Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (37 page)

When the pipe returned to Tearock he set it down, closed his eyes and lowered his head. Michael followed his example. Tearock’s deep voice broke the silence as he sang a sorrowful song. The others joined in certain parts as Michael listened. It was a song about loss at first, but changed to one of joy; joy at having known A’lan, joy at having been called his friend. The song conveyed his life as each person in the room added their own memories of A’lan to the song. The birdlike soprano of the woman across the fire blended well with the baritone voices of the men beside her. The sweet, mellow alto of the other woman was matched by the deep, sonorous bass of Tearock.

Tears streamed down Michael’s face as he listened to the wonderful story of his father, the adventurer who befriended a savage nation. He had carved his father’s headstone himself, taking great care in the work, every stroke of the chisel a memorial to his father’s skill. It was a beautiful headstone, polished smooth, with the intricate design of his father’s sigil, curved triangles interwoven with one another, around the border of the curved top. Michael had felt it conveyed his father very well. Now he didn’t think it did him justice. Their song was a living headstone to his father. Their rich voices surpassed the most intricate carvings or the finest materials.

C
HAPTER
40

Between Worlds

Michael woke to the sound of rustling feet. He did not recall getting into bed. He remembered the song, sweet and vibrant in his mind, but at some point his memory grew hazy.

Garen bent down into his view. “About time you decided to wake up. We’re going to get some breakfast if you care to join us.”

Pushing himself up, Michael noticed he was far less sore than last night. He rolled his shoulders and swung his arms, testing for the ever present knots behind his shoulder blades. Whatever was in that pipe did wonders for his tense muscles.

He followed Garen out the door, shielding his eyes from the sun as they adjusted to the bars of gold light cutting through the trees.

Tearock greeted them warmly as they approached, but Saranta scowled at them over the chief’s shoulder. Michael could not decide whether he was suspicious or simply prejudice.

Breakfast consisted of flatbread, eggs, spicy shredded meat and a variety of sauces. Michael made certain to stay away from the red sauce and chuckled when Garen did not heed his warning.

“Do you not have decent food where you live?” Tearock asked.

“We do,” Garen paused, gulping down water, “but nothing that spicy!”

The Seran’tu chief laughed. “Spicy?! If the plesca sauce is spicy to you, avoid the brusc.” He pointed to a green sauce with tiny seeds in it, “it might blister your tongue.”

After breakfast, Tearock accompanied them to their guest house to collect their gear. Two men greeted them as they exited the house, ready for travel. Calar was a short, lean fellow with light brown hair and a warm smile and Namish, a stout youth a few years younger than Michael with black hair.

“Excellent,” Tearock said. “If everyone is ready, we shall set out for Gherbesch.”

“How far is it?” Max asked.

A sly smirk appeared on Tearock’s face. “Not far.”

The space before them began to shift, swirling and coalescing, making the building behind it blurry like looking through a piece of imperfect glass. Then it turned dark grey, streaked with color, as the space opened revealing a long corridor, ten feet tall and almost as wide. The walls were a dark, murky gray with colors that seemed to ebb and flow like waves, and a light emanated from them giving the corridor a dull glow.

Max’s eyes widened. “You have teleporters?”

“Of course,” Tearock replied. “Our magichae are as diverse as any in the world.”

“So that’s how your men found us so quickly when we entered the forest,” Max said.

Tearock nodded. “Sentinels guard our borders vigilantly, but anyone wielding magic requires immediate attention. Thankfully so in your case.”

Michael stared into the tunnel, transfixed. He could hear voices whispering, right at the edge of hearing. He could not make out what they were saying, but he was certain the voices were real.

He jumped when Max leaned near him and spoke. “Whatever voices you may hear, do not leave the path.”

“What are they?” Michael whispered.

“We are traveling between worlds, that of the living and the underworld. The voices are those of the dead. If you walk off the path, you will join them.”

Calar looked at them, stern as a rock.
“Stay close,”
he said, then stepped into the corridor. His motions slowed for a moment like he was in water then he disappeared.

