ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 42

Melahara resumed the Tuathan march an hour after Taran’s capture.  Fatimah still held the shield when the call ran up and down the column, and Melahara forced her to relinquish control of the shield to another priest.  Just as Bessi was disappointed to give up the shield, Fatimah reluctantly gave the shield to a priest older than her, who took it with an eager gleam in her eyes.  When Ahura left Fatimah, she slumped against a priest who was there to support her.  She was able to stand on her feet within minutes, but her body still wanted nothing more than to lie down.  She chose to stay with the priests holding the shield.  If one of them should lose her concentration, perhaps she would have a chance to Wield again and forget about Taran.

She gave an involuntary glance back at the covered wagon that held Taran.  Eblin still rode on the front seat with the Heshman driver, but the remaining Shadarlak flanked the wagon, including a sizable contingent of priests and Heshmen.  As the column started its march, the two sides began to eye the forests on either side of them more than each other, a development that gave Fatimah hope their alliance was not dead.

After a few hours of marching, Melahara came forward and walked among the shield priests.

“I have received word through Ahura from Brya Lueng.  General Myndehr arrived safely in Markwatch, and Lord Ven Demeg has already dispatched four ships.  They should be awaiting us when we arrive at Tsall.”

Relieved whispers spread through the ranks of the priests, and the news traveled fast along the column of weary Tuathans.  The news seemed to make the column move a little quicker toward the seaside village of Tsall.  Even Fatimah felt her sadness ebb a little.  At least her people would soon be safe.  Relatively speaking.  For there was nowhere her people would be truly safe from the Fomorians and harrowers.

As the night wore on, priest after priest held the shield, none for more than an a half hour, before being relieved by another priest.  Fatimah herself eagerly took another turn at maintaining the shield, and each time experienced the torturous process of giving it up to another priest at the end of her turn.  All of the priests experienced the same fatigue that she felt afterwards, but all were growing strong enough to remain standing after giving up the shield.  Also, as each turn passed, the priests could Wield much sooner after a previous Wield.  Though still terribly difficult, they were becoming much more disciplined about giving up Ahura when their turns were over.  None wanted to suffer Pomar’s fate.  Better to experience the loss of Ahura for a little while than forever.

When the night sky turned purple in the east, Fatimah spotted seagulls in the sky, and even smelled the saltiness of the sea.  Others began to notice the same thing, and excited murmurs raced up and down the bone-weary column.  Mothers whispered encouraging words to older children, while fathers carried young children too tired to walk.  Many parents looked as if they needed to be carried themselves.  It took most of Fatimah’s concentration to put one foot in front of the other.

The sun broke above the tree lines as Fatimah began to hear the faint crashing waves.  The smell of the sea was stronger now, and a breeze had picked up.  Within an hour, the column rounded a bend and stared at the abandoned huts and stone piers of the Tuathan village Tsall.  The village had been deserted two decades ago after a terrible hurricane destroyed most of the town.  Without the resources to rebuild, along with a dwindling population, the survivors simply moved to different villages inside the Beldamark.

Beyond the decaying huts, Fatimah saw the dark blue sea.  White waves crashed on the crumbling stone piers and a narrow strip of sandy beach that stretched north and south beyond sight.  The red sun hung just above the sea’s horizon, making the water look like sparkling diamonds and rubies.

It was one of the most beautiful sights Fatimah had ever seen.

The ragged band of Tuathans behind her surged forward to stand on the sandy beach, as if being near the sea would make them safe forever.  Fatimah also wanted to walk in the surf that pounded the sand.  It had been years since she had seen the sea, and the salvation from the harrowers it promised made her want to touch the water.

The first inkling Fatimah had that something was wrong was that the promised ships were no where in sight.  That concerned her, but she was not too worried since the vessels could be called by communication through Ahura to the priest on the ship.

What scared her were the two harrowers who emerged from the forest and walked beside the lead Tuathans, just outside the shield.  They also had a shield of their own, although theirs made everything within it distorted, as if viewed through an unevenly cast window.

As they approached, Fatimah could make out two men.  One wore the same buckskin and woolen clothes of a Tuathan, though much shabbier and muddier than even the marching Tuathans.

Fatimah was even more shocked by the other harrower.  He wore Recindian clothes—black breeches, white shirt, black coat, and a black tri-corner hat.  He had a thick, white mustache that hung over his lips.  Fatimah recognized him as the man who had shared a tent with Taran during their march from Markwatch, but she could not remember his name.  She wondered why she had not smelled the Taint of Angra on him when she first met him, then realized she had never come within five paces of the man.  She had only smelled the Taint on Taran when she was less than a pace from him.

The Recindian bowed, and said, “We come under a flag of truce.  Please excuse the fact we have no flag.”

The second man next to him, a little older than Fatimah, gave a high-pitched maniacal laugh.

“Who are you?” Melahara said, striding toward the two harrowers, but staying within the shield.

“Kumar Ladak, proud Fomorian at your service, my lady.  And my associate is…well, I don’t really know his name.  Forgot to ask when I turned him into a harrower.  Anyway, our names are not important, but our offer is.  Give us the Zervakan, and your people may live.”

“The Zervakan, the Zervakan,” the younger man repeated, his grin showing yellow, rotten teeth.  He hopped around like a dog eager for a treat.

“What makes you think we have him?”

Ladak snorted.  “Who else could have created this grand shield?  Quite impressive, I must say.  We know you do not yet have the strength to create one.  Which means you have a Zervakan among you.”

“Zervakan, Zervakan,” the younger man chanted.

“Even if we did have the Zervakan among us, you know we cannot give him to you.  You will only use him against us.”

“And you would not use him against us?”  Ladak shook his head reproachfully at Melahara, as if scolding a young child.  Melahara’s frown said she did not appreciate it.

“Whether or not you believe this,” Ladak said, “our fight is not with you, Holy Seat.”

Melahara raised an eyebrow.  “And I suppose the attack on our Heiron and the harassment along our journey was your idea of opening diplomatic relations?”

