before her was agony and struggle. Even at a distance, Maewen could sense the Chalaine’s pain. Whatever the Chalaine felt exuded from her, the dark smoke of a smoldering soul.

“Chalaine, please,” Dason, distressed, said at last. “I know you grieve for your mother, but you cannot go on like this! I can hardly bear it!”

“You are right. I cannot go on like this,” the Chalaine agreed, voice distant. Before Dason could think to reply, the Chalaine uncovered her face. Even in the poor light, Dason winced and looked away. “So, how do you find me, Dason? A proper Queen? One you shall loathe and keep hidden away. Look at me!”

Dason turned his gaze toward her with effort. “Chalaine, you know . . . you know I would have you even if you, well, even if you. . .”

“Come closer, Dason. Look at my face. Closer!”

Dason reluctantly complied. Maewen knew what would come next and rose as the Chalaine breathed on her Protector’s face. Dason collapsed in a heap over the rock, landing with an uncomfortable thud. The Chalaine immediately stood and cast aside her cloak and veil. Maewen sneaked forward as the Queen turned toward the canyon. She wore the same dress she had worn to greet Mikkik at Echo Hold. While not close to its original splendor, the Chalaine had obviously cleaned and repaired it recently. The white fabric caught the moonlight, as did her eyes, but her skin was twisted and burned. Her hair, once a brilliant blonde, fell dull, tangled, and thin around her shoulders.

Maewen approached slowly, and as she feared, the Chalaine walked purposefully to the precipice of the deep divide. The young woman turned her face to the sky, a tear reflecting the moonlight as it ran down the black whorls and warps of the skin on her face. The Chalaine cried silently for some time before steeling herself. Maewen waited just behind the rock where Dason lay unconscious, arguing within herself about what she should do and whether or not it would work to deflect the Chalaine from her purpose. But as the Chalaine turned her gaze from the heavens to the canyon floor below, Maewen thought of Gen and spoke.

“I can give you a reason to live.”

The Chalaine startled and fell backward before turning to peer into the darkness. “Who is there?” the Chalaine asked. “Just let me be!”

Maewen emerged from behind the rock and into moonlight, face sympathetic but stern. “You must come with me now, Chalaine. I have something to show you.”

“Just go, Maewen,” the Chalaine cried. “Let me be done with it. My time is over.”

Maewen walked forward casually, trying not to alarm the fallen Queen. “Listen to me, Chalaine. After seeing what I have to show you, if you still want to take your life, then I will let you. Such a practice is common among the elves, although they do it to pass on from one joy to another rather than to escape the world out of despair. But I insist that you come with me. It is not far.”

“What could you show me that could possibly make any difference? Will you do what my mother did and tell me to gaze upon the brave soldiers wounded to protect me because they believe in me? I doubt there is one man in this camp who would throw his life away for me now. If that is all you have, Maewen, then be gone.”

Maewen stooped down and forced the Chalaine to look her in the eye. “I will show you a soldier, but one who has already thrown his life away for you. Come with me.”

Maewen extended her hand, and after a moment the Chalaine, face questioning, grasped it and stood. The Chalaine’s hand felt scarred and rough, and when the half-elf took it, ash-colored skin flaked off and fell to the ground. Maewen sorrowed at this evidence of the Chalaine’s plight, wondering what it meant. She walked on the side of the trail closest to the cliff, forcing the Chalaine away from it, and held to her hand under the pretense of helping her along even though the ample moonlight along the naked edge of the cliff outlined the trail clearly, even to human vision.

“I must ask you to try to be quiet when we approach and not to speak. He is weary from the battle today, and we need to let him rest. There are other . . . complications . . . as well. This may be hard for you, but if it will help you seek life, then I am willing.”

Maewen guided her off the main path, stepping softly among the old trees, careful to lead the Chalaine over the cushion of pine needles and avoid the twigs and branches that would announce their approach. The camp lay in a small hollow just over a low protrusion of white granite, well hidden from the trail and prying eyes. As they crested, Maewen stopped the Chalaine and pointed downward. Gen lay to their left, reclined against the lee side of the rock. The moonlight exposed the profile of his face, the shallow arrow cut running across his cheek. Maewen turned and watched the Chalaine’s countenance. It was apathetic with a tinge of disappointment.

“This is the woodsman you travel with. Amos,” the Chalaine whispered flatly, turning to go. “What does he have to do with me?”

“Look more closely, Chalaine,” Maewen prompted, pulling her back around. “He has a beard and longer hair, but you know this man. Step closer if you can do it quietly. He is quite spent and should not wake if you are careful.”