The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Chapter 11

“You’re sure about this?” asked Wirr, trying unsuccessfully to keep the doubt from his voice.

“I am.” Davian did his best to sound confident, though inwardly the certainty of last night had faded a little. They had walked all morning before reaching the crossroads at which they now stood. If they continued along the road to the north, they would keep heading towards Thrindar. If they accepted Davian’s theory, though, they would turn east, heading into the Malacar forest and away from civilization.

The bronze box was actually a Wayfinder. It had to be. Davian had read about them once, years ago – one object attuned to another, a Vessel that acted as a sort of compass, always pointing to its counterpart.

He rolled the cube in his hands. Currently, no matter which way it was turned, it was the side facing east that lit up with the wolf symbol. It made sense. Ilseth had said that it would guide him to the sig’nari when the time came. It had to be the right explanation.

The only problem was, as Wirr had dubiously pointed out, that the art to making Wayfinders had been lost centuries ago. That – combined with Wirr’s continuing inability to see the glow at all – left Davian with more uncertainty than he was entirely comfortable with.

There was a long pause as the two boys contemplated the different roads. Then Wirr gave the slightest of shrugs.

“I trust you,” he said. There was no mocking or query in his voice.

Davian shot him a grateful look, and they set off eastward without another word.

The road leading to the Malacar forest was much quieter than the one they had been travelling for the past few days, and as a result the tension that had been sitting constantly between Davian’s shoulders began to loosen. The weather was fine but not too warm, and he and Wirr made good time as they travelled in comfortable, companionable silence.

Idly, he wondered again how Asha had reacted to their leaving. It was something that had been on his mind a lot over the past few weeks; every time he tried to put himself in her shoes he felt a stab of guilt, knowing that if their positions were reversed he would feel concern, confusion, maybe even betrayal. He wondered what she was doing that very moment – probably in a lesson, if everything had returned to normal after the Athian Elders had left.

He sighed to himself. As much as he missed her, it was better that she was at Caladel, safe from the dangers he and Wirr were facing.

He looked around. They had reached the edge of the Malacar; open fields were quickly being replaced by tall, thick-trunked trees. Soon the road was canopied by foliage overhead, with only a few stray rays of sunlight slipping through the cover and reaching the road itself. Still, the forest had a cheerful, airy feel to it, unlike much of the menacing jungle they had been forced to navigate so far on their journey. The trees were spaced far enough apart that visibility was high, and undergrowth was minimal.

Davian and Wirr were chatting amiably, the sun finally threatening to slip below the horizon, when Davian frowned and came to an abrupt stop.

Wirr took a few extra steps before realising his friend had halted. “Tired already?”

Davian shook his head, reaching into his pocket and almost jerking his hand back out again when he felt the heat of the Vessel inside. Cautiously, he pulled the box out. It was like touching a stone that had sat too long in the sun; it was possible to hold, but only delicately, and even then he had to change his grip every couple of seconds to avoid the heat becoming too much.

He held it away from his body, trying to examine it. The glow was so bright now that the wolf symbol was impossible to make out.

“I think we’re close,” he said.

Wirr stared at the box, his expression troubled. “If you say so,” he said with a sigh. “Is it still pointing east?”

Davian squinted for a moment, then nodded.

“Then I suppose we keep going that way until it says otherwise.”

They walked on for a few minutes, the heat from the bronze Vessel becoming uncomfortable even through the rough cloth of Davian’s trousers. He was considering asking Wirr to hold it for him when they rounded a curve in the road and came to an abrupt, jarring halt.

Ahead, in a clearing just off the road itself, a group of soldiers in the livery of Desriel were setting up camp. At first glance there looked to be about ten of them, each one with the tell-tale glint of a Finder on their wrists. A couple of the soldiers looked up, noticing them.

“Keep walking,” Wirr said softly. “Worst thing we can do right now is look scared.”

Davian forced his legs to move, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. They had seen Desrielite soldiers before, but not so close and certainly not such a large group of them. Davian’s mouth was dry, and he felt a strange combination of chills and sweat. He knew the blood had drained from his face; he tried to keep his breathing even, getting himself slowly back under control. The soldiers were looking at them, but none had moved to stop them. It was okay. Just keep walking.