Ladak pointed a finger at her.  “We were prepared to leave you in peace, but you forced us to act by allying with our true enemy—the Recindian Compact.  They represent the greatest threat in this world to my people and to yours.”

“Ah, so we should band together to fight the Compact, is that right?”  Melahara laughed.  “We may lack your Wielding strength—for the moment—but we are not fools.”

“Think about it,” Ladak said patiently.  “I’ve lived in the Compact for generations.  Their Pathist priests have corrupted the people with their teachings against ‘supernaturalism.’  They’ve fought two wars against Mazumdahr, a country that has strong ‘supernaturalist’ beliefs, simply because the Compact fears those beliefs.  Do you really think the Pathists in the Compact will just let you settle on their lands?  Even if their government believes you, the people will not.  They have been conditioned too well.  You know this.  It will be just like a thousand years ago, when you were chased into the Beldamark by mobs with pitchforks and nooses.”

Melahara regarded the Fomorian with a smirk, but Fatimah saw her eyes begin to narrow, as if Ladak’s words had struck home.

“This world has forgotten the powers that created it,” Ladak said, “that keep it strong and enable it to survive.  Given time, the Compact’s fear of ‘supernaturalism’ will make them try to destroy you.”

Eblin approached Melahara, leaning heavily on her staff.  “Since when do harrowers think of the welfare of others?” she asked.

“Fomorian,” Ladak said.  “He’s the harrower.  And I don’t care about your people.  Look at you.  You can barely hold back four harrowers.  What are you going to do when you’re attacked by true-blood Fomorians?  No, we don’t see you as a threat.  But we will if you proceed with this doomed and misguided alliance with the Compact.  We will defeat them regardless of whether you help them.  It’ll just be easier, quicker, and with far less loss of life if you don’t.”

Then he turned to Melahara.  “Give us the Zervakan and we will destroy the Compact within weeks.  You can go back to your Beldamark homes and live peaceful lives like you have done over the last millennium.”

Melahara said, “And after the Compact is defeated you will come for us.”

Fatimah was shocked more at the tone of Melahara’s voice rather than the statement.  It sounded more like a question, as if the Holy Seat was actually considering the Fomorian’s offer.  Fatimah did not allow her face to show her confusion, but she hoped that Eblin noticed the undertones.  If Eblin did, though, her face did not show it.

Ladak smiled.  “As long as your people stay in the Beldamark, you have nothing to fear from us.”

Melahara considered this for a moment.  “And what assurances can you give us?”

Fatimah could not contain her outrage any longer.  “Mother Seat, do not believe anything—”

Eblin hissed, “Silence, girl!”

Fatimah stared at Eblin, but her old Master said, “Do not interrupt the Holy Seat.”

The younger harrower gave a high laugh while staring at Fatimah.  “Turmoil and trouble, hee, hee.”

“So much for Tuathan discipline,” Ladak said, grinning at Fatimah.

“I said,” Melahara repeated, “what assurances can you give me that you will not come after us once the Compact is gone?”

Ladak turned his gray eyes to Melahara.  “Because I know how the Barrier fell, and I can help you raise it again around the Beldamark.”

Ladak took a gold pocket watch from his black coat, glanced at it, and said, “I’ll be generous and give you one hour to talk amongst yourselves.”

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 41

After marching five hours, Eblin called a halt that was greeted with quiet sighs of gratitude from the Tuathan masses.

Fatimah ensured there were enough priests to maintain the shield, and then made her way to the back of the column to await Melahara’s return.  Melahara had received word from Pomar, through Ahura, that they found Taran and were returning to the column.  Upon hearing this, Melahara gathered all the priests that the column could spare, along with a squad of Heshmen, and went to meet Pomar.  Melahara forbade Fatimah from accompanying her, ignoring Fatimah’s inappropriate protests.  When Melahara’s sharp denials did not silence Fatimah, Eblin did so in a harsh tone that she never used even when Fatimah was an Acolyte.

“It is not your place to question the Holy Seat’s wisdom, priest,” Eblin had said.  “Now do your duty and stop your childish whining.”

Fatimah had gritted her teeth and returned to her place among the priests maintaining the shield.

Fatimah reached the end of the column and sat in front of the shield’s blue, translucent edge.  Several Tuathan families also sat nearby, and she gave them reassuring smiles.  One of the children, a dirty-faced boy of five years, gave her a piece of cheese, for which Fatimah thanked him and ate gratefully.  The boy gave her a shy smile and ran back to his mother.

The dark clouds had weakened, and the first stars of dusk sparkled through the breaks.  Ahura and Angra shone like beacons in the sky, bathing the road in a strange mixture of color and darkness.  Fatimah watched the shadowy road behind the column, waiting for Melahara’s return.

As soon as Fatimah saw the blue-white glow of the shield approaching, she stood and walked outside the main shield toward the approaching figures.  Night had almost settled over the land, so it was not until she was within a dozen paces that she could see Taran walking among the priests and Heshmen, one of whom carried Pomar.  Behind them were Edoss and his men, all more grim-faced than usual.

Fatimah broke into a run and stopped in front of Taran just before she was about to throw her arms around him.  His hands were bound behind him and though he smiled at her, his eyes were sad.

And then she smelled the Taint.  Decay, stale blood, feces, and all the smells that would make a human sick, all combined into one.  It was weak, but unmistakable.  It came from Taran.  She backed away from him.

“You see, child,” Melahara said.  “I told you he could no longer be trusted.  You, too, can smell his betrayal.”

Fatimah’s voice failed her, the words frozen in her mind.  She looked at Taran, who stared back at her with those sad eyes.

“Is it true?” she asked him.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.  He did not have to answer, for his expression told her all.

She slapped him across the face, then slapped him again, and then a third time.  “I trusted you!”

Melahara grabbed Fatimah’s hand when she was about to strike a fourth time.  “Control yourself, priest,” she said.  “He will be judged after our people are safe.”

Melahara cast a glance back at Edoss, who now stood at Taran’s side.  The small man’s glare made him seem taller.

