The Flame of Wrath (36 page)

With any luck, by this very time the next day, they would have
Lady Autumn within their party and be that much closer to the safety of Angels Province.

             
Thus far, three months had been spent engaged in exhausting travel. Outside of Angels Province, no territory was truly safe. There had been many instances of near-discovery, but some guiding hand seemed to rule in their favor. Now closer to Autumn than ever before, they held their breaths and hoped that the Dragon would remain with them.

             
Soren watched over the weary lizard, seeing its eyes droop in exhaustion. His hand gently rubbed the skin between the creature's eyes. He affectionately smoothed the flat plane of his broad head. He watched as the reluctant giant lolled his head to the side, surrendering to fatigue.

             
“Sleep,” Soren whispered. “You’ve earned it.”

             
The druid turned his head.

             
The moon peeking between the tall trees lightly fell upon those bathing within healing waters. Soren smiled to himself. He was happy that some sense of comfort or reward had been bestowed to his comrades no matter how small that comfort was.

The danger had only just begun. It would grow more treacherous from here.

As Soren stared from face to face, his own face grew overshadowed by the dark realization that a few of their party might never return home.

             
“They know the price of war,” he heard gently.

             
Soren blinked away his sadness. As if waking from a dream, he realized that Zahara had been watching him watching the others. “Zahara,” he breathed. “How long have you---”

             
Zahara sat at his side, realizing that she had startled the druid. “When we each agreed to come, we knew what we might lose,” she said, ignoring his previous question. “Don't trouble yourself with such thoughts.” She tossed a heavy blanket at the druid's head.  A ghost of a smirk touched her lips as he awkwardly caught it. “Now rest. We move in a few hours. Who knows when we'll have the opportunity to sleep again?”

*******
             

             
A hand lightly shaking his shoulder roused Soren from dreaming. When his eyes opened, it was to the aura of Zahara looming over him. He saw the dancing colors of her determination, her hopefulness, her innermost fears.

             
“Is it time?” he asked.

             
Zahara could only nod before she went to join the others in preparing for battle.

             
Wearily, Soren sat up. He suddenly felt the enormity of his age. It weighed upon him with boundless zeal.

             
It seemed like so long ago that he had made an oath to the individuals bathed in shadow. A trinity of months could scarcely count as long ago in the minds’ of man. Still, the burdens of a heavy heart can prolong all things until they morph into something ominous.

             
For a fleeting instant, his thoughts ventured to what atrocities might have taken place while he and the others had been on their quest. He pushed them away. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on those things. His thoughts were needed here and now if Autumn was to be freed from Aurea's clutches.

             
Across the oasis on the land where cool sweet waters ebbed, the pillars of shadowy defenders stood proudly. They were the strong warriors of Illusion. They were the graceful Guardians bound to the druids by an ancient oath. 

             
A knowing wind swept throughout the dark valley. It blessed the soldiers, by anointing them in the purity of the oasis' waters.

             
With an audible creak of protest, a broad chest opened slowly. It revealed the greatest secret of a private people. The House of Illusion had shown the true immensity of their trust in the Angels’ clan by bringing with them a most precious gift.

             
There was no greater honor among the warriors of Illusion than to receive what they called “the ghost's shroud.” The armor was a treasure within their land. Whoever possessed its powers was said to be at one with the spirits and to be truly at peace within the shadows.

             
Ceremoniously, hands dipped into the bountiful trove. A dark membrane glistened as ever-changing ink. In one light, it was the darkest blue. Then in another light it was fathomless black. It throbbed with life. Such was the nature of the gift. It lived as the life's blood to nightmares.

             
With the moon's assent, their naked bodies were loosely draped in the flowing coolness of stretchy softness.

             
The warriors worked beneath the airy covering. They placed their daggers at their ankles, or carefully affixed throwing knives to their forearms and wrist. While others still placed their swords at their hips or backs.   

             
The cold yielding material was then pulled down over their heads as a masked cowl.

             
The Guardians had followed suit. They too had donned their weapons before draping the flowing ghost shroud over their bodies. They gazed curiously from one to the other, wondering how such a garment could aid them in battle. What they wore was of no better protection than the furs upon which they had slept. How could this billowing sheet garner the myth of ghostly stealth? When they looked to the warriors of Illusion, they were answered only by the knowing smiles present inside their exposed eyes.

             
Zahara gasped at the sudden heat of the membrane against her skin. She could feel its stirring over her lean body. The formless fabric rushed together in a frantic desire to connect. It molded to her body like a second skin, but possessed the strength of any armor she had ever worn. She felt it with an unwavering certainty that no blade could pierce this newly-given skin.

             
She splayed the fingers of her hands. A faint creaking similar to the sound of leather filled her ears. Her hands were gloved as she moved them beneath the moonlight. Zahara frowned curiously. The shadows made her hand all but undetectable even as she held it a mere breadth from her face.

             
Suddenly, Zahara remembered her face. She leaned over the mirror-like surface of the water then peered curiously at her own reflection. With a low hiss the ghost's shroud had molded tightly to her head, leaving only her eyes for the world.

