Maylin's Gate (Book 3) (53 page)

Catalin held the letter in a trembling hand and read.

Dearest Lora and Elan,

I hope this letter finds you both well. I’m writing on behalf of the southern colonies in a last ditch effort for us to reach an accord.

Despite my reasoned and well intentioned presentation a fortnight ago, I find your combined resistance disheartening. I’ve decided to lay out the facts in writing and give you both a chance to conclude the matter with an outcome agreeable to us all.

First, despite the evidence presented by Maylin’s best scientists, our own researchers have reached a contradictory conclusion. Our trusted scientists believe a new strain of heartwood, designed for earth’s unique ecosystem, grants equal protection while providing an offensive tool we can use against the ickaret. I present this as evidence that Maylin’s interests lie outside our own and we cannot allow their influence on earth’s decisions.

Her stomach swam and her legs turned to mush. She recalled the mental attack in Trace’s laboratory and her flesh crawled. The emperor had experimented on the heartwood trees. Trace built the abomination in the workshop beneath the palace.

Catalin glanced around the room before focusing again on the letter.

Second, as you both know, the final ingredient necessary to bring the orbs of power to life did not come from earth. I contend that raw element, found nowhere on this planet or on Maylin, came from Ickaret. I further contend the sample we used to construct the orbs lives in abundance on Ickaret’s surface. Imagine a world with no sickness or hunger. A world where every human holds power. We can make this a reality, but not until we’ve dealt with the ickaret.

Third, the human race is uniquely qualified to contend with the ickaret in a way not possible a dozen years ago. We hold new power. We can use the modified strain of heartwood against a race that slaughtered millions of people. A tool we can use to bring the creatures to their knees.

As a race, we stand at a crossroads. We can either stand and fight or hide behind a cover of trees that stand between us and certain annihilation.

We need to launch an offensive on Ickaret, and I need your help. I await for your arrival at the central oasis during the upcoming equinox. Please join me.

Regards,

Trace

Catalin folded the paper and returned it to the satchel.

For a full minute, the crowd held silent.

She stared at the paper as it disappeared into the satchel. Was the note real? Did the Heartwood protect earth from the insect invaders? It implied that Trace founded the Brotherhood as a means to keep the gate to Maylin closed. Trace meant to create a new grove. A forest of trees like the one in the laboratory.

“Brees,” she said in a tone intended to soothe the force of the stunning news. “I think we need to open the gate to Maylin right away.”

Brees stared ahead wearing a blank expression.

"Brees?"

Brees nodded and turned to meet her gaze. “I think you’re right.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Cured

High above the savanna, the sun broiled under a cloudless sky.

With head down, Ronan focused on his footstep's steady rhythm and the high grass lashing his waist. Seven days across the savanna and still no sign of the northern forest. At least they hadn't crossed paths with the sansan. For that, he was grateful.

Hot wind, like a blast furnace, sprayed his face.

Sweat dripped from his nose and pattered against the brown grass. How much longer could the world wait? Would he find Zeke waiting for him? How would they cross the Adris? The trip might take a lifetime on foot.

As if reading his mind, General Demos spoke breaking the monotony of travel. “We’re almost there. I can taste the forest.”

He leaned on the walking stick, unhooked a water skin hanging from his belt, and tipped it over his parched lips. The skin’s last drops of water coated his dry tongue. “I hope you’re right. I’m out of water.” He dragged a dirt-stained sleeve across his forehead and mopped away a pool of sweat. He squinted across the planes and searched for the promised tree line.

General Demos stared across the brown landscape as if transfixed. “There…,” the general said and pointed ahead.

In the distance, a line of trees hovered on the horizon like a long lost friend.

He exhaled and the weight of a mountain lifted from his shoulders. The sooner they reached the Tree of Life the sooner they could reach Maylin and the Seeker.

A sinking feeling chased away his momentary joy. Where had the sansan gone? He doubted anything in this land bypassed their notice. Had the plague decimated their tribe? The chief’s threat rang clear in his mind. They’d spent less than five days in the cursed lands. That wasn’t enough time to destroy a healthy tribe was it?

“Yes.” A smile split General Demos's face. “We’ve arrived.”

“So we have.” He wiped perspiration from his eyes.

General Demos rushed forward breezing through the tall grass like a wraith.

He leaned into his walking stick and trotted ahead eager to leave the savanna behind.

Two dozen yards ahead, General Demos froze. The general’s tongue flickered tasting the air.

His stomach dropped. Adrenaline surged lending his legs fresh strength. He ran a dozen yards ahead and stopped beside the general. He pulled in ragged breaths. “What's wrong?”

General Demos pointed over the savanna’s waist-high grass. “Below the tree line. There.”

He squinted peering across the expanse.

Heat waves danced across the horizon blending the grass and the tall pine. Movement and a flash of color melded with the heat. Another flash came near the first. Orange color and a glint of sunlight reflected off a shiny surface.

“The sansan,” he said.

General Demos nodded.

“Let's get this over with,” he said and stepped forward cutting a path through the dry grass.

“Ronan,” General Demos said from behind.

His skin prickled and he froze. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I would prefer this end without bloodshed,” General Demos said. “But, if it doesn’t, my allegiance lies with you.”

He gave the general a short nod of gratitude. If the confrontation ended with bloodshed, it would be sansan blood. He had no idea how to control the magic flows he’d discovered in the ruins, but he could kill. He knew that in his core. Memories of Devery Tyrell flashed in his mind. Death and destruction came easy for him. Was he good for anything else? “Let’s go talk to them.”