Fatimah turned around and ran back to the main shield, through the resting Tuathans, stopping only when she reached the front of the column.  The priests surrounding the current shield holder gave her questioning looks, but she ignored them.

How could he have turned against them?  He was her friend, she trusted him…and all this time he was a harrower?  But it did not make sense.  How could he Wield Ahura and Angra?  Was he really in league with the harrowers who attacked Fedalan, and who followed the Tuathans now?

Fatimah heard the crowd behind her murmur, and she turned to see Melahara leading the bound Taran to the covered wagon.  She ordered him inside, and he climbed in without a word.  Dylan Edoss entered the wagon with Taran.  Several Heshmen and priests stood outside, along with Lee Cursh and every one of Edoss’s remaining Shadarlak.  Both groups eyed each other in ways that made Fatimah wonder if a cough from one would cause the other to attack.

“This is terrible,” one of the Acolytes said to another several paces away.  “Why would the Zervakan betray us?”

“I heard he was never with us to begin with,” the second Acolyte said, her tone filled with conspiratorial certainty.  “I heard he only pretended to be with us so he could infiltrate the priesthood.  He was a harrower all along.”

Fatimah whirled around and stalked toward the gossiping Acolytes.  When they saw her approach, both bowed their heads.

“Isn’t there some food you two could be handing out to the people?”

They both bowed again and said, “Yes, priest,” then scurried off to the food wagon to help with the distribution.  Upon seeing Fatimah’s anger, several more Acolytes standing nearby rushed off to assist their sisters.

Fatimah went back to the group of priests who were maintaining the shield.  Bessi Gyhll was currently holding the shield, her freckled face rapturous.

“I will take over now,” Fatimah said to Bessi.  The young priest ignored her at first, so Fatimah stood in front of her and said loudly, “Bessi, I will take over now.”

The dreamy expression on Bessi’s face turned to confusion and disappointment.  “I just took over the shield a few minutes ago.”

“And you will give it up now,” Fatimah said.

Bessi had been ordained a year after Fatimah, so Fatimah had the privilege of seniority on her.  The girl reluctantly nodded her head.  Fatimah raised her right hand to Ahura, recited the shield incantation, and then reached over to Bessi’s hand.  The younger priest handed control of the shield to Fatimah.  Fatimah was vaguely aware of Bessi collapsing into the arms of two priests who carried back to Eblin’s wagon.  Fatimah was too busy reveling in the peace and joy that flooded her senses.

Taran’s betrayal was now a distant memory.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 40

When Taran, Edoss, and his men rounded a bend in the road, Taran saw several scarlet-sashed priests milling about near a fallen tree off to the right side, one of them with her hand raised and a shield surrounding them.  Ten Tuathan Heshmen leaned on their spears, all watching the forest in different directions.  The dark pine trees were closing in on either side of the road so that it was no more than ten paces from the muddy track.  The priests started murmuring when they saw Pomar in the arms of one of the Shadarlak, and the Heshmen assumed a more alert posture with their spears held at their sides.

“Pomar Wielded too much,” Taran called out as he approached them.  “She needs help.”

Several priests rushed forward, along with some of the Heshmen, who had returned their drawn spears into the quivers on their backs.  One of the men took Pomar from the Shadarlak and carried her to a spot on the side of the road beneath a low hanging branch, which made the ground beneath it relatively mud-free.  Taran noticed that Melahara and the priests who stayed behind, including the Heshmen, all stared at him.  Taran decided to get his apologies over with.

Three priests tended to Pomar, while Melahara and five other priests—one of which maintained their shield with a dreamy look—faced Taran.  The red-bearded Heshmen watched him, all keeping a tight grip on their spears.  Once Taran was within the radius of their shield, he released Ahura.  The fatigue was non-existent now, but the despair that came with losing Ahura’s peace was as terrible as it had always been.

Taran glanced at the priests tending to Pomar.  “Will she be all right?”

“Maybe,” Melahara said.  “Although she might never Wield again if she recovers.”

Taran sighed.  He could not imagine never being able to touch Ahura—

There was a chuckling from the dark voice in his mind.  So much for that ‘I’ll never Wield again after I’m home’ promise, it said.  You will never let it go.

Ignoring the voice, Taran said, “It was my fault.  I should have watched her more—”

“Where did you go?” Melahara asked.

Taran decided it was best to tell her as much of the truth as possible.  He would leave out the part about calling on Angra.  It was something he did not even want to admit to himself.

“I saw my daughter,” he said.  “Or what I thought was my daughter.  It turned out to be a harrower trick.”

“Obviously,” Melahara said.  “And what were you doing out there for an hour all by yourself in woods crawling with Tainted and harrowers?”

Taran said, “I looked for my daughter.  But the harrower responsible for the trick attacked me, and so I killed him.”

“And who was this harrower?  Was there only one?”

“I did not know him,” Taran snapped.  “And yes, there was only one.”

Melahara looked at Edoss and asked, “How did you find him, Edoss?  Was he fighting this harrower?”

Edoss stepped between Taran and Melahara.  “Say what you mean rather than continue with this interrogation.”

“Very well, Speaker,” Melahara said.  “Taran Abraeu abandoned us.  He left several hundred innocent people to die just as the harrowers attacked in earnest.  That is quite a coincidence, yes?”

Edoss laughed.  “Are you suggesting that Abraeu is a harrower?  From what I know of your powers—and it is very little, I grant you—no one can Wield Ahura and Angra.”

Melahara gazed at Taran with an icy stare.  “That is true.  For the most part.”

“I am not a harrower,” Taran said.

He said this mostly to Melahara, but partly to silence the quiet laughter in his mind.  The laughter only increased.

One of the priests tending to Pomar said, “Mother Seat, she is awake.”

Melahara glanced back to where Pomar lay.  Then she looked back at Taran, and said to the priest, “Ask her how many trails of Angra she saw when she found Taran Abraeu.”

