Audiobook Version

https://youtu.be/q7yMO4to8fU

Everything about the six men spoke of death. Five of them wore vicious looking armour decorated with spikes. They were painted with what could only be blood. Their blades dripped brown liquid. In the middle of them stood a man with a shaved head and loose fitting maroon robes. He held a large book in his hand and was reading aloud. Alam could not understand the words.

Around the valley people picked themselves up and turned to the newcomers.

The bald man lowered the book and addressed the holy man on the cart. "My Liege has sent me for the box. Hand it to me now."

"No," came the reply.

"These people need not die today," said the bald man as he dropped the book.

"Better to die than hand it to you."

"As you wish."

The bald man thrust his open hands towards the holy man and shouted. The holy man arched his back and cried out in pain. Smiling, the bald man advanced. Slowly, as if fighting some great resistance, the holy man raised his wooden staff. He thrust it towards the sorcerer. The sorcerer was pushed back by an unseen force. His smile became a frown.

Suddenly Urlock was at Alam's shoulder. "Up! Run! This is not our fight!" He dragged Alam to his feet. "Pull back!" he shouted to the rest of his warriors.

Alam ran. In front of him Tajar and Shaleh threw themselves behind the rocks that had concealed them moments ago. Alam slid next to them, and looked back at the battle. Four of the blood-covered knights fought caravan guards, who were clearly no match for them. The fifth lay dead before the veteran's feet. The veteran pulled his sword out of the dead man. Without a moment's hesitation he charged toward the sorcerer. He shouted a battle cry as he ran.

Alam had seen this kind of charge before. On a hunting trip he, Tajar, and Tajar's father, had disturbed a bear. Tajar's father ran at it to save the two boys. It was the charge of someone who knows he is about to die, but has accepted his fate.

The sorcerer bellowed strange words. His hands rolled around each other. The veteran's sword arm snapped like a twig though nothing touched it. His arm swung limp. Still he charged. Another sickening crack sounded and his leg gave way beneath him. He tumbled to the dirt.

"For the love of all that is good help us!" screamed the holy man to Urlock.

Maybe it was the fury, maybe it was sympathy, maybe it was just stupidity – whatever the reason, Alam jumped to his feet and rushed towards the bald sorcerer.

"Alam! Get back!" shouted Urlock.

Alam did not respond. He gripped his axe firmly in both hands and screamed. In front of him the sorcerer stepped closer to the veteran. With a bellow of exertion he clutched his hands into fists and yanked them apart as if ripping something. The veteran's torso twisted. The armoured man cried out as he crumpled to the ground. The sorcerer swung his head to look at the archers above. He grabbed the air with both hands. Shouting again he pulled his hands back. Two archers fell, their arms flailed around uselessly as they dropped.

Alam was only ten paces away. He raised his axe to strike.

The sorcerer spun towards Alam and moved his hands into fists while muttering. Alam's muscles seized up. His legs stopped working mid-stride. He fell hard to the ground. Pebbles scraped his face. He braced himself for the pain that would end his life.

It did not come. Instead his vision went dark, blacker than night. Gradually he became aware, over the the pain of his clenched muscles, of the sounds of battle. He could not be sure if seconds, or minutes, were passing. He heard, as if it were from a great distance, the familiar sounds of Urlock, Tajar and Shaleh's voices. He heard the clash of metal on metal, and the horror of people crying in pain. But it was far away, as if in a dream. The sounds faded. And as they did, so did his hopes and will. They were disappearing into a calm acceptance of nothingness. There was a peace in death.

We must all die. Today is as good as any other.

My friends need me.

Subtly, incredibly subtly, he perceived a movement in the darkness. Not with his eyes - the blackness was absolute. The movement was emotional. The darkness seemed pleased. Alam concentrated what little willpower he had left and focused on the darkness itself. Realisation dawned on him - it was like a cloud between him and himself. It seemed as if it possessed some will of its own.

Get out of me.

The darkness moved.

Get out!

It wavered. Weak grey light became visible. With renewed hope he concentrated on moving his legs. His toes responded. The pain was excruciating, but they responded. He tried again. His feet moved.

Get out of me!

Focusing on his hand, he bent all his will to unclenching his burning muscles. They responded, and as they did, the darkness lessened. He moved his arm, and then his shoulder. The darkness was vanishing. He bellowed as he pushed at the ground with his good arm. The darkness fled from him leaving his muscles sore but his body full of adrenaline. Light flooded his vision, making him blink.

The battle was bad. Very few people were still standing. Urlock and Serik were circling a bloodknight. His sword was coated in blood. Shaleh and a couple of clansmen darted around the only other standing bloodknight. He savagely swung his blade back and forth. The sorcerer had his back to Alam. He was closing in on the holy man who was bleeding and convulsing on the ground. Clutched in his arm was a small, black, wooden box.

Alam knew he would have only one chance.

He sprang at the sorcerer with a cry, but his legs did not have the strength he expected. He collapsed onto one knee just short of his target.

The sorcerer spun on him. Shock was on the man's face.

"How did you..." Instead of finishing his question he pointed to Alam's heart, squeezed his hand into a fist, and twisted it. Unbelievable pain exploded in Alam's chest. Alam dropped his grip to the end of the axe handle to give it more reach.

