Farmers & Mercenaries (34 page)

C
lytus Rillion felt the pain seep from his body along with his life’s blood. He saw the boy slam into the Drakon, saw his sword flash in the sunlight. He had always loved how his sword shone in bright light. The beast’s neck lashed around, its shovel shaped head crashing into the boy with a punishing blow. Arderi sailed several paces to smash into the side of the rocky cliff face. His limp body slipped to the ground, landing in a heap.

Clytus saw all this… yet felt nothing. No pain, no fear. Not even concern for the boy. He floated on the edge of consciousness.

You are dying, you old fool. And you are going to let them die as well.

He pulled the hurt back into his mind. Forced the pain to seize him once more.

I will not bow out! I will not!

He focused on the pain. That was easy. When the Drakon spun to face his new attacker, it had ground him hard into the rocky outcrop with its claws, ripping open more of Clytus’ left shoulder, and releasing a torrent of new agony. The blackness threatened to take hold once more, and he saw nothing for a moment.

The pain… live in the pain!

The Drakon still stood on top of Clytus. Waiting. Studying Arderi. As it had done before it had attacked him.

Calculating its risk.

Forcing his body to obey, he moved his remaining arm. Pain sliced through him as if someone had shoved a red-hot iron into his chest.

Yes, live in the pain!

Running his hand down his leg, he felt the feathered tips of the bolts resting in the quiver strapped to his hip. He drew out a bolt and clutched it in his fist. Again, the blackness reared its head. The pain, the loss of blood—all of it stole his strength, and he felt his hand slacken.

I will pay what needs be paid!

The bolt slipped from his fingers.

L
ight seeped into the slits of Arderi Cor’s eyelids as he struggled to regain his footing, leaning hard against the rocky face of the cliff. All the breath had left him and he gasped for air. He could not believe the thing had hit him so hard with just its head.

The Drakon had snaked its long neck around, and it now studied him. Watching. Waiting. For what, he had no clue. Glancing down at Clytus laying below the beast, his heart sank. The man was dead. Arderi saw that now.

And I will soon join him.

The adrenaline that had only moments ago flowed through his veins abandoned him, and his body shook with the realization of what he now faced.

Clytus’ sword still stuck out from the shoulder of the creature. The Drakon reached up with its hindleg—like a dog scratching an itch—and flicked the blade from its resting place in its hide.

Still gasping for breath, Arderi fumbled with the hilt of Master Gartin’s sword that hung from his hip.

The beast crouched, preparing to leap, and then rose as if changing its mind. It let out its screech again and took a step toward him. Its maw opening and closing like a many-teethed vise. It took another half step. Black foam filled its mouth and started to leak from its lips.

Its salivating! I am going to be eaten alive!

Arderi raised his blade in a semblance of the stance he had learned from Master Gartin. The blade shook violently, and Arderi realized he could not move, much less fight. The Drakon took one step, swallowing the gap between them. The black saliva covered the Drakon’s entire maw and hung down in a frothy beard that dripped to the ground. Bits of it flicked into Arderi’s face as the thing let out a long, raspy breath. The stench made Arderi’s eyes water. Black eyes held him. Arderi watched as tiny slits of white appeared at the bottom of each eye—like twin slivers of the moon. The slits grew in size, and he realized that the Drakon’s eyes were rolling in their sockets. It let out a racked, wheezing screech that covered Arderi with more of the black foam that was now flowing freely from the beast’s mouth. As if some God’s hand reached out and cut the strings holding the Drakon up, the creature dropped to the ground, crashing at Arderi’s feet with a meaty thump.

Pressing against the rocks behind him, Arderi skirted around the creature and stepped to the middle of the ledge. A feathery bolt protruded out from under the Drakon’s right foreleg.

A weak racking cough pulled his attention to Clytus’ body. Limping over to the Commander, Arderi knelt down and placed his hand on the concaved breastplate.

Clytus’ eyes fluttered open and a feeble smile graced his lips. “I see…you yet live. That…is good.”

“Do not try to speak, Master Rillion.” Raising his head, Arderi looked back to the tree line. “Sier! Please come! Master Rillion needs help!”

The Shaper emerged from the shadows, took a tentative step, then cast a worried glance at the Drakon. Hurrying over to join Arderi at Clytus’ side, Jintrill immediately closed his eyes and placed his hands upon Master Rillion’s chest.

“Stop, you young fool.” The command was no more than a mere whisper soaked in blood, yet the Shaper ceased his ministrations.

