Farmers & Mercenaries (35 page)

“I still remember the elation when my father sat me down, told me the truth of the Chi’utlan. The fervor in his voice that it ‘must be kept safe!’ Kept secret at all cost! That only our rulers and a few choice among the Circle know the truth.”
The Elmorr’Antien’s mouth twisted into a grimace.
“Yet our Chi’utlan is not the only one on Talic’Nauth. The old books say there are others. Lost now to us, yet still out there! They wait to be found—and the other races will find them! They have done so in each Cycle throughout history past. They will wield the power of the Essence once again. Become Mah’Sukai! Raining death and destruction down upon this Plane!”

Prince Aritian now paced the classroom at a rapid clip, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his points.
“How can my father and the rest of the Circle be so blind? If
we know how to seize that power for ourselves, why not do so?”
The Prince’s gaze swept the room.
“Elmorr’Antiens are the supreme race upon this Plane! All others are like insects! Not even worthy of our notice. I will not wait for these… Humans ”
—he twisted the word like a curse—
“to wield the full power of the Essence once more! I will not do nothing, as my ancestors did. I will not let the rabble of Talic’Nauth sweep across the Plane and destroy everything around us. What if
this time they do not leave our homeland alone as they have in past Cycles? I will not allow that to happen to my people! I will NOT!”

Never had Alant seen an Elmorr’Antien so animated. The zeal in the Prince’s voice sent a shiver down Alant’s spine. Glancing around the small room, he saw that the other Humans stood looking at the two Elmorr’Antiens as if nothing they said had any impact on their lives.

Visibly relaxing himself, the Prince walked to the door, placing a three-fingered hand upon the frame. He did not turn his head when he spoke.
“The time is close, Delmith. As soon as the Essence wills it, I will become the first of our kind to Meld with the Chi’utlan and wield the full power of the Essence as a Mah’Sukai. An Elmorr’Antien Mah’Sukai! Then our King and his precious Circle will see we no longer need to hide from the other races during the Age of Power. We can reach out our hands and insure peace—stability—for all. Have the whore’s son ready this eve.”

Vanria Delmith stared at the door long after the Prince had departed. When he turned, he noticed that Alant still stood by his side and flinched. “You may return to your seat now, Alant, yes?”

The cold of the Tarsith left with the Prince. Before he realized it, Alant opened his mouth to speak. At the questioning look from Vanria Delmith, he shut it with a click of his teeth.

Stupid boy! Hold you tongue. You heard nothing! Not that I understand half
of
what I did hear.

Without thinking, Alant glanced at Quiln who stood with the others.

What is it they mean to use you for?

Realizing he had not moved as he had been instructed to, Alant looked back at Vanria Delmith. Bowing to cover the shocked look upon his face, he hurried to his seat.

Vanria Delmith continued with the class, yet he never lost the questioning look he kept for Alant.

He knows I know something. Yet, how much is the question.

“H
e is dead. As we shall be if we do not leave now.” Jintrill Deln’s voice came in a soft whisper, yet Arderi Cor heard fear imbedded within.

“Nix! We will bury him.”

“That is madness! We must leave! Anything could have heard—”

Bolting to his feet, Arderi rounded on the Shaper. “NO! We will not leave until this man is buried and I have what we came for!”

Jintrill took a step back at the fury of Arderi’s words. Looking down, Arderi noticed that the Shaper had retrieved Clytus’ sword. Reaching out, he snatched if from the young Sier’s hands. He pointed past Jintrill to the tree line the two had hid in. “In the pack I carried for Master Rillion you will find the collector. If you wish to help, use it on the Drakon. I am unsure of how it works. As a Shaper, you should be able to figure it out better than I. I will tend to Master Rillion.”

Arderi knelt back next to the body and cradled Clytus’ head in his hands. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks. Never had he felt so alone, so lost. How could this man have opened his eyes to a reality that Arderi could not even dream about, dangle it in front of him like food before a starving man, and then rip it all away? He had so many questions, so much he wanted to learn.

It is not fair!

He had no idea how long he stayed there. He was aware of Sier Deln working, yet only at the fringes of his attention. When a hand squeezed him on the shoulder, he ignored it.

“We must leave! What if that creature had a mate?” Jintrill’s voice, still laced with fear, shook as he spoke.

What does he know of fear? He is a Shaper! He has a life. Respect, honor. What do I have except broken dreams?

“We have to go. Now! I have the creature’s blood in the device.” Jintrill pulled him to his feet.

Flinging up an arm, Arderi shrugged him off and shoved him away. He stalked to the cliff’s edge, crossed his arms, and stared across the snow-painted peaks that cut the azure horizon. The Shaper’s shuffling feet slid on the loose stones behind him. The crackle of falling rock sounded faint in the distance. A chill in the air enveloped him. The stench of the Drakon’s black blood still clung to his clothes, permeating his sense of smell. A thin trail of clouds, more like a bony tail, cut across the sky.