Wirr gave the soldiers a friendly wave as they passed and a few nodded in polite response, apparently satisfied they were simply travellers and posed no threat. Even in his terrified state, Davian couldn’t help but be impressed by Wirr’s poise. His friend looked as though nothing was amiss; he strolled, almost meandered, as if simply enjoying the warmth of the afternoon.

Thankfully the next bend in the road was only a hundred feet away. Within a minute, the soldiers were obscured from view once again.

As soon as the boys were certain they were out of sight, they stopped. Davian bent over with his hands on his knees, releasing a long, slow breath, then almost laughing aloud as relief washed over him. Wirr let out a similarly deep breath, holding out his hands out for Davian to see. They were trembling.

“You did well back there, Dav,” said Wirr seriously, façade dropping. He now looked as shaken as Davian felt. “You looked almost happy to see them.”

Davian laughed. “Me? I would have turned tail and run if you hadn’t kept your head,” he said, a little giddily. “Every fibre of my being was telling me to turn around, and you just strolled on past like you owned the El-cursed forest.” He rubbed his face, repressing what probably would have come out as a maniacal giggle.

Wirr clapped him on the back. “Well we’re past, at any rate.”

After taking sufficient time to recover their wits, they kept moving. Before a minute had gone by, though, Davian stopped again. Something was wrong; the warmth of the Vessel had begun to fade.

Alarmed, he dug into his pocket and pulled it out, examining the bronzed surface with narrowed eyes. Then he groaned, twisting the box in his hand a few times, vainly hoping he was mistaken.

“What is it?” Wirr asked.

Davian bit his lip. “It’s pointing back the other way.”

“Towards the soldiers?”

Davian hesitated, then nodded. “Towards the soldiers.”

Wirr let out a low string of violent curses that Davian had never heard him use before. Then he took a few deep breaths to compose himself.

“Of course it is,” he said calmly.

By the time the two boys had made their way back to within view of the soldiers’ camp – using the surrounding brush as cover – the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving only a dull pink glow in its wake.

They were no more than a hundred feet away, but the deepening shadows made for easy concealment so long as they made no sudden movements. From Davian’s prone position he could see the entire camp, which appeared neat and orderly. Most of the soldiers sat chatting and laughing around a small fire; a pair of sentries sat halfway between the fire and the road, their backs to the flames.

Closer to the others but still set apart, another man reclined against what seemed to be a small, covered wagon. As Davian watched, the man peered through a narrow window at the front of the wagon, saying something in a low voice and then spitting inside. A soldier by the fire who was watching him just laughed.

From the men’s demeanour, no-one thought an attack was likely. The pair of sentries were dicing, only intermittently glancing towards the road to look for signs of movement. The man by the wagon seemed half-asleep as he listened to his companions' conversation, stirring only to call out an occasional comment to them.

Still, it looked like someone would be awake the entire night. Whatever the Wayfinder was leading Davian to, it would be difficult to retrieve.

Wirr shifted beside him. “So what exactly are we looking for?” he whispered. “I can’t imagine the sig’nari would be keeping company with this lot.”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Davian. He frowned, scanning the camp. There was little doubt that the Wayfinder was pointing to something here – the heat emanating from his pocket had become uncomfortable again as they had drawn closer. Could one of the sig’nari really be hiding amongst a group of Desrielite soldiers? Or had the Wayfinder’s counterpart object somehow been found, or stolen, by these men? He tried not to think about the implications of the latter.

Wirr shifted position again, peering through the brush. “Perhaps in the wagon?” he suggested.

Davian squinted, trying to better see the wagon. It was solidly built, moreso than normal; it forsook the traditional canvas roof for one of sturdy wood, making it look like a large box on wheels. The only window seemed to be a small slit at the front, crisscrossed with thick steel bars that glinted in the firelight.

After a moment, Davian realised that a heavy wooden beam lay across the door, clearly to prevent anyone on the inside from getting out.

“You’re right,” he said, biting his lip. “Whoever we’re looking for must be locked in there.”

“Wonderful.” Wirr sighed but didn’t dispute Davian’s statement, evidently having come to the same conclusion himself. “We’ve come this far. I suppose we’re going to try and get them out?”

Davian stared at the armed soldiers for a few seconds.

“I suppose we are,” he said reluctantly.

They spent the next few hours waiting, whispering to each other only when necessary.

Eventually the soldiers around the campfire began drifting one by one to their tents, soon followed by the pair of men who had been keeping watch on the road. The fire died down to little more than glowing embers, then was doused entirely by the last soldier to retire. A heavy silence fell over the camp, broken only by the occasional sound of the lone sentry by the wagon muttering to himself.