“What are you doing?” Arderi could not keep the fear nor anger from his voice. “Heal him! You must, you are a Shaper!”

Shaking his head, Jintrill averted his gaze from Arderi. “He is correct. His injuries are too extensive. He will be dead long before I could begin to Meld the Essence that would save his life.”

A shuddered breath racked Clytus. “Leave us, Shaper.”

Tears flowed freely down Arderi’s cheeks. “There must be something you can do.”

Jintrill stood and placed a hand upon Arderi’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”

With blurry vision, Arderi watched helpless as the young Shaper wandered over to where the Drakon had kicked Clytus’ sword.

“Boy.” Clytus’ words were weak. “A drink of water.” Arderi pulled his waterskin from his side, cradled the man’s head in his lap, and dripped water into Clytus’ waiting mouth. Most of it ran down the side of his cheek, washing away some of the blood. The Commander nodded, a look of genuine gratitude upon his face. “You must… not let… my quest die here… My son… must not…” His eyelids slid closed and his head lolled for a moment. He seemed to be waging some type of internal war. “In my pouch… with the coin… you will find a Silrith’tar… Give it to my wife…” A surge of strength ran through Clytus and he reached up with his remaining arm and grabbed Arderi’s shoulder, pulling them closer together, his eyes wide, a look of determination on his face. “Swear you will finish what I have started! Swear to me you will not let my Sindian die!”

Under Clytus’ grip, pain laced through Arderi’s shoulder, yet he did not try to remove it. “I swear, if there is still breath in my body, I will return to Mocley and finish what you have started. I vow it shall be done.”

A thin smile touched Clytus’ lips and his head bobbled as his eyes closed. “Good.”

“Master Rillion…” Fear raced to overpower the sense of loss inside Arderi. How would he survive to fulfill his vow if this man died?

At his words, Clytus jerked like a man who had almost fallen asleep and his eyes fluttered back open. “Take my coin purse. There is enough there… to see you to Mocley…” A wet cough came from him. Flopping his head to the side, he eyed the Shaper. “Dorochi… my sword… Take that as well… Ragnor, you must take Dorochi to Ragnor…”

The grip on Arderi’s shoulder slackened and Clytus’ hand slipped off onto the hard stone ground. The Commander’s neck went limp and Arderi heard the last of the man’s breath leave his body.

T
he days rolled away and Alant Cor’s unease continued to grow. His fellow students acted as if nothing was amiss. Even when he attempted to broach the subject of what he had overheard, they denied his story. Yet, he could not get past what the Elmorr’Antien, Prince Aritian, had said that afternoon in the gardens.

What did he mean by the Chi’utlan being nearly full? Chi, in the Old tongue means ‘of
the Essence.’ Yet combined with ‘utlan—meaning pool or pond—the combination makes no sense. A pool
of
Essence? Essence is
in
things. How can there be a pool
of
something that is not tangible?

And how can Melding with this Chi’utlan create a Mah’Sukai? Whatever a Mah’Sukai is. I have not been able to locate a meaning for either word in any book on the Old tongue I brought with me from Mocley.

He tried once to ask about it. A few days after the meeting in the garden, Alant had approached his instructor, Vanria Delmith, and asked after the meaning of Mah’Sukai. He had never seen a reaction so severe from an Elmorr’Antien. The Vanria snatched him by the elbow, and a bone-biting cold bore into Alant’s flesh at the his Vanria’s touch. The strength in that thin gray arm surprised Alant as much as the cold—he still had a yellowish bruise where the three-fingered hand had gripped him. The Vanria practically dragged him into an empty room, demanding to know where he had heard the word. The Tarsith around Alant’s neck had gone frigid several times during that little episode. Each time it went cold, Alant gained a look of frustration from Vanria Delmith. Alant had made a concerted effort not to grasp the pendant under his robes and he did not think the Elmorr’Antien knew of the Tarsith. Delmith finally let Alant leave once Alant admitted to the instructor that he had found the word in a small passage of an old book back at the Chandril’elian of Mocley. Even though his instructor let Alant go, he did not seem convinced.

Since that day, Vanria Delmith has been distant in class.

“As you feel you can stare out the window, Alant, please come here and show me how this is done, yes?” Vanria Delmith’s tone shook Alant from his thoughts.

