Chapter Three
Zack ran through the forest, terrified. Behind him, he clearly heard the shouts of his pursuers, and he dared not stop for a moment; instead he carried on, blindly crashing through the undergrowth and ducking tree branches just in time. When the cries only drew closer, he looked around desperately until he saw a suitable tree and scrambled up into it, scraping his hands on the rough bark. Halfway up, when he was almost completely hidden by the leaves, he brushed a few thin branches aside and looked down at the forest twenty feet below. His eyes narrowed with concentration, sweat gathered on his brow, and the trail of bent and broken plants that marked his path to the tree slowly straightened, moved back into place by his will alone.
Hardly a moment later, seven red-and-gold clad figures burst through the blackberry brambles that had hid him from view while he escaped. At the end of his untouched trail, one of them held up a hand and the rest halted.
“He can’t have gone far,” the leader told them. “Spread out and search; this one won’t get away.”
Zack held his breath, hoping they wouldn’t look up—the leaves didn’t cover him from below—but in vain; almost as soon as he had the thought, one of the searching men glanced up and their gazes met, Zack’s pleading and the Nashtan’s startled. Then the soldier whistled sharply, drawing his sword, and the others came running to glare up at him.
“Come down, boy,” the leader ordered. “You’ve got nowhere to run.”
“No,” he replied forcefully. “You can’t stay down there forever!”
“Ah, but we can stay down here longer than you could stay up there. Also, there are more of us; we could sleep in shifts, but you can’t always be watchful. Come down and save yourself the trouble!”
Zack considered. He could indeed stay up here until they caught him off guard, or he could try to fight them off with his sling long enough to escape. But they had shields to protect themselves with; that wouldn’t work. If he used his power to kill or wound them, he would be too exhausted to run, and some animal, or even more soldiers, would find him.
Slowly, the defiance faded from his cloudy green eyes, and he sighed tiredly. Reluctantly, he climbed down, whereupon two of the soldiers grabbed him tightly.
“Wise choice,” the leader said quietly. “Now we must get back to our camp. I warn you now, don’t try to escape; it could easily end in your death.”
Looking at the merciless face in front of him, Zack believed it.
Trisha was deep in thought, sitting in a forest clearing, when the first cracks began to appear in her life. Unaware that he was about to shatter his friend’s peaceful existence, a village boy named Alex came bursting through the bushes that surrounded the small sanctuary.
“Trisha,” he cried in excitement. “There are soldiers in the village! Real soldiers!”
She was immediately alert. “Soldiers? What do they want?”
Not noticing her suspicious reaction, the boy continued, “They’re just passing through, really, but they’re real soldiers of the King! They’re going to the Forest of Night, to fight the Asmór! They caught one of the Asmór spies, you know, and he’s hardly older than me. Isn’t that amazing?”
Relaxing, Trisha nodded. Now that she had ascertained she was safe, she favored him with a smile. “They do that to trick us,” she explained to her younger friend, standing up. “After all, children don’t have any business in a war—or they wouldn’t, if the Asmór didn’t make them. It doesn’t work much, though, because our soldiers are much smarter than theirs.”
“Come and see them,” Alex exclaimed, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the main road. “They look amazing in their armor!”
Laughing, Trisha allowed herself to be dragged. In truth, she was just as eager as Alex, but the dignity befitting to her twelve years demanded that she maintain a calmer demeanor. Then again, there were several villagers who had joined the army when the war first began, including the only son of the family that had taken her in . . .
Abandoning dignity, Trisha ran alongside Alex, delighted to meet some of the heroes of the continuing war.
Zack scowled at the villagers crowding around. He hated people staring at him, hating being gawked at; one of the reasons he had offered to become a spy was to escape all the pity and attention he would naturally draw as an orphan. He had always thought it fortunate that the army was desperate enough to accept, but now he was not so sure.
“He’s faster than you would believe,” one of the soldiers that had chased him through the forest informed the crowd. “And wearing heavy armor doesn’t help in catching him.”
This drew laughs from the villagers, even though the man was being serious. The boy scowled again, then set about ignoring them as he tried to find a way out of his situation. He knew that if he couldn’t escape before the reinforcements reached the Forest of Night, he would probably be killed, and most likely imprisoned. He didn’t mind that much; it was the risk that came from being a spy. No, what bothered him was that he wouldn’t be able to tell his people that the Nashtan Army would have reinforcements.
As he was considering this, an image suddenly flickered through his mind, almost like a passing thought except slower and clearer. For an instant, he looked through a window in his mind and saw a boy of perhaps fourteen years—only two years older than himself—fighting for his life. The boy leapt forward to slice through an archer’s string, and Zack felt every nerve on his body prickle with alarm; seconds later, the boy dropped his sword and stumbled back as a figure dressed in black and red stepped out of the trees. The next moment the vision was gone, but Zack felt as though something terrible beyond belief had happened, which was strange in itself. Why should he care about the fate of some Nashtan boy he didn’t know, especially one who was plainly an enemy of Asmór?
