Shine: The Knowing Ones (40 page)

“He got what he came for,” Anvil said.

Trin watched the unrecognizable remnants of the map congealing with the mud at his feet. A sinister disturbance pulled at his senses, this time coming from outside the mine. He threw a glance at Anvil who received the same message. The two warriors ran for the exit.

Angry tears stung Sam’s eyes as she lay helpless to the oncoming intrusion. An exasperated scream rose in her throat when the door opened, but remained unspent once the intruder was inside. Sam stared. It was all she could do she was so confused.

A woman stood in the doorway, porcelain skin framed by soft blonde curls that sprawled about her shoulders and the cusp of a hooded cloak. She wasn’t Veduny, but emitted a distinct energy Sam recognized but could not place.

The woman stared back, eyes wide, terrified. Sam forced composure. “Please,” Sam finally said. “Don’t leave. Can you help me?”

The woman’s expression softened, confusion lighting her eyes. She stepped into the room.

“Please,” Sam begged again.

The woman took another step, squinting. “Вы не русская. От куда вы?”

Sam exhaled. No English.
Of course.
Why hadn’t she taken Russian instead of Spanish in seventh grade?

The woman continued forward. “Кто вы?”

Sam watched her in desperation, pulling her wrists in the shackles, hoping to snap this woman out of her confusion and into helping her escape. “Help,” Sam said, eying her restraints, tugging at them.

The woman looked to the shackles and then to Sam, fear and uncertainty in her eyes. “Ashbel?”

Sam stared in alarm.
She knew Ashbel.
Maintaining a watchful eye, Sam nodded. “Ashbel,” she replied. “Help.”

The woman’s eyes darted about the room in a panic.

Sam flipped through her limited Russian, quips she had heard in movies or even in passing from Trin. “Nyet, Ashbel,” she struggled. “Ashbel Nyet.”

The woman studied Sam a moment longer, followed by a hint of a smile. She looked over her shoulder, then rushed to Sam’s side, studying the makeshift shackles. Glancing around the room she spotted an iron poker by the fireplace. Her golden curls tumbled forward past her shoulders as she launched across the bed, grabbing it from the iron stand and hurried back to Sam, searching the continuity of the gold rings. She gingerly wedged the tip against Sam’s wrist, inching it between her skin and the metal. Sam winced as the pointed edge dug at her flesh. The woman retreated, shaking her head.

Sam’s body tensed—urgency in her eyes. “Da!” she exclaimed. The one other word she kne
w. Yes.
She didn’t care about a few cuts.

The woman studied the shackles, desperate and afraid. In a swift gesture she slashed her finger across Sam’s wrist. “Nyet!”

Frustrated, Sam tried to think of another angle. She was right. If the woman pushed any harder Sam would die anyway. Or would she? She looked back to the young woman. “Da!”

“Nyet!” The woman held firm.

Sam threw an exasperated glance to the ceiling.

A sound emanated from the staircase behind the door. Black, menacing energy seeped through the cracks in the massive wooden doorframe, rolling through the room, burrowing with a sharp sting of terror into the chambers of Sam’s heart. A thready gasp followed,
echoing through the walls of the dilapidated castle and Sam abandoned the search for Russian words. Yanking at the restraints she begged, “Please hurry!”

The woman shot a terrified look at the door.

“Come on!” Sam cried.

The woman turned and thrust the spear between Sam’s wrist and the metal, wedging it apart. Sam arched in agony as the dull edge pushed into her flesh. Anxious tears filled the woman’s eyes at Sam’s pain. A demonic wail rose and fell behind the door. A horrid sensation spreading like cold fingers reaching out in spine gripping terror compelled her to continue. Sam writhed as the iron spear tore at her skin. The woman wept openly, traumatized, unable to proceed.

“Keep going!” Sam commanded, trembling with pain—her own eyes wet with tears. A cry escaped the woman’s throat as she stabbed the spear firmly under the binding, blood oozing between the gold and the poker, and with one final push the rods parted. Sam pulled her wrist free—shaking, gasping. Her wrist fell to her lap, a significant wound bathing her gown in deep crimson.

“Извини, не хотела тебя поранить...” The woman apologized over and over, through heavy sobs.