"How are you alive?" the sorcerer whispered.

He might have been alive, but Alam knew he was dying. He gathered his remaining strength, and swung his axe. It embedded in the man's chest with a wet thunk. The pain lifted. He yanked it free. The sorcerer stepped back in shock. Again Alam swung the axe, and again it struck his chest. Blood was everywhere. On the axe. Spraying the dirt. Covering Alam. Gushing out of the man's chest.

The sorcerer fell lifeless to the ground.

Fire in him, Alam looked for another foe.

"Boy," croaked the holy man in the dust. "Please... Help..."

Alam read the desperation in the man's eyes and felt his rage disappear. Without it he was suddenly tired and sore.

"Please," the man implored.

Alam knelt beside him. He knew there was nothing he could do for the man. There was too much blood.

"You're going to be fine," he lied.

"Take it... Take it to Clarisai. To Clarisai," he held the black box towards Alam.

"Clarisai? Where is Clarisai?"

"Promise me!" he croaked.

"But I don't..."

"Promise!" He propped himself up on one elbow and with his free hand gripped Alam's shoulder.

Their eyes locked.

"Morcham can't have it," the holy man urged.

"Why?"

"Slaughter... please... my life's purpose..."

A sensation of warmth radiated from where the holy man's hand gripped Alam's shoulder. Feelings that were not his own flooded into Alam - exhaustion, kindness, despair. But strongest of all was urgency.

"Who are you?" Alam asked.

"No-one... take it to Clarisai... Do it for those you love."

Alam looked past the man's brown irises, into the blackness beyond them, perhaps into his soul.

"I promise," Alam vowed.

And then the connection was gone. The holy man gurgled his last breath as his spirit left his broken body.

Alam's gaze went to the box. It was exquisite - rectangular, as long as Alam's forearm, and as wide as his fist. It was made of a dark, fine grained wood - almost black. It was bound in brass, and beautifully engraved with light, intricate leaf and floral patterns. No lid, hinges, or lock were visible.

He carefully took it out of the dead man's hands.

The world changed. Colour was gone and everything blurred. Alam felt cold. Somewhere close an infant was crying.

What's going on?

Panic washed over him. The infant continued to cry. Out of the blurry haze a woman's face drew right up to his. She looked disheveled, exhausted, and yet radiant. She was smiling as tears of joy ran down her cheeks. Alam felt cloth wrap tightly around him. Some of the panic and fear subsided. The baby's crying softened. The woman said something to him, but Alam could not make out the words. She leaned in close and kissed him - on the forehead, the cheeks, his mouth, his neck. Realisation hit him - he was seeing through the baby's eyes.

As quickly as the strange vision started, it stopped. He was back on the battlefield.

"What the hell is this?" he stared at the box.

The sound of shouting, and metal hitting metal, drew his attention back to the conflict. He saw with relief that it was almost over. The final bloodknight was surrounded but refusing to yield. He thrust viciously, trying to make his way through the circle of clan warriors. He was tiring.

"Be patient!" Chief Urlock instructed his warriors.

Every thrust by the bloodknight was slightly weaker than the one before it. Eventually, inevitably, he over extended and Urlock slipped past his guard. Urlock gave him a swift death as befitted a warrior who had fought bravely to the last.

"Tajar!" Alam suddenly realised he could not see his lifelong friend. "Tajar! Where are you?"

He scanned those that stood: Urlock, Shaleh - thank the heavens she was unharmed - three archers on the hill tops, and three of the elder warriors. Fear rose in him, pooling in his stomach. He ran from one prone figure to the next, until he found Tajar lying half under a cart. He had a swollen red welt above his temple. He stirred when Alam gently shook him.

"Am I dead?"

"Not yet," said Alam, smiling with relief.

"Forgive my laziness. Being bashed with a shield brings out the worst in me."

Urlock appeared at Alam's shoulder. "How is he?"

"Fine," answered Alam. "He took a blow to the head but his thick skull deflected it."

"I'm glad you are well Tajar," said Urlock, "you fought bravely today."

"Thank you chief," Tajar replied with closed eyes.

Urlock turned to Alam. "Is that the box they were arguing about?"

"Yes. The holy man gave it to me," said Alam.

"Let me see what is so important that it attracts sorcerers from Morcham."

"Brace yourself chief. When I touched it I saw strange things. I think it is enchanted."

Chief Urlock frowned and looked hesitant. Carefully he took it from Alam.

"Are you trying to scare me boy?" he smiled.

"No, Chief Urlock. Did you see nothing?" The chief shook his head.

"I spoke the truth," Alam said as much to himself as to Urlock.

Urlock suspiciously examined it. Nothing he, or anyone else, tried could open it. Shaking it showed that something was inside. Something light, unlikely to be metal by the sound it made. But what it might be, no one could guess.

When everyone had failed to open it, Urlock spoke to Alam. "The holy man may have given it to you, but I will keep it until I have decided what to do with it."

Alam bowed his head in acceptance.

Urlock then addressed what remained of the raiding party. "Well done to you all! You fought with honour and glory. You are all a credit to our clan. Soon we will retell what befell us today. But first we honour the fallen. After that we see what of value we can salvage from this raid. Then we go home."

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Thank you for reading. Please vote. Comments are very welcome.

-Y. V. Qualls