Glancing around the room, Alant realized with a start that he had no clue what the class had been discussing. “I am… uh…” The unblinking stare of the deep black eyes of the Elmorr’Antien broke no argument. Reluctantly, Alant stood and made his way to the front of the small room the Humans used for all their lessons. Bare of furniture except for the essentials—four ladder-backed chairs for him and his fellow students, and a large plush leather seat for Vanria Delmith, a wooden table sitting to the side. Glancing over to Shaith with a pleading look, his heart sank at the quirky grin that sprang to her dark-skinned face.

She knows! She knows I have no clue what they were discussing and she will do nothing to help me.

Not that he knew of any way in which the girl could help him now.

At his hesitation, Vanria Delmith waved a hand indicating for Alant to stand next to his chair. The instructor—tall, even for an Elmorr’Antien—looked Alant straight in the eyes even though he sat and Alant stood. Approaching his teacher with trepidation, Alant bowed his head in proper form. He had learned much in his short stay. “As you say, Vanria Delmith.” Shoulders slumping, Alant took the spot indicated and turned to stare back at the others.

“You may begin, Alant, yes?” Vanria Delmith’s voice carried a knowing, accusing tone that added to Alant’s anxiety.

He had paid attention at the beginning of the class—Alant pushed himself harder than his instructor did, if not so mercilessly. They started this lesson on changing the temperature of items. More specifically, the creation of cold food storage boxes. Except, once Quiln had asked one of his annoyingly redundant questions, forcing Vanria Delmith to go over items that the orphan should know by heart, Alant had tuned them out and let his mind wander. The small iron box they were using as a practice tool still rested on the small table beside the Elmorr’Antien. Alant did not think he had blanked out long enough for the class to have changed topics.

And the little box
is
still there!

Focusing his mind, the Sight of the Essence slipped upon him like a second skin. The Spectals he saw fell into place and the room took shape around him with a quickness he could never have achieved before coming to train under the Elmorr’Antiens.

Less than two moons ago, simply gaining the Sight
of
the Essence would have taken me several moments! Now it comes almost naturally. I have learned so much in such a short period.

Probing out with his mind toward the small, egg-sized iron box, Alant reached into the iron itself. Collectively gathering the Spectals that represented the temperature of the metal on the inside surfaces, he focused the pattern of what they should look like with an altered state of temperature. Concentrating on the Spectals that formed the inside walls of the box, he began his manipulations. The Spectals flashed into the pattern he willed them to be, then back to their original structure. He then flashed the configuration back and forth several more times, changing the second image slightly each time, before he decided on a final configuration.

Aye, tis correct.

Beginning the slow, meticulous process of Melding the Spectals to their final pattern, reality seemed to slow.

There is no reality for a Shaper who is Melding the Essence. Only the Meld itself.

Alant knew he would be working on the box for at least half an aurn. It was not his goal to create a full-fledged coldbox—even one the size of this small box would have taken him most, if not all, the day. He merely needed to lower the box’s internal temperature some. It was a simple enough task, one he had done on many occasions during the long periods of study the Elmorr’Antiens gave him.

Letting his mind wander, he continued with the monotonous task, and found himself once again musing over the fact that only one Elmorr’Antien, Vanria Delmith, ever taught the Human students. The school housed a half dozen or more teachers.

And Vanria Delmith spends short enough periods with us Humans as it is, even if
it is well spent. Still, I cannot complain. I am far superior now with the Essence.

Only a handful of Elmorr’Antien students were in residence as well. No more than half a score, and these seemed very young to Alant.

Vanria Delmith refers to them as younglings. Each as young as little Rik, and he has not even seen his sixth winter yet!

Thoughts of his youngest sibling brought on a pang of homesickness that threatened to break his concentration. Pushing the image away, Alant held onto the Sight of the Essence firmly until he was sure he was secure in it, then continued his manipulation of the tiny box.

Quiln is the only one who should not be here. He fails at most every task.

Alant knew it was wrong to think this. Quiln had grown up one of the unwanted children on the streets of Orlis, forced to scrounge for every meal. Still—

“It is beyond me, Delmith, why you try so hard with these Humans!”

A piercing coldness laced through Alant’s chest as the Prince’s words washed over him. Letting out a gasp at the unexpectedness of it, the Sight of the Essence slipped from him like water through a sieve. The room flooded back, its lines and angles muted compared to seeing it with the Sight of the Essence. As it left, he saw the Spectals of the box snap back to the state they were in prior to him beginning his Meld of it—all work he had done, lost.

His normal sight returned—the room seemed dull and colorless. Alant looked over his shoulder at Prince Aritian and his heart jumped to lodge itself in his throat.

