Warlord (19 page)
In that brief moment of suspended time, they could not have seen the gossamer mist of their breath turn a deep black, a dank, fetid vapor, that swirled in on itself until it formed a small, whirling sphere and then zoomed into Sara’s next inhaled breath so that when she came down from her release, still panting and exhilarated, she reached her hand under Arystan’s furs to the belt around his waist and in one, quick movement, found the hilt to his short sword, unsheathed it, drew it back, and plunged it toward Arystan’s heart as he still quaked inside her.
The force of Sara’s thrust sent Arystan staggering backwards, as if she suddenly possessed some extraordinary strength. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, unable to process what had just happened. Then he looked up at Sara who was advancing toward him, a threatening look in her dark blue eyes, her breathing still labored.
Arystan grabbed the sword by the hilt and grunted, pulling it free from the leather, the mail, and the bronze breastplate that he had been wearing to get used to the heavy armor of open warfare. The blade was sharp and her thrust was powerful. He was sure that the plate had dented. But gods, what was going on?
He flipped the sword forward, holding Sara at bay as she circled him, trying to come after him. There was something very malevolent about the way she moved. The clouds shifted for a moment, allowing a shade more of moonlight to drift through the trees, and he saw her eyes more clearly. They weren’t dark blue as he had originally thought, they were black. Completely black. Her irises had merged into her pupils with no contrast whatsoever. He knew of only one thing that could cause that.
“Sara, I’m sorry,” he breathed and then brought the blade of his sword behind him, let her charge at him and then rammed the hilt into her head, knocking her out cold onto the frosted ground.
Arystan gave two shrill whistles and within a minute, a black horse thundered from the vicinity of the camp, wheeling up short before him. Some of the horses at the camp were kept fully bridled and saddled in case of emergency. This was such an emergency. He dragged Sara’s unconscious body up before him as he mounted and whirled in the direction of the camp.
“Tebur! Sabalak!” he called as he rode past the front entrance, now all but dismantled.
Tebur was out front, tending to some last minute details. “Arystan!” he cried, shocked at his leader’s frantic demeanor.
Arystan quickly told Tebur where he was going. He instructed the chieftain to break camp and lead the men out in the morning. He would catch up. He didn’t expect to be too far behind.
“Consider it done, my lord,” said Tebur. “Spirits be with you.”
Arystan nodded and galloped at full speed across the plains to the foothills behind the camp.
* * * * *
Arystan lifted Sara’s limp body into his arms and continued climbing. Eventually, it became so precipitous, that he hefted Sara over his shoulder and used his free hand to pull himself over the rocks, balancing her body with the other. The night, already cold, became bitter the higher he climbed, but he was warm, sweating with the exertion. He did not stop once for rest, but climbed relentlessly toward the pinnacled heights.
Long spires began to form from the rock and the crags became triangular, jutting out in harsh relief against the coal-black sky. Finally, Arystan faced a tall, sheer pillar of granite. High above, he could see a ledge. He knew he had to climb to it. He ran his hand over the faceless rock and then set about climbing upward. His fingers found the smallest of nubs, his boots the tiniest cracks. He wrapped his left arm around Sara’s legs and used both hands to assist him, the woman hanging low over his back, her hair sweeping his boots. Finally, he reached the ledge and pulled himself to it, swinging Sara up as well, panting with exhaustion and relief.
The pillar was narrow and the ledge even more so. A few paces before him was a blank wall. He rolled Sara from his shoulders carefully, setting her as far as he could from the edge of the precipice behind him and dropped to his knees.
“Mother of the Mountains, Great Spirit of Life, Diviner of Death, I beseech you to help me. I am Arystan, from the village of Kuybykshet.”
He looked at the blank wall. Nothing happened.
“I bring a woman, Sara Aster, from a land far from our own. I believe she has been inhabited by. . . the c
hernyi tuman
. . . the black mist.”