“They don’t seem too worried about being attacked,” said Davian, keeping his voice low.

Wirr nodded. “They’re Desrielite soldiers. I’d doubt even the bandits around here would be desperate enough to get on the wrong side of the Gil’shar,” he whispered back.

Davian rubbed his hands together nervously. “So how do we go about this?”

Wirr bit a fingernail. “I suppose we sneak up on the guard, knock him out, and try and get into that wagon before anyone else wakes up,” he said, sounding more uncertain than Davian would have liked. “Then we disappear back into the forest.”

Davian grimaced. “There’s nothing you can do with the Gift to make it a little less… risky?”

Wirr shook his head. “I thought about that, but there isn’t. The First and Second Tenets will stop me from hurting them, or binding them, or putting them all to sleep, or anything useful at all really. Best I can probably do is open that wagon door in a hurry, if we need to.”

Davian grunted. “We’re in trouble if it comes to that. We’re going to need as much of a head start as we can get.”

“Malacar’s a big forest, and I know how to cover a trail,” Wirr reassured him. “Unless they’re right on our heels, we should be fine.”

Davian acknowledged the statement with a terse nod, though he felt anything but fine as he gazed at the darkened camp. Still, they had come this far. If they could just make contact with the sig’nari, there would surely be a way out.

Without any further discussion, Davian and Wirr made their way around the edge of the clearing, Davian wincing each time his foot found a dry twig. Soon they were positioned as near as they dared to the wagon, fifty or so feet away. The camp was cloaked in darkness; there was only a sliver of moon tonight, and clouds moved sporadically across even that. In the dim light, the wagon, tents and sentry were little more than vague shapes against the darker backdrop of the forest beyond.

Wirr glanced across at Davian, who nodded grimly, trying to ignore his pounding heart. The men in their tents should be asleep by now. It was as good a time as any to begin.

They stole forward at a slow, crouched jog, approaching the wagon from an oblique angle, out of the guard’s eye line. Wirr had located a sturdy tree branch a few minutes earlier; holding it like a club, he slipped around the side of the wagon in front of Davian. There was a dull crunching sound, followed by a heavy thud.

Davian cautiously rejoined his friend and they stood stock-still for a few seconds, holding their breaths as they listened for cries of alarm from the tents. None came.

Nodding to Wirr, Davian crept forward, moving as lightly as he could. He ignored the motionless sentry, examining the door to the wagon.

The latch mechanism was sturdy, but seemed simple enough. He cast another nervous glance back towards the tents. Wirr raised an eyebrow at him, but Davian made a quick motion with his hands, indicating that everything was under control. No need for Wirr to use Essence just yet.

Barely daring to breathe, he undid the latch and slowly raised the thick wooden bar holding the door in place. It was well-oiled and slid upward easily, with none of the squeaking Davian had feared. He pulled the small door open and climbed the stairs, peering inside into the gloom.

If it was dim outside, the interior of the wagon was pitch-black. Davian stood at the doorway for a moment, squinting, gagging a little at the smell as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the murk. He had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head against the roof once inside; he eventually knelt, nearly jerking up again when he discovered there was a pool of moisture on the floor. He wrinkled his nose, praying that it was just water.

He could just make out a figure slumped against the far wall of the wagon. It shifted and he realised that the prisoner was awake, watching him.

Davian crawled towards them.

“I’m here to help,” he whispered. “Ilseth Tenvar sent me.”

There was a long silence, and then the figure shifted again. The clanking of chains made Davian’s heart sink; he spun as fast as he could on his hands and knees, peering out the door. The camp was still silent.

He exited, crept around to where the guard lay, then hastily patted him down until he heard the faint jingle of keys. Davian grabbed them from the soldier’s pocket and hurried back into the wagon.

His eyes were able to adjust quickly this time, and he drew up short as he took in the condition of the man he was trying to free. Massive bruises covered his entire face with ugly discoloured splotches; one eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split in more than one place. Dried blood was smeared down the left side of his head and neck from an older wound, staining a tunic which had been torn so much that it was now little more than a rag. More bruises were evident through the tears in his clothing; the man’s breath was laboured, but he was watching Davian closely and at least seemed to be aware of what was going on.