They got you now, the dark voice whispered in Taran’s mind.  Kill them all now before they kill you.  Angra will show you how.

Stop, Taran screamed in his mind.

The priest asked Pomar Melahara’s question, then leaned near Pomar’s mouth.  When Pomar had whispered her answer, the priest stood and said, “Two.  Pomar said she saw two Angra trails.”

Melahara said to Taran, “I thought you said you only faced one harrower?”

Kill them now, the voice screamed, its urgency so painful that Taran almost did call for Angra.  Instead he fell to his knees and grabbed his shirt with both hands to keep a hand from reaching for the black ring in the sky.

“No!” he screamed back to the dark voice.

When he looked up, he saw the priests all had their hands raised and were Wielding Ahura.  The guns from all five of the Shadarlak flew into the outstretched hands of the priests.  The remaining Heshmen had sprung forward and had their spears at the necks of Edoss and every Shadarlak before any could draw their sabers.  Taran felt a tingling sensation all around him, as if he were encased in static electricity.

“We are not your enemy, Melahara!” Edoss yelled.

“Maybe you are not, Speaker,” Melahara said.  “But Taran Abraeu is.  He has Wielded Angra.  I could smell the Taint on him as soon as he was within five paces.  He cannot be allowed back among my people.”

“So you’re just going to leave him out here?”

Melahara’s face grew hard.  “He cannot be freed either.”

I told you, the dark voice mocked.  To silence the voice, Taran shot his hand up to Ahura, seeking to disarm the Heshmen just as the priests had disarmed the Shadarlak…but nothing happened.  Ahura did not respond.

Seeing Taran’s confusion, Melahara said, “That tingling you feel is similar to what the Barrier was, albeit on a vastly smaller scale.  While it surrounds you, you cannot Wield Ahura.  Or Angra.”

Edoss growled, “If you do this, Melahara, if you kill a Compact man in cold blood, your people will never be welcome in my country.  You need us.  Don’t throw it away.”

Melahara pointed to Taran.  “This man is a danger to both our peoples.  He can Wield Ahura and Angra with a strength that has not been seen since before the Barrier.  We cannot trust him, therefore he is too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

There was a rustling in the forest on either side of the road, and then twenty Shadarlak, ten on the left and ten on the right, emerged from the woods with their revolvers aimed at the Tuathans.

Captain Laesh yelled, “If I see one hand go up, we’re firing.  You men, drop the spears.”  When none of the Heshmen moved, Laesh screamed, “Now!”

Laesh strode forward and aimed his revolver at Melahara’s head.  “Tell them to drop their spears, madam.”

“You can kill me if you want, Captain,” Melahara replied in a serene voice, her hands tucked into cloak.  “But my men will take your Speaker with me before you can shoot them all.”

Taran knew Laesh had not touched the Crucible bowl, so the Shadarlak captain had no idea what Melahara just said.  When Laesh cocked the revolver, Edoss cried, “Wait, Captain!”

Laesh never took his eyes off of Melahara.  “What are your orders, sir?”

“Melahara,” Edoss said, this time in more conciliatory tones.  “We are surrounded by harrowers and Tainted who could attack us all at any moment.  Must we do this now?  Can’t we resolve this once your people are out of harm’s way?”

Melahara’s lips tightened as she considered Edoss’s plea for compromise.

See how they barter for your life as if you weren’t even here, the dark voice said.  Trust none of them.  They don’t deserve your help.

“Stop,” Taran whispered, shaking his head.  The voice was growing stronger by the moment, and Taran was starting to doubt his sanity.  He focused all of his concentration on Melahara, as she stood silently, considering Edoss’s words.

After an eternity, Melahara said, “Here is the compromise.  Taran Abraeu will be taken into our custody while we march to the sea.  Once my people are safe, he will be judged.  I will not make any promises on the outcome of that trial, but it will be fair.  This is my only offer, Speaker.”

Edoss glared at Melahara a moment, and then nodded once.

The Heshmen took hold of Taran’s arms and marched him toward the center of the Tuathan column.  Though he was now a prisoner of the Tuathans, he was relieved that their personal Barrier surrounded him.

The temptation to use Angra to kill them all had become too hard to resist.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 39

Taran thought Edoss and his five Shadarlak were another illusion when they emerged from the forest into the clearing.  Little Pomar Aliin led them, the blue-white bubble of a shield encasing them all, a tendril of Ahura caressing her uplifted hand.

Taran instantly Wielded his own shield.  The joy of Ahura came freely to him now, without the lengthy incantations or loving visualizations.  He did not know if he had to concentrate less to receive Ahura, or if he was just getting better at it.  Regardless, the shield sprang into existence, and he stood to face the potential threat.

“Are you real?” Taran asked, knowing the words sounded foolish as soon as they came from his mouth.  But he did not care.  Ahura took away his anxieties and left only peace.

“Taran,” Edoss said, approaching him cautiously.  Pomar walked alongside to keep the Speaker within the radius of the shield.  “What happened?  Are you hurt?”

Taran was silent a moment, for he was still unsure if the improbable sight of Edoss was real.  But then he felt the Aspects of Ahura emanating from Pomar’s shield, and he knew that at least they were real.  The harrowers might deceive his eyes, but they could not deceive his heart.

Taran slumped back against the downed tree, and then released Ahura.  The Aspects fled him, and he was left with his previous misery, guilt, and shock.  He felt a little light-headed after releasing Ahura, but it passed within a few seconds.

“Pomar saw two Angra trails this way,” Edoss said, scanning the clearing.  “We thought you were under attack.”

Taran had been thinking about what he was going to say to the others when he returned to the Tuathans.  Would they believe that he saw his daughter?  And what would they do if they found out he had Wielded Angra?  Would they believe that Kumar Ladak was a harrower?  Taran decided that the best answer was to lie.  They would never take him back into the fold if they knew what he had done.  What he was.

“I saw a girl,” Taran said.  “On the road.  She ran into the woods…but I couldn’t find her.”

Edoss glanced down at the remains of Kumar Ladak and grimaced.  “What happened here?”

