Mystic Pursuit, page 8
Leysiia’s image evaporated back into the darkness. But just beyond it, a new sphere emerged, brighter and clearer than any before. It was a barred wagon, like the one he was presently confined to. No—it was the exact wagon he was trapped within, with its arrow-riddled canopy. He saw his own likeness, kneeling in quiet repose. He saw the other Ohlinn scoffing at him, their hearts still paralyzed with fear. He saw all the other wagons stuck in the bleak desert under the shadow of a colossal volcanic ridge. In the sky, swirling above the scores of idle prisoners, flocks of vicious Bray eagles patiently waited out their prey below. That was the answer.
“Thank you, ni-Leysiia, my love,” he thought.
As if bubbling up from beneath the deepest sea, Thayliss willed himself from his dream state. Opening his eyes, he felt his awareness returning to the dull, gray world around him, exactly as it had appeared in his mind’s eye. However, he now had a plan.
Rising from the floor, Thayliss reached up to the wagon’s canopy, pulling down each impaled arrow. The Ohlinn stood idly and watched, shaking their heads at whatever foolishness they presumed he was doing.
Having removed every arrow from the canopy, some twelve in all, Thayliss pulled a thin leather strap from the corner, snapping it easily from the wall. He then proceeded to wrap the bundle of arrows tightly with the leather, tying it securely. With a quick breath, he thrust his arm outside the bars of the wagon, lifting the bundle of arrows, point-down, toward the sky.
During his vision, he noticed that the arrows were fletched using the vibrant, red-and-purple feathers of the stout pheasant, native to the Bray grasslands a mere day’s ride from the volcanic desert he now found himself in. The stout pheasant was also the main food source of the Bray eagle.
He wasn’t sure if his lure would be successful, nor was he completely certain how he would define success. He just hoped that, when all was said and done, his arm was still one with his body. He may have acquired some meager semblance of Ohlinn spirit vision, but life-mystic limb regeneration was most undoubtedly beyond his abilities.
After all, Bray eagles were not an animal to be trifled with. Their curved, sneering beaks seemed at odds with the scaly, green, reptilian skin covering their foal-sized bodies. How they managed to remain airborne for vast durations was in itself a feat, as the parchment-thin webbing adjoining their long forelimbs to their sides bore very few feathers. In fact, they technically didn’t fly at all. Rather, they used their powerful talons to climb to higher ground before gliding gracefully down. Within the Bray desert, the only high ground in sight was that of the great volcanic ring.
Nonetheless, Thayliss waved the brightly colored feathers vigorously outside the wagon bars, waiting.
Apparently growing wise to his strategy, one of the Ohlinn blurted out, “Human—stop! You know not what you do!”
But it was too late. Thayliss was knocked to the ground as the first Bray eagle struck, grasping the arrows tight in its talons and gliding away, screeching its deafening cry.
Before he could pull himself up, the wagon was struck yet again. And again. A series of screams rained down from above as the wagon shook violently. The mighty raptors tore at the thick canopy, desperate to reveal its contents.
Steadily, roughly, the avian predators peeled the canopy open, a flock of ten or more perched along the wagon’s now-exposed metal rim. Their heads darted forward and side-to-side, assessing where to begin.
The Ohlinn trembled in a huddle, while Thayliss scrambled against a corner and looked up, wondering what he’d done.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In solving one problem—how to escape the wagon—Thayliss had inadvertently created a new, decidedly more urgent one. The famished-looking Bray eagles clamped their way along the top edge of the exposed mobile prison, scanning for their next meal. The ruse of a false stout pheasant had been more impactful than he had anticipated.
Again, Thayliss searched the cell for an answer. Or a weapon. He shook his head, cursing himself for not setting at least one of the arrows aside. There was nothing. And the Ohlinn beside him seemed utterly devoid of strategy.
One of the Bray eagles, a particularly ragged-looking specimen, seemed to take special interest in Thayliss. Among Thayliss’s many wounds and contusions was a rather tidy cut across the back of his left arm, which released a thin stream of blood that over the past ten hours had covered much of his left shoulder and neck in crimson. It was this that caught the raptor’s eye. Wounded prey. The repulsive bird emitted a series of stifled, guttural bursts that Thayliss could not distinguish between communication to its flock or simple eagerness in anticipation of a feast.