Arystan looked desperately toward the rock face again. If this didn’t work . . . .
Suddenly, the wall dissolved and evaporated, leaving a large, gaping blackness where before there had been only gray stone. Arystan gathered Sara in his arms and, without hesitation, walked forward into the darkness.
He stopped a few paces in. It was still dark, but he had the sense he was in a cavern.
Light flared abruptly and he was standing before a fire in a circular cave with a low roof.
There were no entrances or exits. He looked behind him. The gap in the stone blurred and the wall reappeared.
He looked forward again and sitting cross-legged before the fire was an old woman with olive skin, long thinning white hair and piercing blue eyes. Arystan blinked. She had not been there before. She sat on a soft rug made of snow leopard fur. She gestured for him to sit and soft skins appeared beneath him. Arystan laid Sara before him next to the fire and sat cross-legged also, facing the old woman, the witch of the mountains.
The woman closed her eyes and was silent, as if listening for something. Arystan did not know what to say or do, so he simply sat there watching her. At least he had been allowed access to her presence. He knew that she was very difficult to find and even more reluctant to grant an audience. Many who had succeeded in locating the pillar to seek her wisdom, begged and pleaded, sometimes sitting for days or weeks before the blank wall which never opened.
The witch wore a worn brown cloak which she clutched about her with bony, but graceful fingers. Studying her face, Arystan realized she had probably been quite beautiful at one time. Perhaps she still was, presenting an appearance of age only for effect. Suddenly, her eyes flew open, their sharpness disturbing.
“You were wise to come, warlord. The woman has indeed been inhabited by the
chernyi
tuman
. This particular mist is of an evil mien. It is disobedient, but also resourceful. It has no respect for the timeline, the natural order, its own place in the universe,” she said disdainfully.
Arystan swallowed, looking down at Sara. A lump was starting to form on the side of her head where he had hit her with the hilt of his sword. He touched his fingers to it gingerly and then looked at the old woman. “What can we do, Mother?” he said softly.
“You care for this woman?” asked the witch simply. “You have previously cared for no woman. Felt yourself incapable of it.”
Arystan wondered where she was going with this. “Yes,” he answered truthfully.
Her eyes seemed to pierce through him as she looked into his black eyes. It was uncomfortable; he felt as if there was a presence within him, probing, testing, assessing his innermost energy. Then the witch looked away as if mulling over something.
“Can you help her?” asked Arystan hoarsely. “Can you cast it out of her?”
She returned her gaze to Arystan. “No,” she replied. “I cannot cast it out. I have no right to tamper with the power of one greater than I, no matter how malevolent. It is a law I will not and cannot break.” She looked through him with her clear, blue eyes, her expression unreadable.
Arystan’s eyes hardened, his heart thumping in his chest. He felt anger swelling within him. Surely the witch did not grant him entrance simply to tell him Sara’s soul was lost and then think to turn him out.
The witch spoke again to him, her voice more soothing. “Although I cannot cast it out warlord, the woman can choose, herself, to remove its influence,” she said, still staring at him as if he was made of something intangible.
“But Mother, she tried to kill me. She is not herself. She is fully taken over. I do not see how she could or would be able to choose,” Arystan said deferentially, trying not to let his frustration show in his voice.
The witch sighed. “I will show her – no, I will show both of you – and then she will make her choice. After her decision, you may both have another choice to make.”
Arystan nodded as the ancient woman slowly got to her feet. It seemed difficult, almost painful, for her and she teetered a bit when she was finally standing. She waved her hand and the fire in the center of the room spread outward in an arc which passed through them as it widened, forming a low, warming circle of fire around the perimeter of the cave.
Arystan gasped as he felt the flames move through him. It felt as if something had occupied the same space as the cells in his body for a brief moment, not crowding them but co-existing. It was an odd sensation.
The woman waved her hand again and a large circle appeared in the center of the cavern, as if drawn with chalk. She stood just outside the circle next to the flames. “Lie down in the circle. Next to the woman,” she ordered.
