Into Forbidden Lands

Breakfast the next morning was interrupted by a Shakim warrior galloping towards the camp, raising a cloud of dust as he reined in.

He shouted a single word.

“Soldiers!”

“How many?” Argolan asked, casting her bowl aside as she came quickly to her feet. “How far?”

“Less than a league,” Sereth translated. “One score mounted, five score on foot.”

The Shieldarm blanched, momentarily stunned, but then sprang into action.

“Riders, to me!” she bellowed, then turned to Illiom.

“Get your bow and find out if there are any decent archers amongst these people. Tell the rest to go to their caves and wait until we come for them. Elan, Sereth, go with them to mark the way and come straight back here, understood?”

The Shieldarm spun around to enlist others.

“Undina, take two Shakim and keep an eye on the soldiers’ approach. Warn us before they get too close.”

“Argolan…” Keilon Var interrupted.

“Just a moment! Malco, stay with me; I need you to translate. Azulya, I need you here too. Now, Keilon, what is it?”

Illiom did not hear the conjurer’s reply for she had already turned to the task of rallying the villagers.

Within minutes Illiom had enlisted the aid of nine villagers; two were good hunters and the rest claimed reasonable skill with the bow.

Together with these nine, she returned to the common to find the Riders and Shakim armed and ready.

“What is happening?” she asked Tarmel, noting his loaded crossbow.

“An ambush of sorts,” he replied, but before he could say more Undina rode in with two tribals.

“Argolan,” she called. “They here!”

“Stay exactly where you are!” the Shieldarm ordered. “Do not conceal your weapons. Keilon will make sure they do not see them. On my first signal take careful aim, on my second signal, fire. Riders! You will need to switch to melee weapons immediately, for you will not get a second chance with crossbows. Archers! Keep firing, but not if there is any risk of hitting one of our own.”

She turned to the Chosen.

“You must get out of harm’s way! You too, Illiom, but continue using your bow from a distance. Do not come close to the fighting.”

“Argolan…” Grifor urged.

The Shieldarm nodded.

“It is up to Keilon now.”

Illiom sought out the conjurer.

He stood trance-like, facing north-west. Illiom sensed that he was already working his art.

The first Meresians to arrive were mounted, followed by a large number of foot soldiers. Their approach was unhurried.

“What are you still doing here?” the leader shouted furiously at them the moment they were within earshot. “What was it about your orders that you did not understand? We were meant to meet up at Kragenvar Drin five days ago!”

“The villagers gave us grief,” Malco answered smoothly. “They fled when we arrived, but left tracks as clear as flags. When we finally caught up with them, they tried to fight us. You can imagine how that went.” Malco sneered. “We killed the lot, and then had to hunt down their brats. Took time, but a good harvest, would you not say?”

He nodded in the direction of the Shakim.

The Meresians drew closer.

“I do not care about that! We have more pressing matters to deal with.”

As he spoke, the leader searched their faces, and Illiom feared that Keilon’s illusion might not hold. Expecting the worst, she raised her bow and drew the sinew halfway.

“Where is Lethral, anyway?” the man demanded. “He is going to regret this delay. The Illian Gar will not tolerate it. He of all people should know that!”

“I do not know where he is,” Malco said, putting on a show of looking around. “He was here a minute ago.”

The soldiers were now only five spans away and Illiom’s heart was hammering wildly. She could not for the life of her see how they could defeat so many.

“Well?” the man snapped. “Go and fetch him right now or I’ll make you accountable instead.”

Malco nodded and raised his crossbow, but the Meresians remained unalarmed.

The leader frowned, squinting against the rising sun. It was his last gesture in this world.

“Now!” Argolan yelled.

Illiom could not believe it, but it seemed that almost a quarter of the soldiers fell with that first volley. Having fired their crossbows, the Riders now discarded them and charged, blades bare and gleaming. The Shakim released one more volley before also casting their bows aside and, drawing their knives, lunged at the Meresians.

Complete chaos ensued.

The bewildered Meresians watched as their comrades were cut down, seemingly by their own forces and by children who suddenly transformed into tattooed demons. A second round of soldiers fell before any had even begun to draw their weapons.

Illiom did as Argolan had instructed and fired arrow after arrow into the melee, every shot bringing down a soldier. When she saw Tarmel leap into the fray, she hesitated.

Directly ahead, he twirled and spun in his elegant and deadly dance, dispatching enemies to the otherworld as quickly as they came within range. She watched in horror as two soldiers attacked from opposite directions, whilst a third closed in from behind. Tarmel efficiently disposed of one and turned his attention towards the second, even as the third aimed a death-blow at the Rider’s neck.

Illiom forgot Argolan’s instructions, and ran towards him.

“Tarmel!” she screamed, but she might as well have bellowed into a raging storm. Her warning was smothered in the pandemonium of the battle.

The scene around her seemed to slow down almost to a standstill.

The combatants’ movements were sluggish and measured, as though they were dancing through thick mud.

Illiom screamed out again to no avail.

She thought of shooting the man, but his blade was already swinging towards Tarmel.

She strained forward with all the speed she could muster, but still it was not enough. She needed to do more.

A blazing ball of fire ignited in her belly.

It erupted from her body and exploded against the man’s descending sword arm.

The arm vanished, dispersing in a puff of ash. His blade lost its form and splattered to the ground in incandescent globs of metal.

She stood numb and shocked at what she had done.

The wounded soldier stared uncomprehendingly at the cauterised stump of his arm, his scream immediately silenced by the thrust of Tarmel’s sword.

Illiom searched inside herself, seeking the source of power, wanting to re-engage in the battle that still raged around her, but the power that had risen only a moment earlier had died.

She stumbled about in a daze.

The battle was like a dream.

The air hummed as in the wake of a thunderclap.

Sound returned with a rush.

It buffeted her with such intensity that her knees buckled.

She knelt like a supplicant in the midst of the battlefield.

The remains of soldiers lay strewn around her and the earth was drenched in blood.

The battle seemed to be in its final throes as fewer pockets of warriors clashed. Some Meresians tried to flee and were cut down.

Against all odds, they had won.

A sudden scream tore through the air, shocking her deeply with its familiarity.

She knew who it was and she fought against that knowing. The grief that belonged to another was so intense she could barely breathe.

Elan … Mist…

She saw the priestess running across the field, her robe fluttering like dark wings around her.

Illiom watched as Elan dropped to the ground, taking her Rider’s head into her lap. Elan, shoulders heaving, held her Rider, wrapping him in silent sorrow until her anguish erupted again, blasting the battlefield with shards of her grief.

Illiom felt it clutch painfully at her own heart.

She climbed unsteadily to her feet. As she took a step towards Elan, a stab of intense pain took her breath away.

Illiom looked down to see the tip of a sword protruding from her belly.

It felt as cold as ice.

It was suddenly pulled out, and the hot flow that ran down her belly and legs felt almost soothing.

Her hands went to her wound as she searched for her Rider, her heart crying out for him.

She saw him locked in combat.

I love you, she whispered – or maybe she just thought it – as she collapsed to the ground.

A strong tang of iron filled her mouth.

From where she lay, she could still see Elan, rocking with grief, but Illiom could no longer remember why.

A movement in the sky above the priestess caught her eye.

Hundreds of winged shapes – birds – so many that they were beyond count, converged to circle over the grieving priestess.

They spiralled over her to form a living, swirling funnel of feathered beings.

Illiom’s eyelids began to close as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. She thought she saw her beloved’s face.

I love you, she thought again, as dark wings softly enveloped her and her world of pain receded to a silent nothingness.