At first glance the person in front of him seemed to be clothed in fire and smoke. The next moment, however, Luke realized the man’s tunic was actually dappled with a deep red and black—the same colors and style as the archer who had murdered his mother, he remembered with pain.
The stranger was tall, with unreadable black eyes and a handsome face. Even so, the air around him crackled with an evil malice that Luke shouldn’t have felt; hatred burned at his soul, coming from the man.
“So, this is your captive? A mere boy of seven or eight killed so many of your soldiers?”
The boy noticed that there were others behind the newcomer, dressed in green and gray, but none of them held the terrible power he knew the man possessed.
“Yes, Ambassador Dalobo. The earth tore open at their feet, and water and fire devoured them. You say you know why?”
“Such strength,” murmured the man, apparently not hearing the question. “Especially in one so young. Odd . . . The power should not have come for a year or so yet. I wonder . . .”
“Sir,” someone asked from nearby, “is this the one you were looking for?”
“Yes. Yes it is. I will take him with me tomorrow. Thank you for your assistance.” Something in the way he said it made Luke think that there was no gratitude, only a promise of death and pain. If that was so, no one else heard it.
Long after they left, Luke lay very still, thinking. There was no question about it; this Ambassador Dalobo boded ill. And that meant Luke had to leave, and he had to leave tonight.
After Michael had recovered, he learned more about his captors. They were Asmór scouts, sent to learn the lay of the land and familiarize themselves with the way of the people, and their mission depended upon secrecy; if the Nashtan Army discovered them, they would be easily destroyed.
He was told this partly as an explanation as to why they could not immediately release him. The Asmór promised they would let him go when they were sure it was safe to, but as each day passed, Michael grew more desperate; his family needed him. If he couldn’t get back, they would have almost no lookout for pirates, and the neighbors might not be able to warn them in time. If they still had neighbors, since he hadn’t been able to get a warning to them, and he didn’t know if they had seen the pirates themselves.
On the third day, while Michael was busy thinking up and discarding various plans of escape, one of the Asmór came up to him. It was Feruin, the archer that had saved his life. Michael eyed him suspiciously.
“You seem to be adjusting very well,” Feruin remarked casually. “Most have tried to escape long since.”
“I mean to do it right,” the boy replied. “Like as not, I won’t get another chance. What do you want?”
Feruin chuckled. “You’re getting well used to us, I see. You should work on that tact of yours while you’re at it.”
Michael merely smiled and waited, causing the other to sigh.
“You’ve definitely picked up on too much. Very well, then . . . I wanted to ask you, do you know how we knew you were in danger?”
“No,” Michael said slowly, not sure why it mattered. “I guess you just came across me by chance. Why?”
“We did not come across you by chance.” Feruin watched Michael intently, his eyes unreadable. “In fact, we wouldn’t have gotten to you in time if it hadn’t been for the animals. They came racing up to us, then ran back down the path, as though they wanted us to follow them—which we did. After we helped you, they were suddenly gone; it was very eerie.”
The boy’s face was suddenly thoughtful. “This isn’t the only strange incident, is it? There have been others, impossible things that happened, and you’re looking for an answer.”
“Correct,” Feruin acknowledged. “You’re a bright boy. There was another boy, younger than you, who tore open the ground and called fire and water to him, and there have been tales of even stranger things going on, things we’ve never come across before. Do you know what this means?”
“There are stories of people like that,” Michael muttered absently, his mind racing. “Myths really, so old they’re all but forgotten. I never thought . . .” He was probably one of the few children who still remembered the old legends of people with special powers. His birth mother, back when she was alive, had told him the tales on stormy nights, to keep him from being restless. They were almost gone from the land, though, myths so old they were fading from memory; most of the people he knew had never even heard of them.
So lost in thought was he, Michael never even noticed when Feruin slipped off to report to his leader.
Luke crept about the camp cautiously, alert for any odd noises. He knew that, if he was caught, he was too weak to do much harm; he could take care of one person, maybe two, but not the entire camp. Trying right now would kill him; he could barely walk on his own, much less fight.
He almost made it. Luke was perhaps ten feet beyond the last tent, only twenty yards or so from the forest edge, when someone behind him spoke.
“It is almost a pity, in a way. Anyone who can slip away from these Asmór is very good indeed, and you are young yet.”
Luke spun around, looking at the red-and-black clad man with horror.
“Yes,” he went on, “a pity. One could almost think you were from the Thief Clan, not the Elemental.” Seeing the shock on the boy’s face, he raised one eyebrow with a cold smile. “Did you really believe I wouldn’t feel you leaving? Foolish. I’m not about to let so strong a Clan member slip away, no matter how young you might be.”
But as the man’s hand came up in the same motion that Luke used to direct his own power, a vine wrapped around it and dragged it back down. More vines began to climb over the man, tightening their hold.
“What—”
Turning quickly, tearing vines as he went, Dalobo looked back toward the tents with surprise and fury on his face. Puzzled, Luke looked the same direction.
A girl stood there, dressed in a simple green tunic. When the stranger looked at her, an odd, almost pained expression crossed her face and she took a step back, wincing.