From within the stairwell a decrepit cackle seeped through the space under the door. Sam’s eyes honed in, terror seizing her chest as the sinister chuckle morphed into a pitiful sobbing. The woman’s eyes wide with fear shifted to the entrance. Inhuman screams splintered the wooden frame—like that of a damned soul clawing its way to the earth’s surface. A stream of hysterical Russian fell from the woman’s lips as Sam focused on her wound—and Trin’s voice...

It’s communication, Sam. Will it.
A lustrous glow filled her eyes. The ragged torn flesh covered in arterial blood fused, the crimson vanishing...and the wound disappeared.

The young woman stared, unable to move or speak. Sam, too gaped in awe. The door knob twitched, jiggled and rolled in smooth motion to the left. Sam grabbed the iron poker from the woman’s hands, wedged the tip between the golden tubing at her other wrist, and pushed up against the bedpost. Working to free herself at an impossible angle, she begged the woman, “Help me!”

The woman blinked, jerking her head up. She grabbed the iron poker, thrust it upward and Sam’s hand fell free—a fresh wound desecrating her wrist. The feral sounds continued at the door. With intense
focus, Sam healed the cut and scanned the small room, wondering how they would ever escape. A hand grabbed her arm, yanking her across the room. She turned to find the young woman dragging her to the corner.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

T
rin and Anvil reached the lift, flew into the car, and sent it up. As it ascended the disturbance increased. The car reached the top and Trin threw the door open, racing for the exit. The screams, the pain, the unspeakable horror could be heard long before reaching the mine entrance. Intense heat bathed it in crimson energy. The two warriors exchanged a horrified glance and raced to the door. Trin took position, and with a thunderous roar kicked it. Thick smoke rushed inward, billowing up through hot flames lapping at the edges of the door frame. Trin threw up his forearms, blocking the smoke from his face and pushed through it with Anvil at his back—the ear-splitting screams now right below them. They passed the threshold, clearing through concentrated smoke and stopped, gaping in horror at the scene below.

Charred earth replaced snow and ice—the mountainside ablaze with flames as high as the towering forest. Explosive heat pushed in from everywhere suffocating the environment—burning trees, burning foliage...and burning men.

Soldiers stumbled about in every direction. Some screaming in guttural agony as fire consumed them, some beyond screams—staggering in macabre silence, falling to the earth to burn like kindling.

Trin and Anvil lurched into the chaos. Trin grabbed the first soldier in his path, pulling him up. He reeled as charred flesh slipped from the man’s arm into his hand.

With determined resolve Trin laid him against the blackened ground firmly placing both hands to his chest. His irises erupted with
light, gold energy pushing out from beneath his palms. The man’s body flooded in electric white—cells rejuvenating and reestablishing blood flow. Within moments the soldier, charred and burned beyond recognition, was healed; no injuries, not a hair out of place, not one ounce of evidence he had been anywhere near flames.

The stunned soldier sat forward with Trin’s help—unable to speak, trembling in shock. He gaped wild eyed into the mayhem, and couldn’t respond when a regal blonde young man built like Hercules screamed Russian orders into his face. “Get to the top of the hill behind me!
Now! Go!”

The soldier was too stunned to obey. A shove from the large young man finally sent him in motion. He scrambled to his feet stumbling up the hill amidst carnage and death. Another stunned soldier scrambled up the hill away from the flames, healed by Anvil—in shock, but in perfect physical condition.

One by one, from underneath the smoke, ash, and screams a bewildered, fully healed Russian soldier would appear, running for the same hill.

After the last dying soldier was healed, muted thunder rumbled above the clouds of black smoke that now covered the night sky. Within seconds a torrent of rain descended from the heavens, saturating the scorched and burning forests below where two magnificent young men stood unharmed amidst the earthen carnage.

The glorious blonde gazed upward, commanding the skies, crystal eyes gleaming like blue fire. The powerful monsoon continued until every flame was out. Not a single swirl of smoke could be seen.

Trin released the skies as Anvil stood silent and drenched at his side. Turning to face the hill of astonished soldiers Trin smoldered in rage—droplets of water streaming down his masculine face. He formed a message.
This was a distraction.

Yes,
Anvil replied.

