Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (46 page)

His Nixu friend assured him that they would arrive before nightfall, and his words gave Michael an added impetus, pushing him harder. Jixi still forced him to stop to eat and drink, saying that he needed his strength. Michael disagreed, “It doesn’t matter if I collapse after I’ve arrived,” he insisted, “All I need to do is warn them.”

But it made no difference. “How do you know that is your… future?” Jixi would reply, “You must have your strength lest you fail at the last.”

And so it was late afternoon when they finally crested a hill and saw the camp below them. At least a couple of hundred tents lay spread in the distance, the soft reds and oranges that were part of their make-up now contrasting with the spring around them, and making the camp look almost unseasonal.

But his eyes didn’t last long on the camp. Something caught his eye and turning his head to the right he could see movement amongst the trees to the north. Branches were swaying across a huge area, indicating the speedy arrival of a huge force of some type.

As he followed the movement, his eyes came to a small clearing, and his heart sank as he saw Karrabesh racing through. Even from here, he could see the riders’ red shirts underneath their leathers. They would be upon them in no more than two minutes, and Michael was still at least ten minutes away.

He screamed, but even as he did so, he knew he was too far away for anyone to hear. His heart almost broke as he realised that his purpose for staying alive – the reason he had given the woman in his vision – had been wasted.

He was too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
 

Race in Time

Even when all is lost, a woman should strive. For in truth, all is never lost.

From the Wisdom of Ashael

***

Michael ran as fast as his feet would carry him. A part of him couldn’t understand why he was rushing to the camp. He had arrived too late, and even now the soldiers would be near the first tents to begin the slaughter of innocents. By the time he arrived, there would be no-one left to save, and even if the battle was still on-going when he got to the camp, his own fighting skills would be of no help.

But none of that mattered as he sped down the hillside. If he didn’t try, he knew it would only be another regret. Death today would be preferable.

He was making quicker progress than he thought, and he held a glimmer of hope that the extra speed gained by running downhill had allowed him to outpace the attackers when the first screams began to haunt the trees. The distant sound of metal striking metal also echoed through the air, causing Michael to throw every last ounce of energy into his race.

A hint of movement caught the corner of his eye, and risking a glance to his left, he saw those who were fleeing the massacre. Children too small to hold a sword, mothers carrying those not yet old enough to run, and the elderly.
So few
. The thought that he should stop and help them briefly flickered across his mind, but it didn’t linger. Something was pulling him towards the battle.

While he had never been a coward, he had also never sought physical confrontation. His whole journey in Aylosia had been one of his fleeing from one danger or another. But he would not run away now. A steely resolve hardened him for whatever lay in front of him, a determination to
act
building within him.

As the colours of the Elahish tents began to show through the forest, so too did the movement within the camp. People were running, their shouts now louder. The trees began to thin allowing him to see the fighting more clearly. Three duels were in progress in front of him, and as he stopped at the edge of the camp to look more closely, he recognised the white hair of Felar, the Healing Weaver who had tended him so many moons past.

It was quickly apparent that he was at a disadvantage. How much training with the sword he had received Michael didn’t know, but at the very least his age was counting against him, and it was obvious that the trained soldier would quickly dispatch him. But before he could run to the man’s aid, the soldier attacking him suddenly fell to a knee, shouting out in pain. An arrow had pierced his thigh, and the enforced hesitation gave the elderly defender all the time he needed as he drove the tip of his sword into the soldier’s chest.

Pulling the bloody blade from the dead man, Felar whirled around, running back towards the centre of the camp. The two other fights in the clearing ended similarly as arrows struck the soldiers, allowing the Elahish defenders to deal deadly strikes. As Michael surveyed the edge of the forest, he now saw glimpses of a handful of archers crouched behind trees. One looked in his direction and at the sight of him, she cocked her head to the side, questioning his sudden appearance.

