Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

Michael hadn’t moved – too stunned with events to react. In a daze, he glanced down at the dagger that was now held still in the air only six inches from his stomach. Berah angrily spun on his heels, but said over his shoulder, “You will pay later, traitor!”

By now, the sounds of the battle were already getting closer, a loud screech alerting everyone’s attention to their collective danger, and breaking Michael’s trance. At the noise, Erena turned her head slightly and shouted back at them, “They arrive shortly. Flee into the woods, and we will hold them!”

No sooner had she finished speaking than along with her companions, she began to loose her arrows. The archers looked skilled to Michael, effortlessly taking an arrow from their quivers: nocking, drawing and releasing the shaft in a single seamless movement. For a brief moment, Michael forgot his danger as he saw Erena, instantly realising just why Aneh was right to suggest he should fear a Bow Weaver when they had first met. Her movement was so fast that her arms seemed to shimmer with speed: the bow was upright, then horizontal, then at an angle, though Michael never saw it move – arrows flying from it at a speed he found breath-taking.
 

The spell was broken in a terrifying instant, however, as a huge black jaw suddenly appeared out of nowhere from the forest, its long fangs leading the rest of its body in a perfectly aimed leap for one of the archers. At least five arrows hit it in the half a second it took for it to reach its destination, two of those in its head. But it took a further volley from Erena through the base of its skull before it was stilled, an archer lying with her neck torn under its ugly fur.

Aneh instinctively began to rush to her aid, but Lohka grabbed her before she could get away. Arevu shouted, “Run!”

Michael could hear other beasts nearing, and he turned without thinking to heed the order. He had been standing nearest the danger, and so trailed the others, though not by much, but his entire body froze again when another of the Chet’tu appeared in front of them.
Not stupid creatures
, Michael thought, realising it had quietly circled the camp, knowing that they would seek their escape this way when their protection was too far away to help. Though it stood in front of them all, it was looking directly at Michael, its mouth open, fangs dripping their poisonous fluid.

As the others changed direction to seek escape, Michael remained stationery, his shaking body his only movement. He knew it was the best chance – the only chance – for Aneh and her mother to live. Perhaps, he thought, if it took him, the creatures would leave and the others would be safe. Sensing his determination to save his companions, the creature walked slowly towards its prey, as if savouring the anticipation of satisfying its murderous desire.
It’s their only chance. I have to die.

It was no more than five feet from him and crouched to launch, its jaws opening wide. Michael closed his eyes, waiting for the pain he knew was going to arrive…

Whoosh!

A wave of blazing air hit him. Suddenly opening his eyes, he saw a huge wall of flame had erupted in front of him. The instant heat was intense, forcing him to stumble and then fall onto his back as he sought to escape the fire. He strained to look back at the burning partition, still fearful of his attacker, but saw that the flame had caught the Chet’tu; its still body already charred. The exposed skin on his face still felt pain from the heat, although he had moved back probably twenty feet. He couldn’t see any source for the fire but determined he would worry about that later.

A quick look around revealed that his companions were now lost to him, but he tried to remember where they had run, and giving the fire a wide berth, rounded it and headed into the trees. It was quieter here, and he briefly thought that perhaps he might be safe. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness from the bright flames, however, a new sight stopped his heart.

Several pairs of eyes were glowing at him through the darkness.

He was by now too overwhelmed with the unending danger to count them, a new fear growing in his chest. He had to concentrate on his breathing to avoid hyperventilating. It wasn’t just the luminous eyes fixed on him that he found so unsettling, but the fact that they were deep red in colour.

Again he stood still, knowing he couldn’t return to the camp where by now surely more Chet’tu had arrived. One of the new creatures slowly came closer to him. It was standing on two legs and rose about four feet. Although it wore a tunic, it certainly wasn’t human: its charcoal black skin making it barely visible even as it got within a few feet of him. It would have been invisible if not for the fire that still blazed in the distance behind him. It had no hair on its head, and its nose was flat. Small flaps covered holes on the sides of its head which Michael assumed were its ears. But still its eyes were what held Michael. There were no whites there. Nothing but blood red returned his gaze, and Michael couldn’t help but think that it looked like something straight from hell.

