Mystic Pursuit, page 7
The soldier at the front slowly gestured the Lii-jit toward him. Thayliss watched as the previously animated little life-mystic stood perfectly still, eyes affixed on the soldier, a coiled spring, tense and ready for action. For reasons he did not know, Thayliss also found himself standing his ground as the soldier gestured more deliberately to his intended target, this time pointing toward Tiig’s clenched fist. The surrounding soldiers all leaned forward in unison, their weapons drawn and at the ready. The Lii-jit’s quivering right arm slowly extended toward the soldier’s outstretched hands.
Then, just as the soldier reached into his pocket, the Liijit sprang into action, pulling back his arm before bounding frantically around the cage. Several of the soldiers in the outer circle, thrown by the display, fired their crossbows into the cage. Their deadly arrows soared toward the wagon, some deflecting harmlessly off the metal bars, others driving deep into the wagon’s thick hide canopy.
Thayliss dropped to the floor, shielding his head from both the incoming projectiles as well as the blur of crazed fury smashing against the walls of their shared confines. The other Ohlinn captives, previously silent and stoic, yelped in fear, uncertain what to do.
Finally, mercifully, the Lii-jit settled his outburst, landing in the very spot he had been standing. His chest throbbed like a battered drum, his breath expelling in small, quick puffs.
Undeterred, the soldier once again beckoned the small life-mystic forward. Reluctantly, the Lii-jit edged toward the soldier, extending his small, powerful arm through the bars. Slowly, deliberately, the lead soldier removed an object from his pocket. Thayliss strained to see what it was but could not. Tiig’s arm quivered as it jutted out of the wagon, his eyes shut in anticipation.
The object was a bracelet seemingly fashioned from the same yellowed stone adorning the eight corners of the mobile prison. With one, swift motion, the soldier wrapped the adornment around the Lii-jit’s wrist and locked its hinged clasp in place. Thayliss saw Tiig’s eyes open and examine the object with first a look of relief and then an apparent sense of dread.
The soldier unlocked the wagon’s gate, cautiously creaking open the heavy, steel-barred wall, and waved the woeful life-mystic forward. The ring of soldiers surrounding them held their position, ready to strike. As if conceding a bitter defeat, Tiig calmly exited the cell and was led away. Before Thayliss could contemplate action, the gate was once again slammed shut and locked.
“Come, little mystic, you’ve got a rough ride ahead of you,” laughed the lead soldier, roughly pushing the Lii-jit from view.
Thayliss was unsure what to feel. He had little capacity left for sympathy. The little life-mystic was being led to his certain demise. Once again, Thayliss could have intervened. But why? Risk his own life to save the very being responsible for the death of his family? It was, to quote the Lii-jit himself, “regrettable.”
Thayliss turned back to the inside of his cell, where the other Ohlinn captives tittered nervously amongst themselves, occasionally firing a toxic glance in his direction. It took a lot to rattle an Ohlinn, Thayliss knew, but once achieved, the damage tended to linger.
Thayliss paced what little of the cage was his to roam, his mind an empty void, lacking ambition, concern, or contempt. He wandered toward a corner, resting his head against the convergence of bars and casting his vacant gaze downward.
An unsettled feeling came over him. Something had changed.
He blinked himself back to reality, trying to deduce what his mind was trying to tell him. Something was different about the cell itself. But what? He looked around, trying to solve the puzzle.
And then it came to him. The stones. The yellowed stones fastened to each corner of the cage were gone. The thin leather straps previously holding them in place were still there, but now they simply hung limp, empty.
“Tiig—” muttered Thayliss under his breath.
The Lii-jit must have somehow removed them during his supposed tantrum. If what he had said about the stones was true, then there might just be a way out. A new emotion began swelling up inside Thayliss—hope.
“Ohlinn,” he addressed the spirit-mystics beside him. “I beg of you, please set aside for a moment whatever resentments you may harbor against me. There is hope for escape, but we must work together. The sacred stones that once lined this prison robbed you of your power, but the little Lii-jit saw fit to remove them so that we may live on.”