Without looking down, Taran said, “It was a harrower.  He attacked me, but ran into my shield just as I raised it.”

“Really?” Pomar said, looking down at the remains.  Her voice had a dreamy quality to it that Taran knew was due to her holding Ahura.  “They just explode into vapor, yes?  All Tainted do this when—”

“Apparently the harrowers don’t,” Taran snapped.  Pomar closed her mouth and her cheeks turned almost as scarlet as the sash around her waist.  Taran regretted snapping at the young priest, but he said no more.

“Well,” Edoss said, watching Taran.  “We’d better get back to the others.”

Edoss turned to Pomar and asked, “Can you hold the shield until we get back?”

Pomar’s eyes still had that faraway look.  “Much yes.”

She then turned and led them out of the clearing and into the forest.  Edoss mouthed the words, “Watch her,” to Taran, and Taran nodded.  Taran would be prepared to take over the shield if Pomar should falter.  He wondered if she really could Wield long enough to get them back, or if it was just the confidence that Wielding gave her.  He knew the feeling of thinking anything was possible when he held on to Ahura.

Taran now also understood the wild and chaotic sense of release that Angra gave him, that the whole world was his and all he had to do was think what he wanted, and the world would do his bidding.  He tried not to think about Angra.  He would never use it again.

But that’s what you said about Ahura.

He was startled by the change in tone of his inner voice.  He had heard it all his life, but the knife-like edge to it made him uneasy, like being growled at by a beloved dog.

Angra and Ahura, Taran declared to himself.  After I get home, they will be nothing more to me than strange rings in the sky.

Taran could almost hear the sharp voice chuckling, but it did not say more.

He had been so lost in thought that he was surprised when they finally reached the road.  Pomar stumbled over a fallen branch, but quickly righted herself.  She turned to Taran and said in a distracted voice, “I fine.  I hold shield a bit longer.”

But Taran saw that her eyes were becoming bloodshot and that her shoulders were hunched.

“You’ve done enough, Pomar,” Taran said.  “Let me take over.”

She shook her head weakly, her jaw set.  “No, I hold longer.  Please, just little longer…”

Her eyes rolled up into her head, and Taran caught her before she fell to the ground.  She convulsed in his arms, and he held her tight to keep her from thrashing about on the muddy road.

“What’s wrong?” Edoss asked.

“She’s Wielded too long,” Taran said.

Pomar suddenly stopped convulsing.  Her eyes shot open, she let out a deep sigh, and then was still.  Taran put his cheek to her mouth.  He checked her pulse on her neck.  It was faint.

“She’s alive,” Taran said.  He shook his head and growled, “It’s my fault.  I didn’t pay attention to her.  I should have—”

“That’s enough, Abraeu,” Edoss said.  He did not shout, but his words were like a slap across the face, making Taran pay attention.  “We need to get her back to the others, and you have to shield us.  Doctor, are you with us?”

Taran realized that they were on the muddy road, with lightning craters on either side of them, and without a shield to protect them.  The Shadarlak looked about nervously, watching for signs of movement in the woods.  The sky still roiled with black clouds, but the rain had stopped and the humid air was still.  Up the road, Taran saw a large, multi-colored tendril of Ahura touching the ground on the other side of a hill, maybe a twenty minute march away.

He nodded to Edoss, and then stood up, picked up Pomar and handed her to one of the Shadarlak.  He then raised his hand to Ahura and asked for the shield.  As the shield sprang into existence around them, he noticed again that he had not said the incantation to focus his thoughts.  All he had done was ask Ahura for the shield, and Ahura had given it to him.

Angra will do the same, that sharp voice said in his mind.  And more.

Taran ignored it, and started up the road.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 38

The storm was fading when Fatimah stumbled the second time, almost losing her grip on Ahura.

“Enough, Fatimah,” Melahara said beside her.  “Rina, take over the Wield from Fatimah.”

Fatimah was about to object, but Melahara said, “You will give up the Wield, priest.”

The tone of Melahara’s voice reminded her of the unflinching obedience required of her when she was an Acolyte, and it was that more than anything that made her give up the Wield to Rina.  The small, dark-haired Rina took over the Wield with a fearful expression, as if she were suddenly carrying the weight of the world.

But Fatimah saw nothing more.  She collapsed to the ground as soon as the wonderful peace and joy left her body.  She did not pass out, a fact that meant she was growing stronger, but she could hardly move her head much less stand.  Several Tuathan Heshmen carried her back to the small covered wagon on which Eblin was riding and laid her on blankets that had been prepared for the priests recovering from their Wields.

Eblin poked her soaked head into the wagon from the driver’s seat and smiled proudly at Fatimah.  “You did well, priest.  Remarkable strength you have…for someone who was supposed to have only Wielded six times.”

When the Barrier fell, Melahara had decreed that priests could only Wield in the presence of their Masters.  Fatimah had only Wielded six times in front of Eblin, but, contrary to Melahara’s decree, had practiced many times on her own.

Fatimah barely had the strength to form the words, “Have they found Taran?”

Eblin’s smile faded.  “Dylan Edoss has gone to look for him.  Pomar Aliin went along to shield him and his men.”

“How…how long?”

“It has been an hour.”

Fatimah was not only shocked that Taran had been missing an hour, but that she had been Wielding for that long.  She now understood why it would be so easy for the undisciplined to continue Wielding until they died from exhaustion.  While holding Ahura, time seemed to stop and speed up simultaneously.  The peace she felt while embracing Ahura was…addictive.  Even now she wanted to Wield, to find that joy again.  Even now, when she knew that to do so would mean certain death.

“Fatimah,” Eblin said, “do you remember exactly what he said before he ran off into the woods?”

Fatimah thought back to what Taran had said a mere hour ago, which felt like last week.  He had been walking along, setting a quick pace, when he stopped and asked Fatimah about a girl in the road.  But Fatimah had not seen a girl.  She told Eblin this, and Eblin frowned.