The thing widened its mouth as it approached him, baring its black razor-sharp teeth that reflected the glow of the fire. When it came close enough to reach for him with one of its long thin arms, the sharp black fingernails moving like daggers towards him, Michael finally flinched. Deciding that a sprint into nowhere would be preferable to whatever the thing had in store for him he set off into the nearest part of the woods that looked empty.

He didn’t turn even when he heard fighting break out behind him; heard a new type of screech that must have been the hell-spawn. As the sound started to become more faint, he decided to risk a glance behind him. As he did so, his foot caught on a rock or protruding root of a tree and he fell forward, hitting the side of his face on something hard.

Crashing to the ground, he tried to roll onto his back. He lay still for what seemed like an age, wondering whether he would be safer if he stayed where he was. Perhaps lying on the ground he would be hidden, and he feared to open his eyes for what he might see. He eventually gained the courage to part his eyelids, at first not seeing anything distinct. But as his vision cleared, he could just make out the shape of a head peering over him. After a short jolt of fear, he realised that it was human and he finally relaxed.

The large shape hovering above him looked like the bulk of one of the party’s warriors. Relieved, he called, “Is that you, Devu?”

At that, something else hard cracked him on the side of his head, the relief of unconsciousness suddenly overcoming him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:
 

Fleeing Traitor

A woman’s life is full of assumptions about others. She will assign good motives to deeds she believes righteous, and evil desires to acts she considers wicked. But how little she truly understands. I have found that life’s greatest regrets have come from falsely attributing motives to deeds.

From the Wisdom of Ashael

***

He was dreaming. The sun was hot, the sweat even permeating his hair. He was jumping rather than walking and every time he landed, someone hit him over the head with a club. Jump.
Thud!
Jump.
Thud!
Jump.
Thud!

Michael wished whoever it was that was hitting him would stop. The pounding
hurt
, and there was no reason for it. Soon he stopped jumping, and just stood still, but the regular pounding continued.
Ouch! Just stop it, will you! Ouch!

Gradually his dream faded, and he remembered. He had been lying on his back – the shadow of a face had hung over him before his world had become nothingness.
 

Thud!
He had been hit on the head with something. He tried to raise his hand to feel the side of his face where he had been struck –
Thud!
– but found his hands were tied behind his back.
Thud!

The sweat on his face and in his head wasn’t coming from the sun, he realised; there was no sun.
Thud!
As he forced his eyes open, there was darkness.
Thud!
He tried to move his head.
Thud! Ouch!
Moving his head had caused a shot of pain through the top of his forehead, and he groaned out loud with the pain.

“He wakes,” spoke a deep voice from behind him, muffled through whatever was covering his head.

The thudding stopped, and he realised that no-one had been hitting him. Rather, he had been thrown across the back of an animal and was being carried. His head, covered by a sack, was hanging towards the ground on one side of the beast, and his feet the other. The steady thud had been the heavy steps of the creature, each step jolting his head and aggravating his pounding headache. Though the animal had now stopped, the pain continued to attack his skull, gravity keeping his head full of blood that thumped in time with his heart. But at least it was no longer being abetted by the heavy walking of the thing that bore him.

He heard what sounded like movement against leather, and then some shuffling of feet before a pair of strong arms grabbed his feet and pulled him from the back of the creature. He was dropped on the ground, and he couldn’t stifle another groan as his head bounced against the earth’s surface.

He lay there for a few moments before someone knelt beside him. The bag over his head loosened before it was removed, long grasses whipping against his face. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes against the light that struck them, then only gradually opened them so that his vision could adjust. In fact, it wasn’t especially bright, he soon realised. The sun was hidden by thick clouds, and it had only seemed bright because his eyes had been closed and in darkness for so many hours.