The Ohlinn continued their look of disdain, barely acknowledging his plea. “Thayliss the false-Ohlinn, our fate has already been sealed, whether inside this metal box or out of it.”
“We knew that our powers returned to us the moment that parasitic Lii-jit took the stones,” said another bitterly. “But that changes nothing. At least in here, we are shielded from the heat.”
“And kept from the ash trackers,” voiced another.
“Nasty business, those ash trackers,” still another agreed.
Thayliss was beside himself. “So, you’re just going to let yourselves be enslaved? Or murdered? Don’t you want to return to the Valla Forest? To the other Ohlinn?”
“Our surviving brothers and sisters have already mourned us. When we leave this world, then and only then will we return to our families, to illuminate their dreams. Most unfortunate for you, human, that your death will mean the end of you. But that is of no concern of us.”
“Besides,” added the soft-eyed Ohlinn from earlier, “we are but spirit-mystics. Were we Masdazii, those immense and surly matter-mystics, we could simply melt away these metallic bars and escape. Or were we Lii-jit, we could summon a great many beasts to liberate us or at least to carry us away. But alas, we are spirit-mystics. We govern a world of shadows, of dreams. Past and future. We can speak with those no longer of this world, but neither we, nor they, can change the present.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Thayliss, but we cannot help you.”
Livid, Thayliss walked back to the far end of the prison, slamming his fist against the bars. The entire metallic cage rattled, distorting his already skewed reflection. This time, he did not look away. Instead, he stared deeply into the bright sapphire streaks looking back at him. He had no idea whether he merely wore a mystical Ohlinn outer shell or if his transition had penetrated any deeper into his being. But he had to try.
Lowering himself to the dusty floor, Thayliss rested upon his shins, his back arched, head forward, and hands on his knees. He then shut his eyes and waited.
“Be still, Thayliss, be still,” he whispered to himself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Atop their fleet horses, the pack of soldiers made their way back to Lakos and Gris Hallis, where Lakos was still scrutinizing the impenetrable rock face. As the soldiers approached, Lakos looked at them, puzzled.
“The Lii-jit—you did bring him, did you not?” he asked, squinting through the cloud of ash they had kicked up.
The lead soldier dismounted his horse and calmly walked back behind one of the other soldiers’ rides. As the dust settled, Lakos could see a small figure lying limp on the ground, several arrows jutting from its side. A long, frayed rope tied tightly to its ankles led up the side of the fleet horse standing before it, looping around the horse’s long, muscular neck.
“What did you do to him?” he asked.
“He’ll not suffice as an offering if he’s already dead,” chirped Gris Hallis condescendingly.
“He still lives, though by a narrow margin,” replied a solider.
“We had no alternative, my lord,” said another. “He was reluctant to leave his wagon, and once we began our trek back to you, he became… unruly, though we fastened the stone clasp to his wrist as you instructed. It was all we could do to keep him from escaping. We had no other choice.”
Lakos’s fevered glare once again turned to Gris Hallis. “Did you not assure me that the wearer of a sacred stone would be robbed of his mystic power?”
Gris Hallis was not concerned. “I did assure you of as much. And it is the unwavering truth. Wearing the stone has indeed taken from this poor creature all mystical abilities. He may summon no aid, nor alter or regenerate his own physical being. But what simple, physical traits his kind may possess, such as his speed and agility, he retains. Troubling that your men encountered such difficulty controlling a mere excitable little imp.” He shot an acrid glare at Lakos’s men.
“Well, have at it then.” Lakos waved Gris Hallis on.
“Bring the life-mystic to me,” Gris Hallis instructed the soldier, who promptly complied, untying the rope binding the Lii-jit’s ankles and dragging him by the hand to the old wizard.
A touch of pity crossed Gris Hallis’s face as he looked down upon the lowly, groaning figure. “Well,” he said optimistically, “I suppose this does make things a little more convenient.”
