Marked (37 page)

“Are they alive?” asked Gerart.

“We’ll find out in a minute,” said Sergeant Mortuc as he moved closer and poked the leg of the man closest to him with the point of his sword.

The man did not react. He seemed lifeless... petrified.

“They’re dead—or worse,” said Mortuc.

Aliana approached and studied the inanimate human from up close. His clothing was intact, but when she closely observed his face she noticed something so strange it stopped her in her tracks.

His face was... coal.

Horrified, Aliana took a step back. Immediately Lomar and Kendas stepped up to her sides to protect her. The two soldiers were just as surprised as she had been when the saw the stationary man’s carbonized face, frozen in an expression of absolute suffering.

“For the love of all the stories of Gunther the Drunkard! What the hell happened to this poor guy?” exclaimed Mortuc, reaching out and touching the dark face contorted in pain. “It looks like coal. It’s hard... and lifeless. They turned him into solid coal!”

“But that’s not possible!” exclaimed Gerart. He came in closer to one of the other inert figures and examined its face. “This is totally impossible. My eyes must be deceiving me,” he stated as he touched the rigid body of the warrior dressed in armor. “Everything is coal. This is unbelievable!”

Kendas walked toward a different figure who was dressed in a gray hooded tunic. He scrutinized it closely. “They’ve been turned into statues. It had to have been that spirit and his magic. It looks like he controls the Earth element—bringing rock to life, changing life into rock... into mineral... into... coal.”

“I don’t like this one bit,” complained Lomar, looking around nervously. “If that’s what happened to all of them... it could happen to us, too...”

They all fell silent. Tension filled the air as all eyes darted around the room.

The sound of an ominous chanting in a strange language began to rise up—a hissing, evil voice; a sinister conjuration that continued to gain in intensity.

Aliana knew the spirit was invoking its ancestral magic to finish them off... somehow. A chill ran down her spine. Her intuition was screaming that she should hide or she’d end up like those petrified figures.

They had to take cover. Now.

The massive monolith started to spin, as if dancing to the sound of the strange chant. Spinning faster, it began to shine intensely and a shower of damp earth began to rain down from the dome of the cave. A bright flash of scarlet light shot out of the monolith toward Lomar, but the experienced soldier quickly crouched down and the bolt of light grazed over his head and then crashed onto the floor.

Immediately recognizing what was happening, Aliana shouted a warning to her companions. “Don’t let it hit you!”

“Take cover!” yelled Mortuc.

A new bolt shot toward Gerart. The Prince threw himself on the ground at the feet of one of the statues, taking shelter behind it. The rest of the group did the same, seeking refuge behind the inanimate figures, hiding as best they could as earth rained down ever harder on their heads. Another flash of red light blasted toward Aliana, shattering the statue she was hiding behind.

The chanting continued, filling the room, but Aliana could not determine where it was coming from.

“What do we do?” asked Kendas.

“Hell if I know!” shouted the Sergeant, who was huddled at the feet of one of the figures.

“We have to stop that monolith before it catches us!” Gerart called out.

“But, how?” asked Lomar.

Another red light grazed the Sergeant’s arm.

“For the love of the Orec Sanctuary’s two-headed dogs! That one almost got me! Kendas! Can you see the bastard?”

“No, Sergeant. This time I can’t.”

“Maybe another blow to the head would help... ,” joked Lomar, smiling as he moved out of the way of another bolt.

“Does anyone have any idea where that chanting sound is coming from?” asked Aliana.

No one answered.

“There’s nothing here besides those coal statues,” noted Gerart.

As soon as the words had come out of the Prince’s mouth, Aliana knew she was right.

An idea was taking shape in her mind.

Crouching down, she looked at the feet of the figures closest to her. They were starting to get covered by the dirt pouring down on them. Seeing nothing noteworthy there, she moved toward the next row of petrified warriors.

Gerart immediately followed her.

Nothing.

She waited for the next blast and then proceeded between the statues, with Gerart following closely, and the rest of the group not far behind.

Still nothing.

Only the first row was left. She went to it and checked the petrified men. All had been turned to coal.

Not satisfied, Aliana continued examining the statues. Finally she found what she had been looking for, at the feet of the second statue from the left.

Blood.

The blood stain at the feet of this figure confirmed Aliana’s suspicions. The Healer pointed at the figure and, meeting Gerart’s eyes, quickly gestured to cut its throat. Gerart nodded and unsheathed his dagger. After waiting for the next streak of light—which almost hit the Sergeant—Gerart crept up behind the bleeding figure. With one lightning-fast move, Gerart stood up and slit the warrior’s throat.

The chanting ceased.

A moment later, the figure fell to the ground.

The gigantic monolith’s spinning slowed until, finally, it came to a stop. 