“The harrowers know so much more about their lost powers than we do,” Eblin said.  “We have yet to create convincing illusions.”

“The girl was an illusion?” Fatimah asked.  And then before Eblin could confirm her suspicions, Fatimah said, “He thinks he saw his daughter.”

Eblin nodded.  “Nothing else would have made him run off like that.”

Fatimah suddenly felt energy flowing through her again, and she sat up.  She marveled that she had the strength to walk, though she knew that Wielding would be out of the question for at least the next half hour.

“How did the harrowers know about Taran’s daughter?”

Eblin’s normally affable face was dark when she looked at Fatimah.  “From what I’ve read in the ancient texts describing Angra powers, they can only generate convincing illusions if they have seen their subjects.  The harrower who created that illusion has seen Taran’s daughter, and is likely someone Taran knows—”

“There is a harrower in the Compact delegation?” Fatimah said.

Eblin raised her eyebrow at Fatimah’s interruption.

“Do we know who?” Fatimah asked.

“It could be any of them.  Certainly not one that is within the shield, for he could not have generated the illusion.”

“Then the harrower is out in the woods somewhere with Taran.”

She gathered her waterlogged cloak around her and jumped down from the wagon and onto the muddy ground.  The rain had lessened since she entered the wagon, and there were no more lightning strikes, but the clouds were still black and ominous.  And the Tainted no longer attacked the shield.  The quiet, dark woods were almost more eerie than the Tainted shrieks.

“Where are you going?” Eblin asked from the front seat of the wagon.

“To find Taran,” Fatimah said.  She stepped in a puddle of mud that was deeper than she thought.  It soaked her leggings, but she continued on through the Tuathans behind the wagon.  With all they had been through, they could only give her passing glances—most gazed fearfully at the clouds or the dark forest on either side of the road.

“Fatimah,” Melahara called out from behind, but Fatimah ignored the Worldly Seat.  Unfortunately, a large Tuathan, a farmer from the looks of him, stopped her and said, “I think the Worldly Seat is calling for you, priest.”

Unable to ignore Melahara any longer, she turned.  “Taran Abraeu saved the lives of six Heshmen two nights ago.  Something he did not have to do.  We cannot leave him behind.  He would have gone after any one of us.”

Melahara glared at Fatimah.  “Really?  He chose to leave over five hundred innocent people unprotected to go chasing an illusion.  I know he thought whatever he saw was real, but nevertheless, we now know that we can never trust him again.”

“But if he saw his daughter—”

“Yes, his daughter.  And as long as she lives, she will always have a hold on him that his responsibilities as the Zervakan can never break.  The Fomorians now know this, and they will use it to turn him against us.  We cannot risk that.  He is too powerful, and our numbers are too few.”

Melahara sighed.  “If he returns, Taran Abraeu must be killed.”

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 37

“Your daughter is very beautiful, Zervakan,” Kumar Ladak said, glancing back at Mara.  “A little young for my tastes, but still…”

Taran stared at Kumar Ladak.  A harrower?  Him?  How had he exited the shield without disintegrating?  But as Taran thought back, he could not remember seeing Ladak since before the harrower attack began on the Heiron.  Perhaps he had slipped away in the ensuing chaos.  Taran had been so preoccupied with the attack, and then Wielding, that he had not even thought of Ladak since then.

However he had slipped away, he was here now, and he was threatening Mara.

Taran snarled, “I’ll rip your heart out if you touch her.”

Ladak laughed.  “Now that is the reaction I wanted.  Your anger feels good, doesn’t it?”  Ladak turned and started toward Mara.

“Good” was not what Taran felt at the moment.  At the moment, there was nothing he wanted to do but kill Kumar Ladak.

“Ladak!” Taran screamed.  “I swear, if you touch her—”

“You’ll what?” Ladak said, standing before Mara and looking up at her.  She struggled in her bindings, her glances shifting fearfully between Ladak and Taran.

“You’ll what?  Wield a peaceful little rain shower at me, like you did in the library?  If you haven’t noticed, we’re quite wet as it is.”

He reached up and began to stroke Mara’s ankle.

“Daddy,” Mara moaned.  She tried jerking her ankle away from Ladak’s touch, but the harrower grabbed the ankle with his other hand to hold it steady.  Mara kicked him in the face with her other foot, and Ladak snarled at her.  He grabbed the other foot, and then yanked her down from the vines that had bound her.  She fell to the ground behind the stump on which she had been sitting when Taran found her.  He could not see her, but he heard her scream, “Daddy, help!”

With a terrible laugh, Ladak jumped on top of her, and Taran could no longer see either of them.  But he still heard Mara’s screams.

The rage and frustration exploding from Taran was more than he had ever felt in his life.  In desperation, he raised his right hand to the rings, screamed with all his hatred for the power to kill Ladak, to save Mara…and then he felt a power surge through him that made his boiling anger as weak as the breath of a butterfly.  It was a cold heat and a dark flame that filled his soul.  And he reveled in it.

Taran looked at the vine that had wrapped itself around his feet, and it seemed to wither at his gaze, bowing to its master.  The vine eased him to the ground, and then released him.

Taran scrambled to his feet.  He looked to the branches above where Ladak and Mara were struggling.  The branches twisted and shrieked—shrieks only Taran could hear—but he did not care, as long as they did what they were told.  The branches gave in, and turned into tentacles with brown scales and barbs that flailed about for a moment, adjusting to the pain of their new forms, and then shot down toward where Ladak had disappeared behind the stump.  The tentacles pulled him up into the air.  He screamed as the barbs embedded themselves into his legs and torso.  The tentacles hung Ladak upside down, just as Ladak had done to Taran.

“Now what should I do with you?” Taran growled up at the struggling Ladak.

“Please, Taran,” Ladak said, blood pouring down over his face from the wounds on his legs and torso.  “Please don’t kill me.  Your daughter is safe, she’s not really here.  Look, look!”

Taran snarled, and then peered around the corner of the stump where he had last seen her.

She was not there.