Though the Prince’s face changed little from his weird, blank visage, Alant thought the Elmorr’Antien looked disgusted.

“My Prince!”

Vanria Delmith had obviously just risen to his feet, and chairs scraped across the floor as the other Human students sprang to their feet as well, hands to their sides, waiting to be addressed as was the Elmorr’Antien custom.

At a slight nod from the Prince, Alant joined the other students in their greetings and their curtsy and bows. Alant still felt the Prince wore a look of contempt as he cast his eyes over the Humans.
“They are such a pathetic race. Might as well call them Ju’nar! The boy has been here near two turns of the moon and still has not learned how to hold the Sight.”

Stretching out a long, thin finger, Vanria Delmith pointed to Alant.
“This one here promises to be the strongest Human I have yet met.”

A sneer crossed Prince Aritian’s lips.
“As may be. He still lost the Sight in the middle of his Meld. A youngling could do better! And he still seems to have no manners—eyeing me so.”

Delmith cut his large, black eyes to Alant.
“Yes. I have noticed that he reacts strangely whenever he hears our tongue. It is… curious.”

With his heart still in his throat, Alant dropped his gaze to the floor. He fought the urge to reach up and take hold of the Tarsith, and almost sighed with relief when his instructor continued.

“I had not expected you for a few more days at least, my Prince.”
It was plain that Delmith was just as uncomfortable at being taken by surprise as the rest.

“It is time, Delmith, the Chi’utlan is full to the brim.”
The Prince had a look of urgency, and kept his gaze long upon Alant.
“If
you think this Alant creature so strong, I think we should use him next.”

Use me next? Use me for what?

“I would like to instruct the boy a little longer, if
it pleases my Prince.”

“Instruct him longer?”
Prince Aritian’s voice sounded strained.
“It sounds as if
you are becoming attached to these creatures, Delmith.”

“I will admit I find their race curious, yet do not accuse me of becoming attached, my Prince, you know whom I serve!”
Alant thought that an Elmorr’Antien could not rise to anger, yet Vanria Delmith’s voice was as close as he had ever heard.
“Alas, I would request we not use the Alant boy. He is progressing nicely with each passing day.”

“Why does this matter?”
Prince Aritian paced across Alant’s field of vision as he continued to stare at the floor.
“Why would you request this?”

“I feel the longer the Humans are allowed to progress in the Essence, the more chance they will have to survive the Melding with the Chi’utlan.”

Survive the Chi’utlan? I still do not know what that is. Mayhaps this Chi’utlan is what gives the Elmorr’Antiens their power beyond those
of
the Human Shapers. Are they trying to increase our strength? I find this unlikely, considering the Prince’s disdain for us.

“Fine, then! I will use the Quiln creature. He has no family to miss him, should things go badly.”

Vanria Delmith’s head twitched as if he wanted to look over at Quiln. Instead, he bowed.
“As you say, my Prince, it shall be done.”
Vanria Delmith sounded as if he would argue, yet did not.
“Never has the Chi’utlan replenished itself so quickly. Are you anticipating success?”

As the Elmorr’Antiens continued to talk, the iciness from the Tarsith subsided. It remained cold, just not painfully so.

“I have known success was on the horizon my entire life.”
Prince Aritian crossed the small classroom and stared out into the gardens through the only window in the room.
“As a youngling, when I learned of the Chi’utlan in the caverns below the great Chandril’chi tree, I knew there was a reason. Even so young, I knew I was linked to it.”
His voice took on a far away tone.
“I could feel the pull of it, as if
the Essence itself tied me to it. You have read the stories, Delmith. You learned as I did—as all younglings must—of the last Cycle! You have read the chronicles of the coming of the Age of Power, the Age of Conquest.”

Turning, Prince Aritian’s eyes bore into Delmith’s as he walked back to where the Vanria stood, reciting as if he were reading from a book.
“‘And yet, as we Elmorr’Antiens retreated to the safety of our homeland, the other races ravaged the Plane of Talic’Nauth. Nations unto nations, led by those who could wield the Essence directly—the Mah’Sukai—to destroy cities with none other than thought. The mighty Mah’Sukai who no longer had to Meld the Essence—they bound the Essence to their will!’”

Drawing in a deep breath, the Prince waved a hand of dismissal through the air.
“Yet it never spoke of how these Mah’Sukai came upon their power. That was most frustrating to me. No matter what tombs I read, no matter who I questioned, not one of our race knew how or why the Mah’Sukai got their power—just that in each Cycle, they did.”