What Was Forgotten (21 page)

The first bolted past him. The second went down hard from a blow to the back of his head. Myron paused to make sure the first did not look back. “Sorry about that,” he said as he dragged the inert body through the door behind him.

The room was dark and filled with, at a brief glance, what looked to Myron like salvaged debris that had washed up in the harbour. He shook his head and began tying the hands and feet of the unconscious man on the floor in front of him. He sat on the floor and caught his breath, hoping that Osmun had escaped the others. If he did not… well, it had been an amusing undertaking, if nothing else.

He saw the open door a few seconds later, ducked through it and slammed it behind him. Osmun stood there, leaning against the door, eyes closed and breathless, until he heard the pounding feet of his pursuers go past. By the Beacon, they were fast. He waited a moment longer, unsure of how many were actually after him and unsure of how many had gone by. But there were no noises from the alley that told him they were still close by.

“Thank you,” he said aloud.

He opened his eyes and it was there before him, so close that he could see almost nothing but its depths.

“
Ajkah thuun!”

The words were like a thunderclap in his head. Osmun screamed and clamped his hands over his ears. He nearly fell over in agony but somehow managed to open the door and stumble out into the alley. Someone was standing over him.

“There he is!” someone shouted. Osmun barely heard it. The sounds of the world were muted to him. From the ground he could see the Ardent running back towards him. Someone stepped over him – Nasiri.

She reached out a hand and waved it slowly as if arcing a sword through the air, and in his daze, Osmun could see the fabric of the world as it succumbed to her will and opened.

A rift.

There was more noise; the thousands of voices of the Beyond that now were at the edge of their world. Spirits came through, not in the chaotic avalanche he expected, but three of them marched out like soldiers. And Nasiri was their commander.

The Ardent were not gifted. They were not seers like Nasiri. They could not commune, as Osmun could. They could not see what was happening right in front of them. Nasiri twisted her hands and the spirits obeyed, stepping in front of the charging Ardent, and then stepping into them.

One of the men collapsed without sound or expression. The other two dropped to the ground, clutching their temples and tearing at their eyes, screaming.

Xidius, save them.

Nasiri turned around and grabbed Osmun by the arm. She said something he didn’t hear. She sounded so far away and was drowned out by the agony of tormented the men.

“We must go!” she yelled.

“What have you done?”

They could not move their prisoner far, but they could not remain so close. More would come to collect the men that Nasiri had incapacitated. All eyes had been on those men as Osmun, Nasiri, and Myron moved the tied, unconscious Ardent into the basement of another building down the street. Slow to come back to his senses, they sat him down and leaned him against a stack of heavy wooden barrels.

“I saw what you did to those men,” Osmun said as he slumped down onto the earthen floor, his back against the cool stone wall. He was breathing heavily, drained of his energy. Had the shadow done something to him? Was even hearing the voice or being that close enough to affect him?

“This is not the time for objections,” Nasiri muttered. She stood near the wooden cellar door they had entered through, peering through the narrow gaps in the boards.

“Don’t do that again, do you understand me?”

“What should I have done instead, priest? You were safely hidden until you came stumbling out into the alley like a drunk. Should I have let them take you?”

Osmun had no reply. Perhaps there was no other option. At least the men were alive. He hoped someone in the church would be able to help them quickly, and that their minds would survive the ordeal.

“How did you do that?” Osmun asked after a long silence.

“This is the knowledge that your church destroys, priest. The knowledge they want no one to have.”

“It is
dangerous
.”

“Is that so? You speak from a place of ignorance and knowledge all at once.”

“I know what I saw!”

“We fight our battles with the weapons we know how to use best. And this was your idea. Your plan brought them into danger.”

Their captive began to stir as Osmun was about to respond, and as the Ardent’s eyes began to open, Osmun stepped behind him and out of sight. Upon becoming aware of his plight, the man began to twist and contort in an attempt to loosen the ropes that held him. He was unafraid, Osmun saw. Instead, the man looked as though he was ready to kill them all if he managed to escape.

Myron drew a dagger and struck the man in the knee with its pommel. “Now, now, let’s be calm, shall we?”

The Ardent groaned in pain through clenched teeth but said nothing. This man was more imposing than a soldier, Osmun realized. He took note of the musculature, of the immense strength that fought against the restraints. More than that, he could see in the fervor that possessed the man that he was a devout believer in the faith. It worried him; he would never be able to reason with them if he was faced with other Ardent. He could try to convince them of his innocence, but they would only obey the vicars and the Assembly of Elders. Nothing he said or did otherwise would make a difference.

Yet there was an advantage as well, at least in their present situation. Faced with what they were about to tell him, he would have to behave in an entirely predictable way, and just the way that they needed.

“Sorry that I had to bash you in the head,” Myron said as he slapped the flat of the dagger blade against his open palm. “But if you don’t calm down, you’re going to get something much worse.”

Osmun stood and stepped over beside Myron, and the Ardent locked his eyes upon him as he came into view.

“He’s telling the truth,” Osmun said to the bound man. Myron stepped back a few paces, allowing Osmun to take the lead. He still brandished the dagger. “I know you have orders for my arrest. At least for my arrest. Perhaps for my death.”

The Ardent remained silent. Osmun continued. “Well, in either case… I needed to speak with one of the clerics, but there is no way I could make it into the Cathedral without being noticed. So we had to do… this. Once we are done talking you will be set free unharmed. Only if you remain passive, though. If you try to escape or harm us in any way…” Osmun motioned over his shoulder. Myron smiled and flicked his eyebrows.