As the two men considered each other, Davian absently touched the Vessel in his pocket, his finger brushing the metallic surface of the box. He paused. Near the manacle on the stranger’s right wrist, a glow had appeared - gone again in an instant, but distinctive against the darkness.

Davian put his finger against the Vessel again, frowning, ignoring the uncomfortable heat. The same light flared to life. He leaned forward for a closer look as the glow faded once again, then nodded to himself.

The wolf symbol was tattooed in thin, detailed black lines on the prisoner’s wrist. This was definitely whom he had been sent to find.

There were only three keys on the ring and the second one fit the keyhole. The lock fell open with a sharp click, and Davian thought he saw what looked like gratitude sweep over the man’s face, though it was replaced instantly by a grimace of pain as he tried to move his weight.

“Can you walk?” Davian whispered.

The man nodded; levering himself up through what looked like sheer force of will, he crawled towards the door. Davian helped him out of the wagon, wincing at the stranger’s condition. In the moonlight, the man’s injuries looked even worse. Davian marvelled that he still had the strength to stand.

Suddenly there was a shout from within the cluster of tents. Davian’s heart lurched.

Wirr, who was waiting for them outside, blanched when he saw the stranger’s poor condition but made no comment. “They know we’re here,” he said, tone urgent as other shouts answered the first. “We need to go.”

Davian looked at him, dismayed. “We’re not going to get far.”

“We have to try.”

Time seemed to slow as Wirr grabbed one of the stranger’s arms and Davian the other; they ran awkwardly towards the forest as soldiers burst from their tents, swords at the ready.

Deep down, Davian knew it was over. Had they been alone, they might have been able to disappear in the forest. Carrying the prisoner, they wouldn’t make it more than fifty feet before they were caught.

The man between them sagged onto Davian as Wirr dropped him, spinning to face the oncoming soldiers. He stretched out his hands; blinding white cords snaked forth from them, speeding outward. Davian steadied the injured man and then turned too, watching in mute fascination as the Finders on the soldiers’ wrists lit up a sharp blue.

Davian wasn’t sure what Wirr was attempting to do – the Tenets restricted him from doing much that could help, now – but even through his panic, he couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d always known Wirr was strong, but had never seen him use all his power at once, which he must surely be doing now. It was more energy in one burst than Davian had ever seen.

And it was for naught. The last of Davian’s hope vanished as the threads of light struck an invisible barrier around the soldiers, evaporating before they got within a few feet. At least one of the men had a Trap then, too - a device that dissipated all Essence within its radius. Whatever Wirr had been trying to do, it had never had a chance of succeeding.

Just as the soldiers were almost upon them, the clearing exploded in white light, the force of the blast knocking Davian to the ground.

The impact stole the breath from his lungs, and for a few moments he just lay there on his stomach, gasping for air and trying to make sense of what was happening. Had Wirr tried something else, something new? However much power he had been using the first time, this was ten times more. A hundred.

His vision cleared. The soldiers were moving again, getting to their feet, dazed but apparently unharmed. It took Davian a few seconds to spot the figure behind them, shrouded in a cloak so black that it actually seemed to stand out against the darkness. It stood there for a moment, motionless. Watching.

Then it moved.

It glided rather than walked forward. Davian’s blood froze; it made no sound but it had a sinuous menace, a sense of heavy danger that made his legs feel like lead. The soldiers sensed it too, turning away from the boys. Davian couldn’t see their faces, but their sharply drawn breaths were audible even from this distance.

A disconnected part of Davian’s mind registered that all other sounds had stopped – everything from the nocturnal animals and birds, to the chirping crickets and buzzing mosquitoes. It was as if the world was holding its breath.

The figure flowed forward, difficult to follow in the darkness. It made a grasping motion with its hand as if pulling something from the air, and suddenly there was something coalescing, long and thin, as shadowy and indistinct as the figure itself. A dagger, Davian realised. Fear clenched him so tightly that he couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. Couldn’t shout, either in horror or in warning.

The creature – Davian could not believe it was human – continued towards them, reaching the first soldier. Without pausing, it flicked out its arm as it passed. The action was casual, dismissive. Almost disdainful.

The soldier fell silently, dark blood spraying from where his jugular had been opened. His body hit the grass with a soft thud.

The sound seemed to snap the other soldiers into motion; two scrambled for their swords while another held out a long, thin Trap with a trembling hand like it was a ward against evil, the whites of his eyes visible. Still no-one shouted, as if everyone feared that doing so would draw the creature’s attention.