Together, the pair plodded across the grassland. Could he use his new power against a tribe of angry sansan? He hadn’t channeled the power since the confrontation with the faceless man. But, he held no doubt about his ability. Power rippled beneath his skin.

General Demos stopped. “Stand easy."

In the distance a tribe of sansan warriors sat atop horses decorated with spiked armor. They formed an imposing line beneath the forest’s towering pine. Colorful feathers decorated longbows tucked behind each warrior. Vivid designs decorated the warriors’ faces.

At their center, a sansan warrior sitting atop a massive warhorse snapped its reigns. The horse whinnied and trotted forward cutting a swath through the high grass. A second warrior, a boy, jerked the reigns of a spotted black and white warhorse equal in size to the first.

“The chief and his son?” He said without turning his head.

“Yes,” General Demos said.

“At least they haven’t attacked us outright,” he said. “Come on, let’s go meet him, but stay close.” He and General Demos walked ahead never taking their gaze from the approaching warrior.

The sansan chief paused a few yards ahead and glared from atop the warhorse. The warriors, fifty paces behind, held steady.

His heart hammered and he squeezed the walking stick in his right hand.

The chief glared tracking his movement across the last few feet separating them.

He managed a weak smile and tipped his head in recognition. “That you haven’t killed us already is a good sign.”

General Demos translated his words.

The chief glared without speaking while the chief’s son hung a few yards behind.

The chief's son sat stoop-shouldered and gazed at the ground.

“You cannot pass,” the chief said through General Demos.

He pointed toward the forest beyond. “We’ve arrived at the forest. We’ll leave you and your people alone. You’ve nothing to fear from us.

The chief’s jaw muscles clenched and anger flared behind the sansan’s eyes. “You’ve brought the sickness back from the cursed lands. Many have died in your wake. You are corrupted and we cannot allow you to make others sick.”

His stomach sank. The plague had spread. He pointed toward the forest. “Even if we brought the sickness, we won’t hurt any more sansan.”

“You will spread corruption among other tribes unknown to us. You will taint the banthers and bring sickness to their tribe.” The chief glared. “You’ve visited the cursed lands. We no longer trust you. You will not pass.”

The banthers? The tribe knew of the strange apes? Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn't the chief kill him here and now? Speaking to him would put the whole tribe at risk.

A thought struck him. The chief didn’t want to hurt them. The chief wanted a reason not to kill them. “We have cleansed the cursed lands,” he said.

The chief’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”

“You told us no one had ever returned from the cursed lands.” He gestured toward General Demos. “Yet, here we are. The land is free from taint and the soulless one is dead.”

For the first time, the boy’s gaze rose from the ground and his stomach sank.

The boy’s sunken red-rimmed eyes met his. The spark of curiosity he’d noticed in the camp had disappeared. A haunted emptiness filled the boy's eyes. A look reserved for those waiting to die.

Tongue flickering, General Demos’s gaze settled on the boy.

“If what you say is true, I need proof,” the chief said.

“Proof? How can I prove that the lands are clean?”

The chief’s head shook. “You can’t. I will send a warrior to the cursed lands. Should he return, I will let you pass."

He glanced at General Demos before returning his gaze to the chief. “We can’t wait that long. My people are dying. They need my help.”

The chief’s expression hardened. “Then I cannot let you pass.” The chief gestured and turned away.

Sixty warriors galloped forward. The warriors wailed like they did during their first night in the savanna.

His pulse accelerated and he opened his mind to the orange souls flowing around him and General Demos.

A long low hiss came from General Demos. The general's hand moved in a blur before appearing again blade drawn.

He glared at General Demos. “Put that away.” He spun in a tight circle and found sixty bows trained on him.

The boy’s ragged cough sounded from behind and his skin prickled.

He turned again and his gaze fall on the chief’s son. “How long has he been sick?”

Without meeting his gaze the chief answered. “Three days.”

He recalled Danielle’s explanation of Dimrey’s plague. The boy wouldn’t last another night. An older, stronger warrior might last five days, but not a boy. “Before you kill me, will you let me help your son?”

The chief’s jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you offer such help in our village?”

The boy’s eyes, haunted and empty, met his. “I’m not sure I can help him, but our trip to the cursed lands changed me. I might find a way.”

The chief held his gaze for several moments before nodding consent.

The warriors lowered their bows.

“Can you help him?” General Demos said in a low whisper.

Could he? Could he use his gift to help rather than hurt? He shrugged. “Do you have any other ideas?”

General Demos stepped aside and sheathed the steel blade. The general leaned in and spoke in a low whisper. “What if you accidentally harm him?”

He glanced toward the circling warriors. “It won’t matter, because we’ll both be dead anyway.”

General Demos’s expression soured. “In that case, good luck.”

He opened his mind and a glowing orange shroud appeared around the chief’s son. The boy’s thread, dimmer than the others, held a slight discoloration. “I’ll have to touch him,” he said meeting the chief’s expectant gaze. Did he? He had no idea, but touching the boy might help trigger whatever magic lay inside him.

“Leave your weapons in the grass,” the chief said.

He shot Demos a sideways glance. He untethered the knife strapped to his belt and let it slip to the matted grass beneath his feet.

As he approached, the boy shivered despite the afternoon heat. The boy’s hollow-eyed gaze drifted sideways and locked on his.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said forcing a weak smile.

The boy’s teeth chattered before nodding with an imperceptible tip of the head.