From a dark corner of the basement, Nasiri produced an ornate box about the length of her forearm carved from soapstone. It was held shut with a leather strap, and all over the box were obscure symbols chiselled into the stone with skill and care. Osmun truly had no idea what it was, only that Nasiri had it on hand, and that it looked like it would come from somewhere beyond the far reaches of the Empire’s borders. She handed it to Osmun with reverence, and he accepted it as though the slightest jostling would bring some terrible consequence upon them. It had the desired effect; the Ardent’s anger and resolve was replaced with uncertainty.

“Do you know where this came from? It was brought here from Yasri. It was meant to be taken to the historians, but… well, I see no need to be tight-lipped with you: we took it. We thought it might have some arcane power. Some ancient truth. And you would be surprised how many in the army will accept even the most meager of payments in exchange for something like this. For all they know, it is simply a container of trinkets owned by some dead Dramandi noble.

“It wasn’t that. And it was so much more…” Osmun looked at the soapstone box and forced a tremor into his hands. “…So much more than we thought. Of all the things we could have taken from that city, I wish this could have been lost. Or destroyed. We had no idea of the consequences.” He set the soapstone box on the floor at his feet. The Ardent recoiled from it.

“All I want is for this to be locked up. Away from fools like me. Away from anyone without the skills to deal with what is inside.” Osmun knelt. “I know what I am accused of, but… know that I am no traitor. I am no apostate. I still serve the Beacon. I am still loyal to the church, like you. If I were not, I would not have put myself in such danger by trying to get this to you. I knew that only someone fearless and pious would do what is necessary. And there are none, it is said, more fearless and pious than the Ardent.”

The man, the holy soldier of the church, stared at the stone box. Osmun could see the wheels turning in his favour.

“Lastly, whatever you do, do
not
open this. Only a cleric should do that. No one else. Do you understand?” Though the Ardent said nothing, Osmun had no doubt that he would do his duty.

Myron approached him, a small sprig of a strange leaf in his hand. “Now, be a reasonable fellow and eat this. You’ll wake up in a few hours and you’ll feel terrific.” The man spat at Myron and thrashed his head about to prevent Myron from shoving the leaf into his mouth.

“Can someone hold his head still?” Myron asked. The Ardent made an attempt to head-butt him and just missed. Osmun tried to steady the man but he would not stop fighting, so Myron hit him again with his dagger, this time in the head, and the Ardent went limp. “I didn’t want to have to do that. He’s a stubborn one.”

“That’s what makes them so good at what they do,” Osmun said, a tinge of sincere admiration in his voice. How different were they, in that respect? They did whatever they had to… and that is what Osmun was doing with these two, he reminded himself. Myron and Nasiri were just means to an end.

Myron untied the rope. “You were quite convincing, Osmun. Even I almost believed you.”

“How can you be sure he will take it to the Compendium?” Nasiri asked.

“I’m sure,” Osmun said. “And we only need to follow.”

Chapter 13

In the dream, Zayd notched the arrow into the bowstring and drew. In the darkness he could see the others do the same. There were dozens more he could not see, and together they had encircled the Ryferian camp. The arrows would come down on the enemy from every direction. Sometimes they would send the volleys in waves, one direction first, then the other. The confusion it created took the discipline right out of them, and the fear kept them awake at night.

Yet despite that, the invaders plunged deeper into their land like an engine driven by some inexhaustible fuel. It was their faith. The very nature of good and evil meant that they had to continue, and no cost was too great. Zayd understood it perfectly. The same sentiment drove the Tauthri in their defense, and though they did not yield, they were being cut through. Even now as he looked at the clueless enemy that looked out into the dark and could not see what was already in motion, he could not help but think that however many countless invaders that fell, their own losses were quickly becoming immeasurable. Symm’s brothers. Zayd’s cousins. The night before, every last life in the holy city of Oshuthi was lost. Each Tauthri life was a wonder, and they were being extinguished by these soldiers, and then erased by their priests.

In the camp he could see hundreds of tents and dozens of faceless sentries, brought here from their land only to die. Then, amongst them, there were a few he recognized. The armoured warriors were harder to kill. Much harder. Those who wore the suns most of all. So the Tauthri tried to single them out when they could. They would place bets amongst each other to see whose arrow they would find in their bodies. Zayd took care to paint his sigil in white on the black wood of all his arrows. A soldier who wore the sun walked through the camp, fully armoured with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Did he know that they were there? Or was he only guessing? It made no difference in any case. Whether he knew or not would not give him any edge in what would come.

Zayd breathed and felt the eyes of his ancestors on him, felt the depth of their conviction in the fight as he released his hold. Their home would forever remain theirs.

The arrows all came at once and their flight was signalled only by the noise that sounded like the exhalation of the forest. The trees and the land rejecting the invaders. Zayd had already notched and loosed another arrow by the time he heard the first shouts. Three arrows, four. They came down on the soldiers like angry gods. Zayd watched as his next arrow hit one of the armoured warriors in the neck, and he watched as the man faltered and fell to the ground. Another man ran to him and tried uselessly to save him. A young man. Crying.

Zayd was uncertain what happened next. There was a flash of light and then more screams, this time from his own people. Something shattered against a tree near him and sprayed flame in all directions. Pockets of fire were blooming all around the forest, exposing the Tauthri in violent light. Through the trees he could see Savyl, their leader, fighting to put out the flames on his legs as the invaders took advantage of the sight and shot arrows at him until he was dead.

The chaos was on both sides. Zayd moved through the trees, waiting to see the next fire erupt before stopping to take aim again. He kept moving, waiting, before loosing another arrow. He ran out of arrows while fire bursts continued to light the forest. There were few of them still shooting and the rest were stalled, hesitating amongst the trees trying to determine who was in charge. Savyl was dead. What were they to do?