Afraid to leave their hiding places, everyone hesitated for a few moments. Finally, the Sergeant cautiously stepped out. His eyes locked on the monolith, he approached the fallen warrior.

“It’s dead. It’s the spirit with the golden eyes. Doesn’t look like a coal statue anymore. Damned chameleon!”

“Even when I cut its throat I could not tell if the chanting was coming from it.” Gerart looked at the gaunt, lifeless body of the mummified mage.

“We need to be careful,” warned Aliana. She bent down to search the body. From under its tunic she pulled out a golden tome and immediately examined it in fascination.

It was an Ilenian grimoire! Aware of the importance of the discovery, she carefully tucked it beneath her cuirass.

“This book must be examined by scholars. If I am right and it is of Ilenian origins, it is priceless.”

“Then you should keep it, Aliana. In the hands of soldiers like us it wouldn’t last two days,” smiled Gerart.

“I completely agree,” she smiled back at him. “Now let’s look for Haradin. He has to be in this chamber somewhere.” She looked apprehensively at the figures around her.

After looking for quite some time, they’d still found no trace of the mage.

“The only thing left to explore is the marble altar and that sarcophagus,” said Lomar, pointing toward the high reddish archway that led to the tomb.

“I’ll take care of that,” said Kendas, quickly moving toward the archway.

“That guy is always running,” grumbled Mortuc, who was much less agile than the young lancer.

After crossing under the arch, as soon as Kendas took his first step toward the sarcophagus, a metallic sound came from under his leather boot. He immediately froze in place. He looked at the floor, searching for whatever it was that had made the sound.

“Don’t move!” shouted the Sergeant. “It’s a trap!”

Kendas stood completely still and held his breath. The others ran toward the archway but did not dare to cross under it.

“What do we do, Sergeant?” asked Lomar, concerned for his friend.

“Don’t even breathe, Kendas,” instructed the Sergeant as he examined the archway. Inside, his eyes glimpsed a partially hidden reddish crystal that was similar in color to the monolith. “Despicable tricksters! There is another crystal here. I’d bet my neck if you move a muscle it’ll turn you into a statue.”

“I’d bet so, too,” corroborated Gerart.

“Lomar, come with me,” ordered the Sergeant. He stood behind Kendas under the arch but did not cross through it.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Lomar went to stand beside him.

Kendas stayed so still he didn’t even appear to be breathing.

“On the count of three, we’re going to pull Kendas back; just one strong pull,” instructed the Sergeant.

“All right, Sergeant.”

Gerart and Aliana took a few steps back to give them more room.

The Sergeant began the count. “One!”

Lomar flexed his legs.

“Two!”

“Wait a minute! Hold on, Sergeant!” exclaimed Lomar.

“For the love of my grandmother’s beard! Damn it all! What?” barked the Sergeant.

“On three and then we pull or on three... we pull?” asked Lomar nervously.

“For the love of all the cripples in Tremia! I swear when we get out of here I’m going to put you through training until your children have beards! On three! Three! For all the holy sinners’ sake!”

“Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.”

“One, two...”

Lomar tensed.

“Three!”

They both pulled on Kendas so hard that he stumbled back into them and all three tumbled to the floor. A red bolt shot out from the rock on the other side of the arch and exploded in the spot where, just a moment before, Kendas had been standing.

They all stared into the treacherous trap.

“Close call!” Kendas sighed in relief.

A faint golden light illuminated a hidden path from the archway to the regal tomb. The light shone over the marble altar, and in the dimly lit shadows behind the earth-colored sarcophagus, a coal statue appeared before the astonished adventurers. The petrified figure was holding up a medallion with an enormous, brown gemstone that glowed with a bright light of the same color.

The unlucky soul had fallen into the last trap.

Aliana looked at the statue with an ever-increasing sense of uneasiness. A shiver rushed over her entire body.

“Oh, no!” she sorrowfully exclaimed.

“What?” asked Gerart.

“It’s Haradin!”

Aliana could not bring herself to say aloud what she was thinking:
Rogdon is lost.

We are lost.

Sitting in front of the fire, Lasgol ate some dried meat and a bit of smoked cheese from his provisions. It was a clear night in the steppes and the stars cast a silver luminescence over the shadows surrounding the Norghanian ranger. His faithful companion, Trotter, grazed tranquilly in the grasses near the campsite. On the other side of the small campfire the Assassin was sleeping, tied to a tree, his hands and feet expertly bound. After an exhaustive search, having confiscated all the weapons belonging to both prisoners, Lasgol still was not at all comfortable. A nagging feeling of alarm was hovering in his subconscious, and he could not shake it.

