In Legend Born (23 page)

He lunged hastily and missed. The swinging stick caught him on the side of the head. He was shocked at how much it
hurt
. When he looked up, another blow caught him right across the nose; he heard it break before he felt the pain. He backed away and stumbled. The
shallah
pushed him down, and the searing pain crashing down on his skull was the last thing he knew before he passed out.

Josarian was the last man to escape the fortress, fighting awkwardly with the sword he held in one hand and more skillfully with the
yahr
he held in the other. Somewhere during the fighting, he had taken the
yahr
from the gutted corpse of a
shallah
, then set the dead man's clothing on fire with the same torch he'd used to ignite the supply depot next to the shrine. He prayed that the
shallah
would burn, the fire purifying him for the journey to the Otherworld.

Knowing that he must escape now or die here, too, he fled through the main gate and into the darkness beyond. He kept to the shadows, eluding the Outlookers who were already regrouping from the battle to hunt down the escaping prisoners. Seeing that his wounded cousin was in no shape to fight, Josarian had ordered him to get outside the fortress walls before anyone else. Now he was startled to hear Zimran's voice in the shadows.

"Josarian! Over here!"

He found Zimran in the dark. "Damn you! I told you to get away!"

"I didn't want to go all the way to Dalishar without knowing if you'd escaped," said Zimran.

"And if they catch me now, they catch us
both
."

"Then I suggest..."

"Let's go!"

Since Zimran's legs still worked well enough, they were able to cross the open ground around the fortress fairly quickly. They heard thundering hoofbeats behind them, but the direction kept changing, and the riders' shouts gave clear evidence of their confusion. On a twin-moon night, he and Zimran would have been easily spotted as they headed for the lemon groves east of the fortress, but no one saw them tonight. Once they reached the trees, full of shadows and hiding places, they were safe.

They didn't pause to rest, however. They needed to be well away from here by morning. They moved silently through the night, always alert for any sounds of pursuit. After they believed themselves to be well out of reach of danger, exhaustion kept them quiet, and only their will kept them going.

They had gone east upon leaving the fortress and must now circle to the south to reach the Dalishar Caves. Josarian wondered if Zimran, with his injuries, could keep up the pace. Before long, his question was answered. Zimran started losing strength, moving slowly and stumbling often as they ascended through a heavily-wooded forest in the dark.

"We'll rest here," Josarian said upon finding a fallen tree trunk to lean against.

"No. I can..."

"No, you can't."

Josarian saw the vague shadow that was his cousin suddenly sink to the ground. Unable to see his expression, he reached out to touch his skin, checking for fever. Zimran's forehead was burning hot and drenched in sweat.

Zim slapped his hand away. "I'll be fine in a moment."

Josarian said nothing. He followed when his cousin, breathing harshly, rose and continued their trek through the syrupy darkness of the forest. As he expected, it wasn't long before he heard Zimran stumble and crash to the ground, crying out sharply and then falling silent. Moving with mountain-born instincts, Josarian found his cousin's still form in the dark. Zimran had fallen on his injured arm, and the pain had apparently combined with the exhaustion and the fever to push him over the edge into unconsciousness. While this certainly didn't make matters any easier, it at least relieved Josarian of the burden of hearing him suffer so.

Cursing the Valdani who had done this to Zimran, Josarian hauled his cousin's dead weight off the rough ground and slung him over his shoulders. His legs quivered briefly in protest as he continued his steep uphill climb, then they obeyed his will with weary resignation. Doubting that he could carry Zimran all the way to Dalishar, at least not without more rest than he had time for, Josarian started trying to figure out where he could safely deposit him between here and there. The nearest Sisters were in the other direction, and with Zimran on his back, he couldn't go there and still reach—He stopped abruptly when he heard a noise up ahead. There shouldn't be anyone up here, especially not at this time of night. Every nerve in his body tensed as he strained to hear another telltale sound. He'd been crashing through the forest noisily, convinced he was well beyond the reach of the Outlookers. He hadn't considered the other dangers he might face tonight: bandits, mountain cats, a lone assassin or waterlord on some secret business...

He listened intently, silently cursing the darkness, praying that Zimran wouldn't groan or gasp. After a moment, his patience was rewarded: he heard tentative footsteps, moving stealthily. Whoever was here knew that he was here, too, and was coming for him. He was just about to deposit Zimran's body on the ground so he'd be ready for combat when a torch appeared out of nowhere, flaring in his face, startling and momentarily blinding him.

"A
shallah
?" It was the voice of a man, surprised and suspicious.

Keeping his sword between himself and the stranger, Josarian stepped back and twisted away. He heard the stranger gasp in surprise as the light fell on Zimran's unconscious face.