He reached down and grasped one of the arrows sticking out from under the little life-mystic’s ribcage and pulled. The battered Lii-jit screamed in pain as the broad arrowhead reversed its course back out, tearing the bloodied wound all the wider.
“I’m afraid that this is a wound that will not be healing, my little friend,” he said.
With the bloodied arrow held delicately in hand, Gris Hallis turned from the Lii-jit and faced the vast, volcanic wall. “Leave the body there. If he survives, we’ll surely find a use for him once we get inside,” he said, directing his words to no one in particular.
Gris Hallis then brought the arrow against the wall, its long, thin shaft an extension of the narrow, skeletal fingers holding it. He began to arc the arrowhead across the wall, its bloodied metal tip streaking tracks of burgundy along the shimmering volcanic stone. Wielding the blood-soaked instrument, he etched a giant crescent onto the rock face from the ground, up and over, and back down again, forming as wide a border as his sinewy arm could muster.
By the time his brush had grown devoid of blood-ink, he took a step back and assessed his work. A near-perfect, deep-red archway had been drawn. He squinted and leaned forward, scrutinizing several areas where the blood had been applied less liberally.
“I need more,” he said, tossing the arrow to the ground and turning back toward the injured Lii-jit, who had one arrow still protruding from his side.
Lakos intervened, pushing Gris Hallis back with his hand. “That’s all the blood you’ll receive. You may understand this world—” He waved toward the mountainside. “—But I understand the world of battle. And this life-mystic will be dead within one hundred breaths if left in his present state. Remove that arrow, however, and his next breath will be his last.”
“So we let him die!” screamed Gris Hallis. “His life is of no consequence to us. As long as my passageway is drawn from living blood, so be it. Should he die with one more breath, I’ll simply have to see the blood drawn within a half-breath.”
Lakos grasped Gris Hallis by the throat. “I am in charge here. You are but a servant. I am your master now. Do not forget this.” He released his grip. “If you truly are the dark and powerful mystic apprentice of legend, then you will grant me and my soldiers access to the Inner Realm without taking the life of this miserable soul. And if there is any potential use for him within these walls, then we will want to keep him alive until his utility is spent. Do not allow your bloodlust to cloud your vision.”
“I am perhaps the only member of your company not blinded by a thirst for violence,” fired Gris Hallis. “I strive only to see your quest completed, no matter the cost. And do not forget, I did not ask for the Lii-jit to be brought to me in this expiring state. It is the unpreparedness and over-exuberance of your men that put me in this position.” With a deep breath, he continued in softer tones. “Perhaps if we remove his stone shackle, with physical restraint of course, his wound would begin to heal. The moment his wounds are no longer fatal, we re-fasten the shackles, extract the arrow, and continue forward.”
Lakos wouldn’t have it. “If we allow this creature access to its abilities, we’ll not just lose him, we’ll most assuredly be sealing our own doom. The wrath we forced this Lii-jit to bring down upon the Ohlinn last night? That will be our wrath. Our fate. I will not allow it. You’ve drawn your passage. Now make it real. But first, I’ll have the key to the shackles.”
Gris Hallis gritted his teeth and straightened his back. “Of course, my lord,” he said, relinquishing the object to Lakos’s open hand.
With a sigh, Gris Hallis turned back to the wall, placing his hands against the cool stone. Lowering his head and shutting his eyes, he uttered words Lakos could faintly hear but could not comprehend. As the old mystic spoke, the section of rock within the drawn archway began to lighten. A sound crackled from inside the wall, like frozen water quickly heated by flame. The section grew lighter still as the sound amplified. Gris Hallis spoke louder, his words clear but unintelligible to those around him.
Then he stopped. The wall grew silent as well, in perfect unison. The section of stone bound by the drawn archway remained several shades lighter than the surrounding rock.
Frustrated and drained, Gris Hallis sighed. “I cannot guarantee its adequacy,” he said, shaking his head.