Arystan picked Sara up and laid her gently on the granite floor. There were no furs. He tried to make her as comfortable as possible. Then he lay down next to her. He had thought the ground would be hard, but it was almost as if there were no sensation. He swallowed, turning his head to look at Sara. Her eyes were still closed and she was breathing slowly and regularly. He turned his head back to the roof of the cave, the firelight dancing in relief against the rough stone. He reached for Sara’s hand and drew it within his own.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old woman walk forward. She circled them, chanting and saying various incantations, casting her arms about and thrusting her hands forward over them several times. He tightened his hand over Sara’s as slowly he felt the walls of the cave close inward, moving through them as the fire had, sharing space with their cells and then the sensation of nothing.
For a moment there was no sound, no light, no thought and then Arystan could see again and he was relieved to find he was still holding Sara’s hand and it was warm within his grasp. He turned to look at her. They seemed to be floating in nothingness, suspended, no, not really floating; they didn’t seem to need the support of air, gravity or breath, they simply existed. But Arystan knew he could still feel because his heart clutched as he saw that Sara’s irises were lake-blue again. She smiled at him and it made him feel dizzy and then something caught their attention and they both turned to the scene in front of them.
There was a lake, a wide beautiful blue lake, the color of Sara’s eyes, nestled between mountains of gray granite and fields of heather and flowering plants. A small, dark-skinned boy ran from a cluster of small wood and skin huts down a long trail to a rock overlooking the lake. He scrambled to the top of the boulder and sat taking in the landscape, his black eyes mature and thoughtful.
A great rumbling suddenly filled the valley, breaking the pristine silence, and the boy looked around frantically, trying to determine the source of the sound. From his perch, he saw thousands of horsemen sweeping down the valley above his village, great clouds of dust billowing from their thundering hooves. He stood up on the rock, shading the sun with his small hand and watched as the lead rider paused at the village and a man walked forward to greet them on the trail. He could hear an exchange of voices, but could not make out the words. He watched as the horseman pulled a flail from behind his back, swung it, and cracked open the skull of the man standing in front of him, sending him sprawling, dead, to the ground. The man then gave an order to his troops and rode on.
As the riders passed, they set fire to the huts, speared those they could reach from the trail and detoured to run down and run through the remainder of the screaming villagers almost as if for sport.
As soon as he saw what was happening, the boy leapt from the rock, intent on running as fast as he could back to the village to help and to fight, but his small feet slipped as he scrambled down in his haste and he fell, hitting his head on a sharp rock. The impact knocked him unconscious and he rolled until his body lay partially in the lake, behind and under the boulder and out of view of the trail. The blue water lapped gently at his side as the army thundered past unmindful of him.
Arystan felt his hand being squeezed harder and tore his eyes away from the scene of his childhood to Sara who was openly weeping, tears flowing freely down her face. Arystan turned back to the scene, his gaze impassive. He had long since come to terms with what had happened that day. It made him who he was and he had brought the opportunity to kill the man responsible within his reach. He and Sara continued to watch his life play out, most of it a fast blur, bits and pieces more conspicuous, as if time slowed for the portions critical to their journey together.
Arystan’s life replayed up until the time when he entered his yurt to find Sara lashed to the center pole, her body glistening in the torchlight, her eyes challenging and unafraid.
He felt, even now, in his supposedly sensationless floating, that he was getting a powerful erection. He wondered whether it was possible to fuck in the current state of their bodies.
He cut his eyes over to Sara who was watching the scene, her mouth slightly parted, her skin lightly flushed, her arousal clearly evident as she watched Arystan’s calloused and guarded interior suddenly brought up short by his unbridled responses to her. She knew now why he tried so hard to block out affection, to block out love. He had done it to protect himself after the terrible pain he had suffered as a child, losing everything and everyone he had ever known, brutally murdered by someone she believed to have been General Bayuan.