Having shuffled laterally around the open cage to get closer, the heinous, craggy bird began craning its neck into the cell toward Thayliss, darting spastically in a motion both cautious and desperate. Thayliss backed against an adjacent wall and crouched, covering as much of his face as possible with his forearms, themselves a cut, bloodied mess. This, if anything, only spurred the animal on, as it clamored excitedly toward him, lunging its neck into the cage as far as it could—leaving scarcely a stride of air between Thayliss and its deadly, curved beak.
In a final desperate act, the eagle attempted to grasp onto one of the wagon’s vertical steel bars with a gnarled, clawed foot. Thayliss’s heart stopped. He knew that if the creature lost its footing and slid into the cage with him, that would spell the end of him. But just as the vicious bird released its grip and extended a curved, razor-sharp talon toward one of the bars, the entire wagon shook harshly.
Thayliss spun around to see a second flock of Bray eagles swarming around the pack mule hitched to his wagon. The poor mule neighed and thrashed its head about as the birds stabbed and tore at its flesh in a mad frenzy. The mule took off across the desert floor, towing the wagon and its contents behind it. Thayliss and the Ohlinn were sent tumbling toward the back wall of the cage, helpless.
The tormented pack mule then collided with a stationary wagon ahead of it, knocking it onto its side and sending its own mule into a crazed fit, bucking against the toppled cage still fastened to its back and charging at every nearby wagon.
Two rogue wagons led to ten, ten led to thirty. It was chaos. The sparse smattering of soldiers who had been charged with the dull task of keeping watch over the passive, captive Ohlinn now found themselves in mortal danger. Some soldiers mounted their fleet horses and raced to safety, while a few of the more intrepid souls held their ground, firing crossbows and brandishing swords in an attempt to restore order.
It was in vain. Through his jarring view from the wagon floor, Thayliss could see ten soldiers trampled for every mule brought down. Despite the frenzy, the pack mules stayed true to their instinct, racing ahead rabidly. Where they were going, Thayliss had no clue.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I must speak with Master Lakos,” an exasperated soldier begged, arriving by fleet horse to the battered archway carved into the mountainside.
“I’m sorry, my son,” replied Gris Hallis, his hands held palm-up by his sides, “but I’m afraid he’s unavailable at the moment. I, however, have been granted full authority on all matters outside these walls. Now speak, what concerns you?”
“The pack mules—the Ohlinn prisoners—they’re all getting away,” he panted, pointing back to the rising cloud of ash in the distance.
Gris Hallis looked down at the frail Lii-jit lying motionless on the ground.
“Life-mystic, it appears that we have use for you after all. But I apologize, as I seem to have misplaced the key.”
The old mystic brought his boot down hard upon the Liijit’s right hand, applying a concerted amount of pressure, and then rolling his foot forward. The Lii-jit writhed in pain and retracted his broken hand, which now slipped easily through the stone bracket.
Unveiling a small, rusted dagger from inside his boot, Gris Hallis crouched down beside the Lii-jit and held the blade to his neck.
“Now, Lii-jit vermin, bring those pack mules to me.”
The Lii-jit’s faint, labored breaths slowly grew deeper as he lay on the ground, clutching his fractured hand. Swiftly, his breaths deepened still, growing stronger with every beat of his revitalized heart. Moments later, his eyes grew wild as his legs jostled spastically against the stony ground.
“Now, now, life-mystic, I need co-operation, or else this will end up very badly for both of us. Most of all, for you.” Gris Hallis pressed the dagger against the Lii-jit’s throat, a small trickle of blood cascading over its steel edge.
“The wagons, they’re heading this way!” called out one of the soldiers.
“Good, good.” Gris Hallis caressed the Lii-jit’s throat with the dull face of the blade. “You should feel honored to be playing such a pivotal role in the new age. There will be stories of all of this. Parents will tell their ch—”
“Gris Hallis, they’re not stopping!” the soldier shouted, his voice soon drowned out by a clamor of hooves and screaming voices.