"Who's that? What's wrong with him?"

"My cousin. He's been injured."

"He's been
beaten
." There was a pause. "Outlookers?"

"Yes."

"Of course." The voice sounded more assured now. "If it had been an assassin or another
shallah
he'd be at home with his wife or mother, or perhaps in a Sanctuary. But not being hauled up the side of a mountain in the middle of the night."

"A good guess," Josarian said cautiously, squinting against the glowing light, unable to distinguish the dark form beyond it.

"And you, I see, have killed an Outlooker." The voice sounded educated, but not foreign. "Unless you're going to claim some Outlooker simply
handed
you his sword?"

"Who are you?" Josarian stepped to one side, trying to see past the flames.

"Not a Valdan." The voice was dry now. "Don't worry."

"Your torch is in my eyes," Josarian said tersely.

"You still haven't told me who you are,
shallah
."

Even as the words were spoken, Josarian's vision finally adjusted enough for him to see that the light came directly from the man's palm, flames soaring up from human flesh.

"A Guardian?" Josarian asked, relieved.

"Yes. And if you've brought Outlookers upon us for some petty crime..."

"They haven't followed me here," he said with certainty. "And my crimes... aren't petty."

"What have you done?" the faceless Guardian demanded.

"I've just freed twenty prisoners from the Valdani fortress at Britar."

He heard the Guardian's sharp intake of breath. "You're
him
, aren't you?"

"Word spreads fast," he observed cautiously.

"
Josarian.
"

"Yes," he admitted, taking the risk. "Can you help me?"

The flame wavered for a moment, then the hand holding it swept to one side. Josarian looked into the stranger's face. The firelight flickered and shimmered on Silerian features: about his age, but aristocratic-looking. The man's dark hair was braided in the intricate style of a
toren
.

The two men gazed curiously at each other. It took Josarian a moment to realize that the flame-colored glow of the stranger's eyes was no illusion of torchlight, but the glowing fire-gold gaze of a demon.

Chapter Nine

Remembering Mirabar, the half-mad but harmless girl from the Guardian encampment on Mount Niran, Josarian held his ground, smothering the superstitions of his kind.

"Who are you?" he asked evenly, his gaze dropping to the silver broach—the Guardian insignia of a single flame within a circle of fire—that the demon wore on his cloak. Silver. Like everything else about the man, it suggested he had come from a wealthy family. He was no
shallah
, that much was clear.

"I am Cheylan. My circle of companions is not far from here."

"Why are you alone out here?"

"Messages from the Otherworld," Cheylan said vaguely, "telling us we must be ready."

"For what?"

"We don't know, but we've been posting sentries in the woods. We thought it might be an attack by the Society..." The demon flashed a smile. "But here you are."

"Then you'll help me?"

Cheylan nodded. "Of course."

"I need someone to care for my cousin until I can return for him."

"Come with me."

"I must warn you..."

"Yes?"

"Outlookers will be searching for him," said Josarian.

"Naturally."

"They'll want him back. They'll want him very badly."

Cheylan glanced at Zimran's unconscious form. "I promise you they won't find him."

There was a fierceness in the vow that made Josarian believe him. He nodded, convinced. "Then take me to your circle, Cheylan."

Water, water, a house of water.

Weary and bewildered after another sleepless night, Mirabar wandered away from her circle of companions early in the morning to stare into the depths of the spring they had camped near a few days ago. Indeed, since coming to this site, she had done little
but
stare into the depths of the cool spring, transfixed by it, pulled here by the Beckoner—and desperately frustrated by the calm, unspeaking surface of the water.

Fire in water.

Fire and water.

Could the Guardians and the Society really unite? After a thousand years of enmity, was it possible?

She flinched when she heard voices approaching, then relaxed when she realized it was only Derlen and his son. She had never felt much warmth for Derlen, a fussy, perpetually worried man. She liked him even less now that he had convinced the others to exclude her from the Callings, making no secret of his fear that her visions came from an evil source. But despite disliking him, she had to admit that he was an attentive and patient father to his inquisitive son—a duty which seemed to be aging him fast.

"But why did Marjan betray Daurion?" young Turan now asked as father and son approached the other side of the spring. Mirabar sat in thick, high grass with her knees close to her chest, her head bowed, and her gaze fixed on the water, hoping they wouldn't see or bother her. "Weren't they both Guardians? Weren't they bloodbrothers?"

"Yes, that's right," Derlen said, coming to the water's edge and sitting down. He had brought a fishing pole with him, some elaborately carved thing acquired from the sea-born folk. As he spoke, he baited the hook and tossed it into the water. "Marjan and Daurion were brothers in blood and brothers in the circle of fire. They were raised together, initiated together, became men and warriors together."