He had attended to the stern-faced executioner’s wounds and now—at least apparently—he was resting quietly; his breathing soft and even. Just as Lasgol had expected, the wounds were not deep and, with his limited knowledge of natural healing, he’d been able to prevent infection. His father had always told him, “Make sure you know how to cure every kind of injury you are capable of inflicting; some day that knowledge may save your life—or the life of someone you love.” He looked at the moon and sighed. How much truth there had been in his father’s wise advice. How much he missed him...

The Assassin had turned out to be quite a mystery, much more so that he had initially imagined. Lasgol had been shocked when he’d removed the handkerchief and the hood and saw the face that had been hiding behind them. This man was not from these lands... not even from this continent. He did not belong to any of the races known in Tremia.

The man had
slanted eyes.

Lasgol had never seen anyone with eyes like that. His hair was black, very straight, and short. And since he definitely belonged to an unknown ethnicity from some faraway land, there was no possibility he was a spy or assassin from Rogdon—which was at least a bit reassuring. War could still be avoided. Too many unknowns, too many surprises.

Lasgol was on edge. He did not much care for situations with mysteries locked inside them, nor was he fond of enigmas and underhanded plots. Logic was his ally, his companion. And no matter how much he analyzed his current situation, he could not piece it all together.

What is a foreign Assassin from some distant continent doing working for Rogdon? And why was he ordered to kill the brother of the King of Norghana? It doesn’t make sense. What would be the reason? To start a war? Why?

And this was not just any assassin. It was one with the Gift, with abilities that can only be developed with many years of training and absolute dedication. No, nothing about this made sense. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together at all.

And that beautiful young Masig? Yet another piece that I can’t put into place. Was she in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe. Maybe not. This is a complex state of affairs; I am not comfortable with these events or the participants. Not one bit.

He stoked the fire with some dry branches. Breathing deeply, Lasgol concentrated and sent a mental message to Trotter.
Stay alert and circle the camp. If you see something strange, neigh.
The small flash of green light around his body seemed to catch Iruki’s eye—but it was not possible that the Masig could have perceived the magical glow. Tied to the opposite side of the tree where the Assassin was sleeping, she shot an inquisitive glance through the flames of the small campfire and locked eyes with Lasgol.

“That’s how you caught him, right? Using some kind of northern magic?” she accused.

“Why would you say that?” the tracker dissembled.

“I saw the glowing green light. Don’t try to pretend; I saw it and I know what it means.”

Her answer not only surprised Lasgol, it left him speechless. His Gift—and the use of it through abilities and talents—was imperceptible to the majority of humans. Only a select few, those also endowed with the Gift, were capable of recognizing it when it was activated. And even that was not always the case. The fact that this young Masig could
see
his Gift was astonishing. And completely unexpected.

“It must have been a reflection from the fire, nothing more. Certainly nothing worth mentioning.” he replied, still trying to evade the issue.

“I’ve seen a glow like that before, but it was a different color—a reddish color—but similar. And I know that, right after I saw it, unimaginable things happened. Things that defy the laws of our mother, the Steppe; laws that govern life on the prairies,” the young Masig explained.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The ranger stared uncomfortably into the fire.

“Don’t take me for an idiot! You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. I may be an uneducated savage from the prairies but my eyes do not deceive me. I recognize the stars above my head where the spirits dwell and the earth beneath my feet where Mother Steppe lives—just as I know that you used some hidden power or some kind of magic even though you are not a Shaman. I don’t care what you say; deny it all you want but Iruki Wind of the Steppes knows.”

Lasgol regarded her with increasing curiosity. That lovely Masig with a fighter’s spirit was also capable of seeing the Assassin’s power... really intriguing. She was touched by the Gift in some way and, as significant as that was, she wasn’t aware of it.

“You’re imagining things, Masig. Go back to sleep. Get some rest. Don’t worry—the evil spirits of the night won’t be visiting you. Tomorrow is going to be a long day and you need to be well rested.”

Iruki stretched her feet and shook her head. “What are you going to do with us?” she suddenly asked. “If you are taking us back to your land they’ll kill us both, or worse... much worse.”

“I am sorry, but I have no choice. It is my duty.” Lasgol lowered his head and gazed into the fire.

“They’ll torture us until we’ve suffered to the point we’d name our own fathers as betrayers. When they’ve finally gotten everything they need to know out of us, they’ll kill us—and you know it. You know the brutality those soulless barbarians are capable of. Not even the worst animals of the steppes are that vicious. Even them—even the hyenas and the vultures—have more dignity.”

“I have to turn you over. You are fugitives from the kingdom; murderers. I have no choice. This is my duty as Ranger and Royal Tracker. They’ve entrusted this mission to me, and I will carry it out.”