But another sound pulled his attention in front of him again, a roar Michael instantly recognised as that of a Shosa. At the new noise, he resumed his movement, heading towards the centre of the camp. Though his skill with the sword was poor, he collected a blade from one of the dead soldiers. Samo had told him that he was fine against a stationary object, and he decided that if he came upon any of Jashmarael’s forces unawares he might be able to take one of them down, at least.

Keeping to the walls of the tents where he could avoid detection, he moved quickly, occasionally glancing between tents to see individual battles being fought. The Shosa’s growls had moved off to his left, but he now felt no compulsion to go towards it. Rather, he knew he needed to go to the centre of the camp.

Increasingly as he travelled he was stepping over the bodies of the dead. Most were men, and the majority were from the Guardian’s army, but he also saw women and two youth in their early teens.
 

Old enough to carry a sword
,
but not with sufficient strength or skill to defend against trained warriors.

Not long ago, such a sight would have clawed at Michael, reminding him that his short delay in arriving here had been the cause of their deaths. But although such claims continued to wrestle him, they were no longer sending him to despairing paralysis. Instead the scenes provided fuel for the anger that he felt towards Jashmarael, allowing him to focus his desire to either stop the evil man’s purpose or to die trying.

His veins now pulsing with purpose, he increased his pace towards the camp’s centre. Finally, he recognised the patterns on the tent of the Lora, and rounding it came to a sudden stop. The clearing in the centre of the camp wasn’t large, but there were at least thirty of Jashmarael’s soldiers here. More than half were battling Devu on the far side. Michael had never seen a Sword Weaver using his gift, and was no longer surprised that Amafar had said that one could kill twenty soldiers. Probably more, Michael thought as the warrior’s blade whistled through the air. Within the space of two heartbeats, one man fell to the ground holding his leg, blood pouring uncontrollably; another’s arm fell, the severed hand still gripping a blade dulled with blood; still another collapsed with blood oozing from his mouth and chest; and a fourth man’s head dropped to the earth.

But such an effort couldn’t be continued indefinitely. Aneh had explained that use of the Weaving required effort, and Devu would eventually tire. And for every soldier whose life was ended by the Sword Weaver, another attacker appeared.

All of this he comprehended within seconds, his eyes then moving to the only other of the Elahish who stood in the clearing. This one was a woman, and while she was no Sword Weaver, she held a blade that she was swinging to keep her attacker at bay. If Michael had been able to reflect on the scene, he would have been proud of the young woman who had managed to kill two attackers already, but at the sight of her his heart raced and his feet were stunned to stillness. Her long mousy-brown hair swung wildly behind her, and the memory of her light freckles allowed him to place them even from the twenty paces that separated them. Even the snarl that crossed her face he found beautiful, as he looked at the woman who was supposed to be dead. The woman he had finally acknowledged that he loved.

The soldier opposite Aneh was content to stand at a distance, a ring of his companions behind him, many carrying smirks. They evidently considered this duel more of a game than a contest, a fact that was reinforced when her attacker spoke.

“Put down the sword, my dear,” speaking loudly enough for his companions to hear. “You might injure yourself.”

The ripple of laughter encouraged him, “How about a deal? If you stop resisting, I shall speak to the Warlord about allowing you to live. I have always desired my own personal whore. Your feistiness would be entertaining in my tent, and perhaps I could also make a few coins allowing others the pleasure of your company.”

Aneh growled and took a step forward, swinging her blade. But the man easily sidestepped her to a chorus of cheers.

Michael could see that Devu was attempting to clear a path towards her, but though another dozen soldiers had fallen, they had quickly been replaced. The Sword Weaver’s speed was also just starting to wane, Michael thought. Despite his best efforts, he would never reach Aneh.

“Or perhaps,” called Aneh’s tormenter, “my friends and I could test you here. We could vote on whether you have pleased us sufficiently, and then determine whether to spare you.”