“What did you do with her?” Taran roared.

Ladak flinched and began to whimper.  “Nothing, I swear to you, Taran, it wasn’t really her, it was just an illusion to get you here, oh, please, it hurts, please release me.”

Ladak’s cowardly cries sickened Taran.  “Why did you create an illusion of my daughter?  Why did you bring me here?”

“Please, I can’t talk, he’ll kill me, please…”

“Answer me or I will kill you!”

Taran told the vine wrapped around Ladak’s leg to tighten.  The deeper the barbs went, the louder Ladak’s shrieking grew.

“I don’t know his name, please, I swear to you, please…”

“Why did you to bring me here?  Tell me!”

The rage coursing through Taran’s soul made him want to end this interrogation quickly so he could make Ladak suffer pain that would make talking impossible.

“I don’t know!” Ladak screamed.  “I only do what he tells me!”

Impatience finally conquered Taran’s curiosity—or rather the rage burning in his veins.  He told the vines to rip Ladak apart.

And they did.

Different parts of Ladak’s body fell in different places throughout the clearing.  And Taran felt a satisfaction that he had never felt before—the satisfaction of watching a hated enemy get what he deserved.  And the satisfaction of being the instrument of that justice.

But as he watched the body fall to the ground, Taran realized that he had just killed a man.  The rage flowing through him ebbed as more and more horror at what he had just done began to leak through.

And then the rage turned off as if it was a wiretype, and all Taran felt was disgust.  He looked down at the bloody remains of Kumar Ladak, a man he had just tortured and then torn to pieces.

Taran sat down, ignoring the rain, staring at what he did.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 36

“Hold your fire!” Dylan shouted to the thirty Shadarlak around him.

In uncharacteristic panic, the Shadarlak had begun firing at the Tainted creatures that were slamming themselves into the Tuathan shield a few paces away.  But the creatures only destroyed themselves in a grisly explosion of yellow blood and tissue whenever they simply touched the shield.  No use wasting valuable ammunition when the shield was doing all the work.

The musket-fire tapered off as each sergeant restrained his men.  Dylan went to Captain Laesh, Myndehr’s second in command.

“Captain, no firing unless those things get through the shield,” Dylan shouted above the rain, thunder, and shrieks of the Tainted.

The wide-eyed captain nodded.  “Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir.”  Laesh nodded toward the shield.  “I’m not used to fighting…those…behind one of…these…”

“I know, Captain.  This is new to all of us.  We have to trust the Tuathans.  If this shield falls, we’ll need our ammunition.”

“Yes, sir,” Laesh said.  He turned and started passing the order on to his subordinates.

Dylan made his way through the agitated Tuathans toward the front of the column, his four Shadarlak bodyguards surrounding him.  He saw Fatimah with her arm raised and continuing to walk at a brisk pace, her face twisted in concentration and effort.  Taran Abraeu was nowhere in sight.

Dylan saw Melahara talking to Eblin, who rode in the front seat of a single horse-drawn wagon with a canopy over the rear, but nothing above the driver and Eblin.  Her white hair was plastered to her head, and her gray woolen cloak was soaked.

“Where is Abraeu?” Dylan asked.

Both Melahara and Eblin frowned, and Melahara said, “He ran off into the woods.”

“The woods?  Why?  When?”

Eblin said, “Seems he saw something that interested him more than maintaining the shield.”

“What did he see?”

Melahara said, “Pomar said he told Fatimah that he saw a girl in the road.  Then he ran off.  But Fatimah never saw a girl.”

“We have to find him,” Dylan shouted over a fresh lightning strike, and the howls of Tainted exploding themselves against the shield.  “We can’t just leave him behind.”

It was more than his duty as Speaker of the Compact talking.  It was his loyalty to Tobias Abreau that would refuse to let Dylan abandon his former commander’s son to certain death in these woods.  Tobias Abraeu had seen Dylan and the rest of his men through the “hopeless” Battle of Growan Pass during the First Mazumdahri War.  Dylan would be damned if he left the man’s only son behind without trying to find him.

Melahara said, “No one is going into those woods to find Abraeu.  If you have not noticed, Speaker, we are under attack.  It would be suicide for whoever went.”

“I thought Taran was this ‘Zervakan,’ your savior,” Dylan growled.  “How can you leave him behind?”

“He left us,” Melahara shot back.  “Maybe he is not what we thought he was.”

“Whatever he is,” Dylan said, “he is one of my men.  And I don’t know about Tuatha, but the Compact does not abandon its citizens.  I’m going after him.”

From the wagon, Eblin said, “You will die without a shield, Speaker.  The harrowers and the Tainted will be too much for your guns, even if all of your Shadarlak accompany you.”

“Maybe,” Dylan said.  Then he looked at Melahara.  “But do you really want let Taran Abraeu be captured alive by all those harrowers and Tainted?”

Much to Dylan’s satisfaction, the implications of Taran’s capture by the Fomorians was not lost on Melahara.  Her frown deepened, and she glanced at Eblin.  Eblin’s mouth curled in a smile, and she gave Melahara a look that seemed to concede Dylan’s point.

Melahara turned around to the priests walking with Fatimah and shouted, “Pomar!”

The short, thin red-haired young woman turned and jogged over to Melahara, bowed her head, and said something in Tuathan.

“I want you to Wield a shield for Speaker Edoss and his men, and then accompany them into the woods to find Taran Abraeu.  I choose you because, like Fatimah, you were the only one to see where he went into the woods.”

Pomar’s eyes widened a moment, glanced once at Dylan, then said in heavily accented Recindian, “As you say, Mother Seat.”

Dylan said to Melahara, “Thank you.”

He turned to gather the men he would lead into the woods after Abraeu.  He selected five men—Captain Laesh would allow no fewer—and gathered them toward the rear of the long column of Tuathan civilians.  The sodden and terrified people gave him curious glances when they saw him, Pomar, and the Shadarlak jogging back toward Fedalan, but they continued forward without saying anything.  Most were too preoccupied with flinching as each screaming Tainted monster smashed itself against the shield, or with the lightning strikes exploding into the grounds outside the shield, or the sheets of rain soaking them through.