“Ah, yes,” he said quietly, shaking his hands free. “The other one. These fools truly do not know the power that is at their very fingertips.” He laughed softly as he pulled the vines of off himself, a sound of wicked amusement, and Luke shivered in fear. “It seems I must deal with her as well.”
The girl’s face hardened at his words, and she raised her hands. The vines returned, slithering across the ground and tightening around the man; thorns sprouted on them, large and viciously sharp, but he ignored them. When the girl fell to her knees in evident agony, Luke shook himself free of his paralyzed amazement and summoned his power, struggling against his fatigue. Almost of its own accord, his hand came up.
The earth rippled underneath Dalobo, growling and rumbling as it moved, and he turned back to Luke. There was a terrible knowing in his eyes.
“You win this round, Clan members,” he whispered. “Next time, you will not be so fortunate.”
Then, as the thorns bit deep into his flesh, the ground tore open beneath him and he fell.
There was a long silence. Luke swayed, exhausted, and the girl was suddenly there, steadying him.
“Are you alright?”
He looked up into her concerned eyes and smiled weakly. “Just . . . tired. Very tired.” He yawned and straightened, remembering that he was supposed to be escaping. “Thank you for helping me.”
She smiled. “No problem. I didn’t like him anyway—I hope the general decides against an alliance with these Traon. But you should be going now, while you still have time.”
He frowned. “You aren’t going to try and stop me? I’m an escaping prisoner.”
She brushed a lock of brown-blond hair out of her somber green eyes. “You’re just a kid. To my mind, you’re too young to be an enemy. Good luck.”
Then, utterly calm, she turned and walked back into the camp as though nothing at all had happened. Luke gawked after her for a moment, then shook his head, turned around, and stumbled into the forest. He wasn’t really sure where he was going, but he knew he had to get away and find somewhere safe where people could look after him.
Aldan and the others were not part of the group of soldiers, much to the villagers’ disappointment, but the young spy almost made up for it. While most stared at him and muttered among themselves, Trisha simply looked at the Asmór boy, puzzled by the strange, almost comforting feeling coming from him. It was the same feeling she often associated with her real parents, a sense that he was family—an impossibility in this case. Snap out of it, she told herself. You must be tired, to think such things.
A vision suddenly flashed before her eyes, showing a young man stumbling backwards from a blurred figure that radiated evil and pain. For a split second it was nothing more than a confusing scene; then something within her connected. A barrier seemed to shatter, and she fell into a stream of images—memories from someone else, she somehow knew.
She saw a gleaming white city that seemed to radiate evil and malice below him, with cloaked figures crossing the glowing streets almost furtively. There was a deathly silence about the place, though she could not understand at first. Then, as she listened further, she understood. No birds sang, no animals moved, in that forbidding place. But for the few people moving in the deserted streets, it was lifeless and barren, though still filled with an impossible and terrible beauty.
In a moment the vision was gone, replaced by another of a dying soldier. The man gasped for breath, then whispered, “I . . . will never tell. My . . . my life . . . is soon over. You . . . will . . . never know . . . then.” A hand came into Trisha’s view and touched the soldier lightly on one shoulder; he screamed with pain, but there was an edge of triumph in it as well. Moments later, he was dead.
Next came a burning tree, silhouetting a woman standing courageously in front of it. “You shall never have him,” she cried, and threw a powder on the ground before her. Then she gestured with her hand and flames appeared amidst the powder, burning bright and terrible as it lit the strange, dust-like substance. It exploded with shocking force, and she was gone with nothing to mark where she and the tree had once stood, but for a charred crater in the ground.
Another scene came, one that made her very soul cry for release from the horror of it. A battlefield lay before her, strewn with the dead and dying, and strange figures were locked in terrible battle, neither side seeming to win or lose. The earth rumbled and rolled beneath them, as though the very ground protested against the fighting, but they seemed to pay it no mind, even when it cracked and parted all around them. One of the people, little more than a boy, cried out as his opponent’s sword batted his own blade aside and cut deep into his leg. Falling, he gestured with his hand as his foe raised the blade for a death blow; the man flew backward and was crushed against a tree. Elsewhere, a cloud of birds made from glittering metal flew at the cloaked enemy, overwhelming them until one of them raised their hand and the girl that seemed to be directing the birds collapsed with a cry of pain. She writhed helplessly for a moment, then became still as a sword cut deep into her chest. A woman with wild eyes leapt forward, striking down the girl’s killer, and turned with unnatural speed to deflect an arrow that flew toward her. See this, a voice whispered in her mind as she stared helplessly at the carnage. Find the one who shares your visions, and this can be yet prevented from happening again.
Trisha staggered and Alex caught her, looking anxious.
“Are you alright?”
She nodded and mumbled, “Just tired, is all. I should probably get some sleep.”
“Go ahead,” he told her. “I don’t mind.”
With a grateful smile, Trisha turned and hurried toward her home, thinking about what she had seen. It had something to do with that boy, she knew—but what?