Everything moves on. What is the point in trying to succeed in anything?

Master Clytus’ words echoed in his head, and for the first time he understood how small he truly was. How momentous every action in life could be. He turned and looked down on the body of the man he had known for the briefest span of his life. The man he had grown to admire. As he did, shame rose in him and he hated himself.

Here I stand, feeling sorry for myself, and this man died to save others. To save me, save his son…

“I vow it shall be done.” Arderi directed his harsh whisper at the entire Plane. “I vow it shall be done.” A feeling of resolve washed over him. “I vow it shall be done!” His scream echoed off the far peaks, rebounding back in staggered waves—echoed off the vast canyon, repeating his assertion in the distance, as if the Nektine itself were adding its voice to his. He looked over at Jintrill who stood gaping at him. “You are correct, Sier. We must go. Help me attend him and his passage to the aftermore. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

It took everything the two young men had left to withdraw Clytus’ limp form from under the great weight of the dead Drakon. Once free of his killer, Arderi bent and cleaned the dead man’s face the best he could. They placed his body in a small, natural gully and set about collecting rocks. When they had piled the stones a little over a pace high, and Arderi felt certain that scavengers could not disturb the grave, they stepped back and surveyed their work.

An awkward silence fell. Arderi had little experience with death, and his thoughts raced back to Ralin’s funeral.

Has it really been just a few moons since then?

The two young men stood over the tomb they had constructed for the better part of a quarter aurn. “There are worse places to have as one’s final resting place. Safe travels.” Arderi bent down and scooped up the items Clytus had entrusted to him. Rising, he belted Master Rillion’s sword to his waist, then held out Master Gartin’s to the Sier. Jintrill stood with his lips pursed tightly together until Arderi nodded once, then the young Shaper took the sword and belted it on. Without passing any more words between them, they turned and headed down the thin goat trail and the direction of the old base camp.

Darkness covered the land long before the two reached the valley floor. Uncomfortable with their surroundings, coupled with the fact that neither knew how to make a fire, they decided to continue through the darkness and try to find the abandoned camp in the hopes of replenishing their supplies. The thought of walking out of a dangerous and horrifying place like the Nektine left Arderi’s mouth dry with fear, yet the thought of attempting the feat without enough provisions sounded down right suicidal.

If
we can find the camp, we can restock enough food for the walk home.

Long into the eve they tramped through the pine forest. The darkness of the enclosed valley was so oppressive that they dared not get out of reach of each other for fear of becoming separated. More times than not, they stumbled over some root or loose rock, and the close proximity of the other saved a fall that could have resulted in an injury. At one point, Jintrill offered to create a light by making one of their items glow, yet Arderi had declined as it might attract attention they needed to avoid.

Clytus’ sword, Dorochi, hung heavy at Arderi’s side. His own blade—Master Gartin’s sword—Jintrill still wore, although the Shaper looked at the weapon as if afraid it would bite him. Arderi’s back ached and he grew tired of tripping every few steps. The temperature had dropped to below frigid, making his fingers burn with pain. The hunger gnawing at his belly did nothing to improve his mood. He stopped to lean heavily against a tree. Reaching a hand out, he grabbed Jintrill by the arm. “I must rest. Besides, if we continue to wander these damnable woods one of us is bound to either break a leg… or worse.” He slid down the trunk, unable to take one more step.

Jintrill bobbed his head, mouth hanging open as he gulped in air, and plopped down next to Arderi. “I fear we may have already walked past the old camp anyway. It seems as if we have gone too far to me. I cannot catch my breath in these accursed mountains!”

“Aye.” Arderi was having a difficult time with his own breath. “Master Rillion said it had to do with the height of the ground. Though I do not understand how being high makes it harder to breath.” By the blank stare Jintrill gave, Arderi concluded that he did not have an answer either. They sat huddled against the tree trunk, the cold seeping into every pore. Once they stopped laboring for air, an idea struck Arderi. “Back home we have stones that are warm and we keep them in our pockets. They are Essence enhanced somehow and never lose their heat. Can you not do the same?”

“Aye, that is easy enough. However, it would take too long. It would be midday before I could Meld the Essence to create enough heat to warm us sufficiently. I told you before, the Essence is not some type of magic. It is slow and methodical work.”

Arderi let it drop. He was too cold to do anything about it and too tired to care. “Tell me of Mocley, then.”