Judging by Melahara’s explanation alone, Dylan knew what Abraeu thought he saw.  Only a vision of his daughter could have made Taran abandon his promise to the Tuatha.  And that meant someone or something was targeting Taran.  Dylan had never left behind one of his men when he was a sergeant in the First Mazumdahri War, inspired by the examples set by Taran’s own father.  He would find Taran.

They stopped at the end of the column.  Twenty paces ahead was the edge of the shield, which slowly moved toward them at the same speed as Fatimah’s walk at the front of the column.

“There,” Pomar said, pointing to a break in the woods.  “He enter there.”

There were no Tainted within the woods that Dylan could see.  The attacks seemed to concentrate on the middle of the column, from the left and right.

Dylan looked at Pomar, who was only a couple of inches taller than him.  “Thank you for doing this.”

“Thank you, Edoss.  I love to Wield.  Especially against Tainted.  They kill my brother in first attack.”

She said this in a matter of fact manner, which seemed to make it even sadder to Dylan’s ears.  He nodded.

“Stay close me, please.  Ten paces, yes.”

When Dylan and the Shadarlak did so, she raised her hand and said the incantation for the shield.  Dylan watched as the bubble of blue-white energy appeared where her open hand was raised, and expanded to engulf them all with a comfortable margin of five paces all around them.

As the edge of the main shield advanced toward them, Dylan said to his men, “I don’t have to remind you to stay within the shield perimeter.”

Dylan heard their “Yes, sir’s,” and saw them all gripping their revolvers and sabers tightly.  To Pomar, Dylan said, “We’re ready when you are.”

She nodded, and then walked forward.  They stepped out of the safety of the main shield and into the woods where Taran had disappeared.

 

 

ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 35

“Mara!” Taran shouted, but his daughter only fled deeper into the forest.  He caught glimpses of her white-clad body through the low hanging pine branches, but she always seemed to be ten paces ahead of him.

“Mara!” he shouted again, trying to make his voice heard above the peals of thunder and the torrents of rain that had started minutes ago.  He was soaked to the skin, and the sharp needles of the pine branches stuck to his clothes, his hair, and his hands.

“Dad!” Mara screamed, from somewhere to his left, sounding farther away than he thought she was.

“Mara, where are you?” Taran shouted back.

“Daddy!”  This time her voice seemed to be ahead of him.  Taran wanted to weep with frustration.  His little girl was out in this forest with harrowers and Tainted monsters, and he could not help her.

“Please, Mara,” Taran shouted, “run to my voice!”

He did not hear her voice again, so he charged through the pine branches toward the place where he last heard her.  Taran came out of the woods in front of a creek that was swollen and flowing rapidly due to the heavy rain.  It was maybe three paces across, and looked to be a pace deep.  Mud and water flooded into the creek from both banks, creating a deep gully with the creek at the bottom.

Taran looked up at the other side in time to see Mara’s white shift disappear woods.

“Mara, come back!”

She must not have heard him, for she did not return.  Between the thunder, rain, and the swollen creek, Taran could barely hear his own voice.

He scanned the lip of the gully for a quick, easy way down, but saw none.  Both banks seemed to have suffered a mud slide that exposed tree roots, clay, and stones.  Taran sat down on the bank, and then tried to ease his body down the three pace drop to the surging creek.  He immediately slipped and slid all the way into the water.  It was deeper than he thought, and his head went under, sending dirty water down his throat and nose.  He came to the surface coughing, and was able to stand in the chest-high water.  He fought the current and managed to climb the other side of the gully to where he had watched Mara enter the woods.  He paused a moment to catch his breath and cough up the last of the muddy water from his lungs.

“Mara!”

Taran was aware of lightning striking the ground less than a half mile behind him, and he knew the Tuathans on the road were being attacked.  He did not care about them now, not with his daughter out here, alone and frightened.  Fatimah would take care of them.  Taran had to find his daughter.

He stumbled through the pine branches again, shouting Mara’s name.  He grew terribly weary, and his breathing came in ragged gasps, but he kept his legs moving and he kept shouting Mara’s name.  He would die out here before he gave up looking for her.

Taran stopped moving when he heard the sounds of crying coming from his left.  He shouted Mara’s name, but all he heard was the crying.  He charged toward the left and emerged from the forest into a small clearing no more than ten paces in diameter.  Mara sat on the stump of a downed tree, her head in her hands and her shoulders heaving with each sob.  Taran ran over to her and put his arms around her.

“I’m hear now, Mara,” he said, holding her tight.  “Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and cried softly on his shoulder.  “I thought you wouldn’t come for me.”

“Of course I came for you,” Taran said, gently pulling her away from him so he could look at her.

Her long black hair hung in strings around her face, and her eyes were red from weeping.  Aside from the dirt all over her body and the oozing blood from minor scratches, she appeared to be fine.

She was fine….

“Mara,” he said, “you can walk.  How are you here?”

Something wrapped itself around Taran’s ankles, yanked him off his feet, and pulled him back toward the forest.  He looked at his feet in disbelief.  Writhing vines jerked him into the air so that he hung upside down five paces above the ground.  He heard Mara scream, saw similar vines wrap themselves around both of her arms and pull her into the air.  She hung there screaming, her arms spread wide by the vines.

Taran was horrified to see a black tendril of Angra touching the ground just beyond the tree line behind Mara.  It came closer, and then a man clad in a dark coat wearing a black tri-corner hat emerged from the forest, his hand raised and holding on to the nauseating tendril.  He paused near Mara a moment, and then walked toward Taran.  As he grew closer, a cold horror gripped Taran’s body.

Kumar Ladak stopped in front of Taran, and then tilted his head.  He smiled, and Taran thought he saw more teeth in Ladak’s mouth than a normal human should have.

“Hello, Zervakan,” Ladak said.  “Your daughter is even prettier than the picture you showed me.”