When he was finally able to focus, he saw that he was looking up at the face of a man in his late twenties or early thirties. His beard was the same straw-colour as his hair, and his green eyes were devoid of feeling. “Hmph,” he said. “Can you ride, boy?”

The question made Michael look for an animal that might carry him, and he was suddenly aware that men and animals surrounded him. Doing his best to sit up, he noticed most of the men were still astride their mounts. The ones he could see were in a circle around him and staring at him, although he caught glimpses of others beyond them. The beasts the men rode were roughly four feet tall and had wide, flat backs, forcing the riders’ legs to be slightly in front of the rest of their bodies. The creatures’ heads, too, were wide, holding dark eyes that looked alert. The animals ranged in colours containing shades of browns and greys, and Michael wondered what their semi-long hair would feel like once he finally was able to touch one with his hands.

Michael had only ever ridden Peran, his Shosa, and at the thought of her he became anxious – had she survived the battle with the Chet’tu? But his attention was returned to the man currently in front of him as his captor called him again, “Well, boy?”

Not able to speak Michael just shook his head in reply, his head hurting again as he moved it. Pursing his lips, the man kneeling over him sighed in response. “Cesir,” he called, “he rides with you.”

At hearing the command, he saw a smirk cross the faces of most of the men within his field of vision, as if some joke had been played on the man called Cesir – or perhaps the joke was on Michael – and from behind him, a low gravelly voice replied, “Very well.”

As the man who had spoken to him stood up to leave, Michael finally found his voice, “Why have you taken me? Who are you?”

His questions stopped the man, now looking very tall as he peered down at Michael. “As for who I am,” he replied, “My name is Amafar, and I am Warmaster of this Rist.

“Rather than answer your first question, however, I will ask one of my own.” A small smile briefly crossed his face, although Michael didn’t find it a friendly one, and then Amafar continued, “Would you have preferred it if we had left you with the demons?”

Michael had forgotten the evil-looking creatures, but at the Warmaster’s question an image of the things with charcoal black skin returned: sharp black teeth, long, pointed fingernails, and blood red eyes. At even the memory of it, the beat of his heart increased, and again he could only shake his head in response.

Amafar again smiled the same cold grin, “Then be grateful that we have taken you. That is all you need to know.” He was about to leave, but paused again to add, “If you try to escape, you will fail and we will club you again. The Guardian would not be happy, so do as you are told.”

As he strode away, he called to the man Cesir, “Free his hands so that he does not fall,” and then quickly climbed atop his mount.

The riders started to move out while Michael still lay on the ground, but it was only seconds before the same gravelly voice who was Cesir came from behind him, “Give me your hands.”

He turned easily and saw the man who must have been Cesir reach down and quickly cut the rope that had bound him. This warrior was older than the Warmaster – probably in his early fifties – and his dark red hair and beard were pocketed at the sides with hints of white. Michael rubbed his wrists, instinctively trying to speed the circulation of blood that had been slowed by the tight restraints. His body felt bruised, and although it had eased somewhat, his headache continued to throb, making him wish he could lie in the grass and rest. But he saw the impatience in the blue eyes of his… guard? captor? protector?... and decided to try to stand.

He felt weak and stumbled initially, but was able to walk across to the creature that Cesir indicated. Although there was a leather saddle on the animal’s back, there were no stirrups, and Cesir had to support Michael as he mounted. He grabbed the animal’s hair behind its neck to steady himself and found it wiry to the touch. It wasn’t especially pleasant, but he would need to get used to it as it appeared there were no alternatives. The warrior quickly jumped on behind Michael and grabbing the reins with one hand while his other held Michael’s waist they set off to catch the others.

The slow gallop was bumpy and didn’t help Michael’s head, but became much more comfortable when they caught up to the others, as they then slowed to a canter. Michael occasionally glanced around to try and discern the landscape, but saw nothing of interest. They were riding across gently sloping plains, the forest of the Waylet nowhere in sight. The long grasses they passed were shades of purples and browns, and there were occasional trees near and far on the horizon; all having been divested of virtually all of their leaves, exposed as they were to the winds of the open plains.