“You speak of duty and honor but you know as well as I do that your people do not have those. What honor is there in capturing a Masig so she can be the sexual slave of those you serve? What honor is there in raping and torturing a defenseless woman?”

Unable to look at the young girl, Lasgol hung his head, overcome by shame and disgrace.

“I deeply regret what happened to you. Truly I do. It is an irreparable atrocity. I know that some of my people are despicable beings; unfortunately there are those kinds of people everywhere. But my duty is sacred to me and I cannot disregard it. I am what I am...”

“So you’ll let them torture and kill me? Or worse? You know full well what will happen. What kind of duty is it that you speak of? What kind of honor guides you?” She spit at the manhunter.

Lasgol inhaled pensively. “I’m sorry, Masig. I do not know the degree of involvement you had in this conspiracy. Perhaps you really are just an unfortunate victim in all this. I can’t say that’s not the case. But I don’t
know.
So the only thing I can do is turn you over with him,” he explained as he looked at the Assassin. “There is a war that’s about to break out because of this incident. Thousands of innocent people from both kingdoms will suffer and die because of the assassination. I cannot allow that to happen. I have to try to prevent that bloodshed. If in order to do that I have to turn you over, I’m sorry, but I will do just that.”

Speaking almost in a whisper, a masculine voice with a foreign accent said, “You can let her go, Norghanian. She has nothing to do with this.”

Lasgol instantly tensed when he heard the Dark Assassin’s voice for the first time. He looked at him for a moment to make sure he was still bound and posed no threat. Lasgol placed his right hand on his sword; the contact with the cold metal and leather handle calmed him somewhat—though not completely.

“Is that right, foreigner?” challenged Lasgol, fixing his blue eyes on the dangerous prisoner.

“Yes is it,” he nodded. “She is innocent. I am the Assassin. I am the one you’re looking for. Let her go.”

“I’d like to believe you, foreigner, but your word is not enough. You could be working together. I cannot trust you,” reasoned Lasgol, uncertainty tensing every muscle in his body.

“An Assassin like me and a wild Masig? You can’t be serious. That’s absolutely unbelievable and you know it,” argued the Assassin, gesturing with his head toward the Masig.

“My eyes have seen some strange things...”

“You are an intelligent man, Norghanian. You know perfectly well that the probability we’re working together is nonexistent.”

“That may be, but without knowing for sure there is still a remote chance... After all, the two of you were there the night of the assassination and you’re still together today.”

“I want to propose something to you, Manhunter. If you let her go free I will divulge to you what you want to know; I will reveal who I am working for. Otherwise, you will never find out, I promise you that.” The Assassin looked coldly into Lasgol’s eyes.

“Oh, they’ll find out... Of that I have no doubt. They will torture you until you speak and, believe me, sooner or later, you’ll talk. Everyone always does.”

“I won’t give them the chance. I’ll die before they get anything out of me; I can guarantee you that, Tracker. I was trained for this.”

“Trained to take your own life? What kind of assassin are you?

“A really unusual one. From a land far, far away where I had a long, very specific training. But if you want to know more about me and the hand that ordered the assassination of your Grand Duke you’ll have to let the Masig go. Those are my terms.”

“Why are you so interested in her life, Assassin? Your mission is to steal life away from people. So why do you want to save her? You said yourself you only just met her a few days ago. Why would you do that?”

“Many questions in that perceptive mind of yours, Manhunter. My answer is simple: Let her go and I will tell you everything you want to know.”

Iruki glared at Lasgol with a look of pure hatred. “Don’t bother; he has no intention of letting me go. He speaks of honor and duty but deep down he is nothing more than another gutless Norghanian dog!” she snarled angrily.

Lasgol contemplated the Assassin’s words for a moment. He did not want to hand over the Masig after what they had done to her. Besides, he was almost convinced she had nothing to do with the assassination plot; that possibility was simply far too remote. Still, he did not trust the Assassin. He was undoubtedly trying to confuse him, play with his mind, all the while trying to find some way to take advantage of him. He had to be wary and not let himself be fooled. The advantage was all his at the moment. He’d have to play his cards wisely; the stakes were extremely high.

“I’ll consider what you’ve said, foreigner. But right now I don’t want to listen to any more of this. We are going to rest and then we are leaving at dawn. If you try anything tonight I’ll kill you without thinking twice. And she will die first,” he promised, unsheathing his sword and pointing it at the Masig.

“Don’t threaten me, Norghanian; you who come from a breed of revolting rapists!”

Lasgol ignored her. “If you try to use your power in any way, I’ll know it, Assassin.”

“Will you really?” he asked rhetorically.

“I am a Chosen One, like you,” confirmed Lasgol.

The Assassin looked at Lasgol, smiled, and nodded.