             
Her gaze shifted to her warriors. She could see the amazement present within grateful eyes as they took in the intuitive actions of the shroud. As if reacting instinctively to the wearer's thoughts, the shroud parted just enough to reveal the hilts of swords or the delicate ends of throwing knives before winking and closing off their whereabouts to the world.

             
The Guardians gave their most respectful bows to the soldiers of Illusion for bestowing such a means of protection. Then together they walked soundlessly toward the druid, who sat patiently upon a moss-covered stone.

             
The druid sensed the confidence rising within them. He welcomed it. It would be needed in order for the odds against them not to appear so dire.

             
“Once,” Soren began, “the druids of the temple constructed a tunnel from their home across the neighboring dunes to this very oasis. It is remembered only within scrolls.” He paused adding, “Scrolls which druids have long since forgotten. It is only the eldest among us who remember... but the old ones are a dying breed.” His face grew somber. There was silence which lingered into the countless moments before he spoke again. “The priests of Virtue now inhabiting the temple will know nothing of this tunnel. We will enter it, travel along its length then find ourselves at the exit inside a wine cellar. If there are any priests or guards about, we must dispatch them quickly or run the risk of being detected by the entire temple.”

             
The keen eyes observing him wordlessly voiced their understanding. Slowly, heads began to nod in acquiescence.

             
“We have reviewed this plan countless times before, but I say it once more...” Zahara started. Her voice grew soft. “One final time.” Her eyes met each of her men.

             
Yes
, she thought,
they know the price.

             
“Once inside the temple, we will part into our teams. We do not know where Autumn is located so we will have to search the entire enclosure. In these smaller groups, we can cover more ground and hopefully avoid detection.”

             
Soren moved toward a wall of vines. His hand ripped at the jade ropes until a cave was exposed.

             
At first glance, it seemed to be little more than an ordinary cave. He entered with the others at his back. His hand pressed against a misleadingly innocent stone among stones. “When you have found Autumn, remain in hiding, but concentrate all your thoughts upon me. Dragon willing, I will sense your whereabouts then summon the others to your location where we shall regroup and leave as quietly as we came.”

             
Zahara stood at Soren's side. Her eyes were brightly burning orbs. She uttered a prayer for all those under her command. “Mother, keep us.”

********

              No words were spoken. The time for one's thoughts had passed. All that existed was the intensity of instinct and the constancy of methodical planning. In the winding womb of darkness, they moved closer toward their freedom or their entrapment.

             
The air was stale. It harbored a thickness which threatened to choke them. Its tangible weightiness could be rivaled only by the dense curtains of clinging webs. The webs pulled at their bodies like ghostly hands. These hands begged them not to continue on. They pleaded for the warriors to abandon their mission, but it was in vain.

             
In the distance, a tiny sliver of light could be glimpsed shining through from the wine cellar. As they grew nearer to that rectangular outline of light, they could begin to make out the sounds of voices speaking together in confidence.

             
“Why so much wine tonight, my brother?” they heard. The male voice had been laced with concern.

             
There was a loud shuffling as a priest withdrew various bottles of wine before inspecting them then returning them to their home within the shelves. He was muttering to himself as though he did not hear his fellow priest. Only after some time did he speak in little more than a murmur. “It is my night to sit in the relic room,” he said. His voice was consumed by fear. “I hate sitting watch in that... that... tomb.”

             
A loud gasp filled the air. “You must not say such things, Brother Solomon. The Empress has forbidden anyone to ever refer to Autumn's place of sleep as a tomb.”

             
“But how can it be called anything else?” Solomon argued earnestly. “She does not move. She merely collects dust like the artifacts in that room which surround her.”

             
There was a loud shuffling as the younger priest danced awkwardly. It was clear that discussing these things frightened him horribly. His voice shook with panic. “Please, brother, no more. If I were anyone else, your words would be reported to the Empress, but----”

             
A violent sigh echoed throughout the wine cellar. “Forgive me,” Solomon said, “I know I've put you in a dangerous position. It's just that when I'm with the Lady Autumn I feel... I feel----” He stopped, attempting to discover the right words. “It's as though despite her closed eyes, I feel that she ---or something else entirely---- is watching... always watching.”

             
The young priest dropped his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “I have heard stories,” he said.

             
“What stories?”

             
“Some say that when they sit with her, they have seen Lady Autumn's ghost.”

             
“Ghost?!”

             
The priest shushed his brother nervously. “Maybe not her ghost,” he said weakly. “Whatever it is, they have seen what looks like her spirit sitting in the room. It's as if she's watching over herself. All those who have seen her say, she seems sad and lost.”

             
Hearing all he needed, a frightened Solomon pried the cork free from a bottle's mouth. As he fumbled with it, he spoke through nervously clenched teeth. “You see? I was right. There is a presence in that room. It lingers like a mist in the air.”

             
The contents of an emerald bottle were tossed about like impassioned seas. Their deadly break upon the shores of the priest's lips could be heard with bitter brutality inside the tunnel.

             
“For courage,” Solomon explained. He gripped more tightly to the bottles in his embrace before both he and his comrade left to go about their duties.