Lakos unsheathed his sword and approached the whitened wall. With the hilt of his sword, he tapped the stone, looking to Gris Hallis for affirmation. The old wizard gave none, still exhausted. Again, Lakos struck the wall, this time while pressing his ear against the cold stone. A broad smile crossed his lips.
“It’s hollow!” he shouted back to his men. “Grab your swords and join me! I think we can break through!”
Several soldiers rushed over, emphatically and violently thrashing away at the stone. At first only small fragments chipped away, but within moments large, friable chunks of light, porous stone separated from the wall. The men excitedly burrowed their way through, steadily tunneling deeper and deeper, until finally they began to see light from the other side beaming through.
Lakos halted his men, the smile still on his face. He wanted to savor the moment. The chance to break through and enter into the sacred Inner Realm. His realm. Slowly raising the hilt of his sword, he brought it to the thinnest remaining section of wall and struck. The light that poured in through the tiny hole washed over Lakos’s face like air to a drowning man. It bathed him and him alone.
“We’ve broken through! I can see it! It’s indescribable!” shouted Lakos, by now having ventured many strides beyond the volcano’s outer wall.
From outside, Gris Hallis stood still, seeming very much indifferent to the jubilation. Instead, he glanced down at the wounded Lii-jit, whose eyes had grown vacant and whose breath had softened and slowed.
“We’ve arrived,” he said, smiling down at the dying mystic. “We’re home.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The moment his eyes shut, Thayliss felt his mind slide into a darkness he’d never known. Like soaring down an icy hill in the dead of night, his consciousness steadily sank deeper, barreling toward an unknown destination. He tried opening his eyes to once again return to reality but could not. He was locked in, a helpless passenger, soaring blindly into an abyss.
Steadily, as he plummeted, light spots began appearing within the darkness surrounding him. At first they whirred by impossibly fast, but as his initial shock and disorientation diminished their speeds began to change. Some spots still surged past him as faint streaks, while others slowed considerably, yielding discrete, finite spheres of light that seemed to linger for an instant before vanishing.
The sensation of falling also dissipated, or at least grew into contradiction. While the feeling remained, Thayliss began getting the sense that it was not in fact he who was moving, but the small bursts of light around him. It was unlike any state he had ever fathomed, much less experienced.
He tried focusing on the spots of light, struggling to capture enough of a glimpse to ascertain any details. The orbs weren’t tangible balls of light as much as they were discrete absences of darkness. A sense of something, surrounded by nothingness. Slowly, some of the light-spheres began suggesting something within them—shapes, colors. Still indistinguishable but verging on coherence.
Thayliss wondered if he’d gone mad. If the emotional trauma leading up to this moment had hopelessly severed him from all reason. Were that the case, he would not resist it.
As his mind drifted to the heartache of the night prior, he saw the fog permeating several of the lights begin to dissipate, like a series of veils lifting from a face. One-by-one, lights bearing increasingly clear images presented themselves, still drifting in a sea of darkness. The first one he could ascertain with any certainty was a tree—a forest. The Valla Forest. Another orb presented the unmistakable silhouette of a klacktalli bird on its descent. There were groups of beings—Ohlinn—in another. By now, he could detect motion within the spheres, which lingered much longer than before. The figures were speaking, though this strange dream-world was utterly devoid of sound. Then, he saw Leysiia—his beloved Leysiia—looking right at him, saying words he ached to hear.
He grew tense, and as he did so, the images began to dissolve, and his perceived descent accelerated once again. He had to gain control, somehow. Something inside was telling him to remain calm, remain focused. Feeling his composure steady, he poured his attention entirely to Leysiia. Was it a memory? Was she speaking to him now from the next world? He longed to hear her voice again.
Through the silence, a new sensation emerged. Words somehow delivered into his consciousness, not through sound but through knowing. A message silently intuited to him. He found himself thinking of hope. Struggle. Pain. Perseverance. Love.