“Now that I can do.” A hint of joy crept into the young Shaper’s voice. “Mocley is a grand city. I was born there. My father is a perfumer and owns a shop in the Merchantillian. He sells the finest—”

A loud dull thwack popped next to Arderi’s ear and he flinched. Jintrill slumped into Arderi’s lap as a hulking shadow jumped from the side of the tree. Instinct took over, and Arderi rolled to his side as something hard slammed into the trunk where his head had just been. The shadow let out a guttural bellow. In a panic, Arderi slid his legs out from under the Shaper and kicked the Sier’s limp body toward his attacker. The thing lunged, its foot catching on the body, and fell entangled on its first victim. Arderi scrambled to his feet and ran blindly into the forest. Twigs and branches smacked him in the face, leaving whelps of pain, and several times he fought to keep his footing. In an instant, the ground vanished from below his feet and he fell a short distance, landing in a heap. Stars burst in front of his eyes as his head struck something hard. Agony racked his entire body.

He laid there, heart slamming against his chest, straining to hear any sounds of pursuit. When the forest remained silent and he was convinced that there was no immediate danger of discovery, he tried to move. Looking around, he found that he lay in a small rocky gully.

Mayhaps a streambed.

He had only fallen a half pace or so, though he had not landed well. He tentatively moved each arm and leg, curling fingers and flexing ankles. He was sore, and knew that by the morn he would look like someone had beaten him with a stick. Still, nothing seemed broken. He pulled himself off the stones and crawled over against the small bank he had fallen from, concealing himself in its darkness. Again, he listened for any signs of life or movement.

I have to go back! Sier Deln could still be alive!

Terror gripped him. Try as he might to stand, his body would not comply. Chastising himself for a coward, he placed a hand on Dorochi. His fingers wrapped around the worn leather hilt and he slowly drew the blade. Moonlight glinted off the polished steel. He liked the way it reflected the light. Without taking his eyes from the sword, he stood. Lowering the weapon to his side, he glanced around the woods and knew what he must do.

Clambering over the bank, Arderi made his way back, careful not to make any noise in the process. He had gone only a few hundred paces when he heard the rustling of something large ambling through the forest. Following the sound, he soon saw a shambling mound of a creature making its way through the underbrush, dragging something in its wake. The creature passed through a small clearing between some trees, and a sliver of light fell across its profile. Large pointed ears jutted out over the loose hanging skin that covered much of its head. A sharp tusk protruded from the side of the thing’s jaw.

O’Arkin! And it is dragging Sier Deln!

Arderi lagged behind the beast as far as he dared so as not to lose track of it in the dense woodland. His mind raced as he tried to work out a solution to the problem. A distant horn howled off in the direction the O’Arkin traveled.

There are more! It is taking Jintrill to its camp!

Without further thought, he raced ahead, running headlong through tree branches and undergrowth, abandoning all concern for stealth. When he drew to within a few paces of the creature, it paused in its long strides, and Arderi knew he had been heard. It glanced over its shoulder just in time for Arderi to look deep into its dark, black eyes as he launched himself into the air. Hacking down with Dorochi as if it were a wood-axe, the tip of the blade slammed into the creature’s left eye socket. The force of the attack made the blade slide sharply to one side. It clove the nose and mouth in twain and plunged out of the creature’s head through its chin. A gurgle of a scream ripped from the O’Arkin as it covered its ruined face with a massive clawed hand. Arderi’s momentum carried him smashing into the beast’s chest where he stopped as sure as if he had slammed into a wall. Black goopy blood rained down on him, drenching his hair and face. Arderi gagged at the stench of it.

The O’Arkin blindly flung out a hand, and strong fingers wrapped around Arderi’s throat. Immediately, his lungs were cut off from all air and his feet left the ground. Still holding its torn face together with one hand, the creature gazed at its captive from its one, un-ruined eye—hate and malice dripped from deep within its inkiness. Arderi felt his windpipe start to collapse under the ever-tightening grip of the creature. In a mad, desperate motion, Arderi jabbed Dorochi at the O’Arkin. The sword stopped when it struck the creature’s chest, the ting of metal on metal resounded. Again, he tried to spear the creature, and again the blade did not find its mark. The forest, as dark as it was, began to fade before Arderi’s eyes. His lungs burned for air. His neck was bent so far to the side he feared it would snap any moment.

With his strength leaving him, he struck once more in desperation, hoping to force his blade into some piece of the creature’s flesh. The blade struck, yet something wrenched it from his numbing fingers. The ground rushed up and slammed into him, and his lungs greedily sucked in air. Crumbling to his knees, he gagged and coughed while rubbing his throat. His body shook from head to toe.

It did not take long to see that the O’Arkin had fallen away from him, Dorochi’s slender blade buried to its hilt in the O’Arkin’s thick neck. Scrambling over to the creature, he yanked the sword from its gruesome sheath.

With blade in hand, he crawled over to the still form of Jintrill. In the moonlight, he saw that blood covered half the young Sier’s face.

Please be alive! Please be alive!