Gris Hallis glanced up to see the entire team of pack mules stampeding toward him, each still pulling a wagon, some upright and others dragged coarsely along on their sides.
With his focus shifted away from the prisoner under his blade, Gris Hallis was suddenly knocked to the side as the reinvigorated Lii-jit leapt astride a renegade mule and vanished in a cloud of ashen dust.
As they passed by the open archway, all of the remaining mules spontaneously slowed to a trot, and then finally a complete standstill. Even the bloodthirsty Bray eagles swirling above the chaotic scene seemed to instantly lose interest in their prey, each unleashing a series of shrill screams before passively gliding away.
Gris Hallis, his heart pounding in his gaunt, decrepit chest, tried to take in what had just happened. The Lii-jit was long gone, as was one of the wagons and whomever it contained. Meanwhile, the remaining lot of Ohlinn prisoners were merely brought closer to their new home in the Inner Realm. A fair trade, he surmised. He only hoped that Lakos felt likewise.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Tiig? Is that you?” a voice called out from inside the wagon.
The little life-mystic, riding atop the pack mule, spun around and smiled. “What a great fortune of fate! To be trapped together within this very wagon but a short time ago, only to be reunited once again as liberated beings. Although it could be said that I am the only being liberated at the moment, as you are clearly still encased within the wagon. However, it seems to have lost its canopy, so it is no doubt a safe assumption that an Ohlinn such as yourself could easily escape from it should you choose to do so. And even if you could not, we ride away from the ones who captured us, so even though you are still technically imprisoned, you are nonetheless free, do you not agree?”
Increasingly grateful for every stride distancing him from the sinister army at the Bray range, Thayliss felt his mood ease. He even found the image of the spastic little being chatting incessantly while seated backwards astride a charging wild animal almost endearing.
“You’ve got an arrow in your side,” replied Thayliss, thinking of no better way to advance the conversation.
“Oh yes, indeed I do.” Tiig glanced down at the arrow and, in one fluid motion, withdrew it from his flesh. While he was no doubt not immune to pain, it seemed to Thayliss that the Lii-jit had grown accustomed to the sensation. Perhaps the dramatic recoil that others felt toward pain was more a product of the dire consequences of sustaining injury—a way to send a clear message to the brain that such behavior should not be repeated. As a being capable of regeneration despite, seemingly, any trauma, Thayliss speculated that this feedback mechanism may have devolved out of the Lii-jit. After all, if one healed from any abuse, then why stress over its recurrence in the future?
“What about the other Ohlinn?” asked Thayliss, suddenly recalling the final moments before his escape from the caravan. “Should we go back for them?”
Tiig shook his head, a pained look on his face. “I tried to take them with me,” he said solemnly. “But something about that mountain wouldn’t let me. I could feel an energy building within it—a dark energy. We were lucky to escape at all. But I am truly sorry for your kin—they, too, deserve freedom. And had those humans and that corrupt mystic of theirs not abused my gifts, they would still be free.”
Thayliss could hear the pain in the little Lii-jit’s voice. “So, where is it you’re taking us?” asked Thayliss, trying to change the subject.
“That depends entirely upon where you wish to go,” answered Tiig cheerfully, his sorrow seeming to vanish in the blink of an eye. “Seeing as how I am outnumbered eight-to-one, the notion of riding back to the Sani-jai rainforest to visit my own kin seems a tad selfish. However, despite being outnumbered eight Ohlinn to one Lii-jit, it is the one Lii-jit who is directing this fine animal’s course.” He laughed, a rich, guttural laugh, and spun back to face forward. “I’m only aiming to kid you, to play with you. I would not deprive my fellow travelers their journey home. I will take you to your home. The Valla Forest. Really, a very lovely place. It is not far, relatively speaking. Which really is the only way to speak, I would think.”
“Stop this vehicle,” one of the other Ohlinn called out.