That prompted an even greater cheer from the circle of soldiers, and a scream from Aneh as she lunged forward swinging again. Though the soldier again easily sidestepped, she continued after him. The other men were now laughing as their colleague was dancing to void Aneh’s strikes, and Michael’s mind began to race, trying to think of something he could do.

There were too many of them, though. Even if he managed to immobilise one of them, the others would soon be upon him, and it wouldn’t do anything to save Aneh. His desperation was growing. He had thought – no, he had
known
she was dead – and yet here she stood. She was very much alive, though her virtue and life were about to be ripped from her.

But even as his thoughts were speeding uselessly from one doomed plan to another, the situation worsened. Finally bored with the game, Aneh’s attacker slipped around another of her swings, easily swinging his blade up to send her sword flying through the air. Before she could respond he placed a foot behind her, and using his upper body flung her to the ground.

“What do you say, boys?” he called, “Try her out while she still lives, or kill her first and take her while she is warm?”

The soldier looked to his companions as they shouted their replies, allowing Aneh to swivel un-noticed on the ground, swinging her leg up between the man’s legs with as much force as she could. The grin on his face vanished, and he collapsed to the ground, to another huge round of raucous laughter, but she found no relief as another of the soldiers quickly stepped closer to take the fallen soldier’s place.

“That is enough!” called someone from beyond them. Michael thought the voice sounded familiar, but couldn’t place it. The man’s authority was clear, however, as the mocking immediately ceased. “We are not yet finished here, and you are needed elsewhere. Kill her and move. Now!”

Without a second thought, the soldier who now stood over Aneh lifted his sword to strike.

***

All thoughts of the impossible fled, and Michael ran forward screaming, his desperation overcoming him. There were at least seven soldiers between him and Aneh. He would never reach her, but he didn’t care.
Death is not the end of love, but the beginning.
That is what he had been told in his vision, and he now knew that if he were to die with Aneh, somehow the truth in those words would be realised. He now understood that the woman had spoken through the fog in prophecy of this moment. She had known Aneh still lived but Michael had needed to learn that for himself, the swirling emotions the sudden revelation had provided adding to his necessary fury.

Rage, frustration, loss, regret, and love each piled strength into his arms as he swung at the first soldier, his sword easily slicing through the leather armour in his chest; the bones under his skin giving way as if they offered no more resistance than soft butter. Only the air around him sought to slow his progress. Invisible molasses coated his legs and arms, but he ignored it, pushing through the unseen barrier. Another two paces and again he swung, this time lower. Still there was no resistance as the blade sliced cleanly through the soldier’s belly, cutting the man neatly in half.

Another three steps. This warrior had begun to turn his body towards the rage that was Michael, but his movements were almost imperceptible. Although Michael was nearly halfway to Aneh, the soldier’s face was only half-turned towards him. But even the sight of a face that had only seconds before been taunting Aneh abhorred him, and Michael howled as this time his sword easily cut through the man’s neck, severing the foul smile from the rest of his body.

He didn’t wait to see the head fall to the ground, instead bringing his blade round in an arch towards the legs of his next victim, de-limbing him. The sword grew hot in his hands, the blood coating it beginning to steam. But Michael ignored it, swinging again, once more through the midriff of a soldier, then completing his second decapitation.

Only the soldier standing over Aneh remained. The strike that had begun a mere heartbeat before was more than halfway to its target, but Michael knew he would outpace the sword’s progress. His own blade now burned his hands, the blood that covered its surface bubbling with its heat, but Michael exulted in the pain. It fed the rage that had allowed him to do the impossible.

Two paces from Aneh’s would-be killer Michael leapt in the air, raising his sword above his head. Even his travel through the air was in slow motion, the sticky atmosphere giving him a feeling of weightlessness. But he was grateful for the extra time that offered him as he positioned the tip of his blade and thrust forward. It slid easily through the soldier’s leather armour, pushing all the way to the hilt as the warrior’s heart was sliced and cauterised instantly.