Trin pushed a firm hand through wet bands of sun-streaked hair, clearing his face and eyes
...And we are utterly exposed.

Anvil held Trin in a somber gaze. An entire Russian platoon had just witnessed several miracles—miracles Trin and Anvil couldn’t run from. Miracles Ashbel had known they would have no choice but to perform. An audience of soldiers stood shell-shocked at the top of the hill. Awe, confusion, and fear singed the environment around them.

After several moments, a soldier in front came forward, a forced movement—hesitancy in his eyes. “Are you flesh?”

Neither Trin nor Anvil spoke. Of all the diversions Ashbel could have created this was by far his most damaging.

“We are,” Trin finally replied. A young soldier stepped forward. “I told you,” he said. “I told you the legend was real.”

The soldier began pushing his way to the front looking directly at Trin and Anvil. “The Veduny exist...and you are they.”

Anvil watched him through dripping wisps of black hair, emerald gaze shining. “How do you know of the Veduny?”

Excitement ignited the man’s eyes. “My great-grandmother,” the man said. “She told me and my brother stories of a people high in the mountains...miracle workers, she called them...transported here through giant stone guardians.” He gazed at his healed hands and body. He looked to the others who had been saved. “This is a miracle,” he said. He looked to the sky, trembling. “The fire,” he said. “It came out of nowhere. We were camped here...and suddenly everything went up in flames. We didn’t see what caused it.”

Anvil stared at the man; his jaw tight, desperately trying to read what had sparked their search. Trin, too, worked to uncover the reason for the soldiers’ presence. Locating the platoon leader, he asked “Why are you here with your men?”

The man hesitated to answer. Trin pulled the information from his aura, stunned by what he found.

“We are here on watch,” the leader said, fighting to remain calm. “There have been reports of unexplained activity in this area.”

Trin watched him. Beneath his composed façade, the soldier was terrified.

Anvil stepped in. “We will lead you back to where you’ll be safe, where you’ll have access to help.” The men looked to one another as Anvil turned. “Follow me,” he said.

The platoon fell in step behind him, crossing the charred stretch of land into the snow-filled forest.

Trin caught up to the platoon leader, lowering his voice. “You must forget what you’ve seen here,” he said. “As impossible as that seems, you can’t fathom the danger you face if you don’t.”

The soldier breathed in. “We were sent to confirm reports of a man in the villages with mystical powers,” he said. “There are speculations of wizards, warlocks, witches...that sort of thing. No one paid
any attention until seismic activity was detected up here, where there shouldn’t have been any.” He looked at Trin. “Our people mine up here,” he said. “There are excavations all over this range. I’m sure you are privy to that.”

Trin said nothing.

The soldier continued. “A great amount of resources for our country come from these mountains. Our villages and cities employ hundreds of men, men with families. When this unnatural movement occurred in conjunction with reports of the supernatural, people began to panic. We were sent to investigate.”

Trin held his gaze. “So, you’re hunting Veduny.”

The soldier stared at him, not knowing how to respond.

Trin stared back a moment, and then looked away. “The movement,” Trin asked, “when did this occur?”

“About six months ago,” the soldier replied.

Exactly the response Trin had expected—Anavi’s cry to Anvil for help.

He turned back to the platoon leader. “You and your men need to stay as far away from this as you can. You are powerless to stop it. When you return to your base you tell them you found nothing. We will handle what happened here today.”

“What did
happen here today?” the soldier begged.

Trin kept moving. “Keep your men quiet. Pray you never know the answer to that question.”

With Anvil’s guidance the platoon reached the isolated road. Without the warrior’s help they never would have made it out alive.

Anvil turned to the platoon leader. “Where is your nearest base?”

“At the bottom of this crest.”

Anvil nodded. Both warriors trained their focus on a base they could not see, then turned to the men. “Help will be here for you shortly,” Anvil said. “Forget you saw us. All of our lives depend on it.”

Trin and Anvil turned to leave before being seen.

“Sir,” the platoon leader called, grabbing hold of Trin’s arm. “What do I tell them? All of our gear and supplies...”

Trin stared. A valid predicament—everything had been destroyed. He glanced to the snow-filled peaks behind them toward the area from which they had come. His irises lit. A deafening rumble sounded off of the high ridges above the burned camp site.