The Lii-jit complied, seeming to command the galloping pack mule to a full stop without so much as an overt gesture or spoken word. He looked back into the wagon, not saying a word, and awaited further instruction. But there was none.
With typical grace and agility, the seven Ohlinn leaped through the open canopy and onto the dusty, barren ground.
“The Valla Forest is not your home, Thayliss,” voiced another Ohlinn, peering at Thayliss through the bars as if speaking to a caged animal.
“It was never your home,” said another. “This matter is settled. You will never again set foot within the Valla Forest, lest you be spirit-stricken. So it is said, that all must abide.”
The words pierced through Thayliss far deeper than any mortal blade ever could. The Ohlinn were, by nature, a peaceful, serene race, with no innate sense of violence nor traditional weaponry. But what they lacked in corporeal artillery, they more than made up for in the ethereal. To be spirit-stricken was, in Ohlinn mysticism, to be disconnected from one’s very soul. Not to be killed, or even physically wounded, but to be lost from the next world.
On death, all Ohlinn transitioned to the next world, an energetic continuation of the present one. Whether all life followed this path was a matter of great philosophical debate, with many claiming the entire concept of the next world as simply an Ohlinn fabrication, aimed at enhancing their stature within this world.
But Thayliss knew better. He knew that the Ohlinn were in possession of a most sacred gift, the ability to serve as a link, a conduit, between the two worlds, thereby gleaning insights into the future and communicating with those already passed.
In contrast, when the spirit-stricken died, they simply ceased to be. Gone from this world, and never to see the next. Never to rejoin lost loved ones. It was as though they never existed at all. It would almost be more merciful if, at the time of enacting the curse, the Ohlinn would also kill the poor being. Were that the case, it would at least spare them however many bleak, empty seasons they had left, knowing that it was all they would ever have. This was a damnation rarely incited and gravely abided by. In all the history of time, the ancient texts read, never had one of the spirit-stricken had his curse lifted. It was not done.
Thayliss had little choice but to comply. “I will do as you ask of me. But please,” he pleaded, his hands tightly gripping the steel bars, “tell my—tell the Ohlinn—that I did the best of my ability to serve them with honor. And that I gravely apologize for my failures.”
“We shall do no such thing,” an Ohlinn replied. “For we, too, shall not be returning home. This will be our final resting place. It is our future. We shall remain here in these forsaken lands and meditate until we leave this world for the next. But know that word of your banishment has already reached the Valla Forest. For the true Ohlinn are granted insights that an imposter shall never receive.”
With that, the seven Ohlinn wandered off into the flat, unchanging dune, no longer under the vast shadow of the Bray Mountain, though never beyond its view. Clouds of ash swirled around the old mystics until they appeared to be consumed by the desert.
Looking around, Thayliss decided that he had had enough of being trapped in a cage. Hoping that his new appearance also meant that he now possessed the lithe athleticism of an Ohlinn, he leapt up to grab hold of the top railing. However, his attempt still fell several hands short. By the time Thayliss managed to grip the top of the cage and rather inelegantly hoist himself over, he found the little Lii-jit sitting atop the pack mule staring at him, somewhat amused and somewhat perplexed.
“Have you sustained injury, Thayliss the banished Ohlinn?” he asked, a look of genuine concern across his spritely, goldenbrown face.
Thayliss hadn’t the energy nor the inclination to discuss what had just transpired. “Yes, Tiig. Injuries everywhere.”
“Then I know where to take you. If you’ve nowhere to go, you’ve now somewhere to go!” He paused, thinking. “Though I figure you’ll not care to climb back into the cage, especially in light of the great challenge it presented you just trying to climb out of it. No, no. I would not ask that of you. However, I can sense that this pack horse has only the energy to carry myself upon his back. She, too, has sustained injuries, much like yourself. But alas, also like yourself, she is bravely forging on. Such a wonderful trait that some creatures possess. The forging on despite injury and impediment. I’m not certain what exactly one would call that trait, but it’s certainly a better thing to have than not to have, wouldn’t you agree?”
“So I’ll just walk, then?” asked Thayliss, suddenly finding himself on the verge of collapse.