The scene had a surreal quality to it. Davian still couldn’t move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as another soldier fell to the dagger, his bubbling final breath horrible in the hush. The third soldier took a wild swing at the creature, but his sword stopped in mid-air as if hitting a brick wall. He died like the other two.

The creature’s trajectory was clear now. It was deviating slightly to remove the soldiers, but it was coming for the boys.

The last soldier fell. It had all happened within the space of about ten seconds; the shadow was moving so fast that it was almost impossible to comprehend. It turned towards Davian, only a few feet away now. It was human at least in shape, its face hidden by a deep black hood. But its knife was not solid; it seemed to pulse and fade with darkness, steel one second and translucent black glass the next.

“Sha nashen tel. Erien des tu nashen tel,” it hissed. Its voice was deep and whispery, cold and angry. It spoke of something ancient and terrible, and Davian felt himself getting lightheaded at the words.

The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he felt a massive charge of energy from behind him.

Light roared past Davian and crashed into the creature. Not a beam, but a torrent. A river. It did not touch Davian, but he still felt as though he needed to grab onto something to keep from being swept away.

It hit the creature squarely in the chest, and for the briefest of moments its face was illuminated. Its features were human-like, but twisted almost beyond recognition. Its skin was bruised and sagging, its lips white and horribly scarred.

Its eyes were recognisable though. They were wide with what was very clearly surprise.

Then the light stopped. When Davian’s sight returned, the creature was gone.

Davian stood rooted to the spot for a few more seconds, his body refusing to believe it was over.

Then with a shuddering chill he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. He’d thought he’d been afraid when the Hunters had caught them in Talmiel, and again when it had seemed that there was no escape from the Desrielite soldiers tonight. But this had been something else. It had been abject, crushing terror flowing through his veins. Now it was gone, every part of his body felt tired, weak.

He finally came to his senses enough to turn around. Wirr was sitting on the ground too, hugging himself with his arms around his knees. Even in the dim light, Davian could tell his friend was white as a sheet.

“That was amazing, Wirr,” said Davian, awe making his tone hushed. “I never imagined you had anywhere near that much power! It was like… a god! It was -”

“I don’t.” Wirr cut him off, not bothering to look up. “I didn’t do anything. It was him.” He nodded towards the prone body lying a few feet away, the Shackle that had been around the stranger’s arm now embedded in the dirt next to him.

The man they had rescued.

For a moment Davian thought he was dead, but the slight rise and fall of the man’s chest reassured him.

Davian watched a moment longer, then shook his head disbelievingly. “Look at him, Wirr. He’s barely breathing. He couldn’t have had enough Essence to light -”

“It was him. The Shackle fell off when that last soldier died, and… it was him,” said Wirr. There was a finality to his tone that made Davian snap his mouth shut. He still wasn’t sure he believed his friend – not entirely – but now was not the time or place to argue. His wits returning, he staggered to his feet and then offered his hand to Wirr, helping him do the same.

“They would have seen that in Thrindar,” he said.

“They would have seen that in the Eastern Empire,” replied Wirr grimly. “Nothing for it. Let’s grab him and get moving.”

“What about the soldiers? Shouldn’t we… bury them or something?” wondered Davian.

Wirr shook his head. “There’s no time." He rubbed his forehead. "Though it means that when they find the bodies, they’ll think we did this.”

Davian shrugged. “It’s not like they can execute us more.”

Wirr gave a slightly hysterical giggle at that, and suddenly they were both snorting with fits of nervous laughter, relief and shock finally finding an outlet.

They were still chuckling when, from the darkness behind them, there was yet another flash of light.

Then both Wirr and Davian were on their knees, their hands forced behind their backs. Thin, pulsating cords snaked around their wrists and ankles, binding them where they lay on the ground; another cord coiled around the unconscious man, tying him just as securely. Davian struggled against the bonds, laughter replaced in an instant by fear, but it was of no use.

“I hope you two have a very good explanation for this,” a deep voice said behind them. The words were spoken calmly, but there was restrained anger in them.

Davian tried to turn, but all of a sudden he felt exhausted, as though the strain of the last month was crashing down on him all at once. To his left, he could hear Wirr yawning, too.

The last thing he remembered was lying on the soft grass, and then a sharp white flash all around him before everything dimmed.

He slept.