One by one they stepped into the corridor, Tearock escorting Michael like an honor guard. Looking back after he entered, Michael stood with his mouth hanging open. People beyond the entrance moved with incredible slowness. Max seemed to move with exaggerated slowness then his movements jumped to normal speed as he entered the corridor.

He grinned at Michael’s dumbfounded expression. “Teleporters can bend time and space. Time moves slower and distances are shorter.”

“How is this possible?” Michael asked.

“No one knows,” Max replied. “Who can fathom the workings of the Creator? There were those in Shaladon who devoted their lives to the study of magichae. Some spent their whole lives trying to understand teleportation. None have been able to explain how it works. We know for certain teleporters manipulate pure Spirit but only in certain ways. There has never been a teleporter who could use Spirit for any other reason. I think it is time to go,” he said as Namish closed the entrance behind Jorgen and Caballus.

Surrounded by the swirling corridor with Calar leading, Max took on his professorial tone and began explaining how teleporters, like all magichae, varied in strength.

Garen grinned. “We already took that course, professor.”

Max thumped him on the head, eyes aflame with indignation. “Be that as it may, perhaps a refresher might be in order since you are gawking at the corridor. The best teleporters in Shaladon can travel fifty miles in a single jump. Did you know that, hmm?”

Garen shook his head.

“I once knew a young man about your age at the time, a bit more civil to his elders, though, who could make the jump in twenty minutes.”

After a while, Calar stopped and opened another portal, his face dripping with sweat and breathing hard. Stepping out Michael saw they were at the edge of a clearing overlooking farmers tending crops.

“Gherbesch is just in the trees, there,”
Calar pointed.

“How far have we traveled?” Max asked, looking at the sun.

“By your measurements, two hundred miles,” Tearock replied.

“Two hundred miles!” Max looked at Tearock then back at the sun. An hour or so had passed. “How is that possible?”

Namish’s eyebrow raised when Tearock translated Max’s question.

“We combine our power,”
Namish replied, like he was explaining water was wet.

“How?”
Michael asked, intrigued.

Calar and Namish looked at each other like he had asked if the sky was blue.

Tearock translated Calar’s explanation. “They share the task. Calar opened the corridor, chose the path and maintained the front portion while Namish tended the back half. Since they share the burden they can put more energy into the travel, thus longer distances in less time.”

“Fascinating,” Max replied. “Some Elementals can combine their powers, but I’ve never heard of teleporters working in conjunction. In Shaladon, we use several teleporters to make multiple jumps.”

Calar snorted and Namish grinned when Tearock translated what Max had said.

Michael saw the wheels turning in Max’s professorial head. The study of teleportation just became very high on his list.

C
HAPTER
41

Thunder and Lightning

Calar and Namish rested while Tearock introduced Michael and his friends to the city council. After a tour of the city, they ate lunch while recounting much of their adventure for the people who had filled the community hall to meet the strangers.

They made two more jumps and arrived in Basra as the sun dipped below the trees. Max could not believe they had traveled close to six hundred miles by nightfall.

A group of warriors in two columns approached at an easy run, spears held erect, colorful shields attached to their opposite forearms. Stopping before Tearock, the leader of the left-hand line stepped forward.

“Greetings, Chief Tearock. Welcome to Basra.”

“Greetings, Tyjin.”

Tyjin’s eyes darted to each member of the company, widening a little when he looked at Jorgen, finally resting on Michael. Conflict tightened the features of his face and his feet shifted slightly, improving his stance.

Tearock smiled at his consternation. He spoke as he placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “
Warriors of Basra, allow me to introduce your brother, Michael, son of A’lan.”

The leader of the right-hand line stepped past Tyjin. Taller and a few years older, his long black hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and his brown eyes held a fierce fire. Michael summed him up in the six steps it took the warrior to reach him. He would be a formidable opponent.

“Welcome, brother, I am Cristoc,
the warrior said, extending his hand which Michael clasped.
My father raised me on stories about A’lan.”

“Well met, Cristoc,”
Tearock said, glancing at Tyjin, who lowered his eyes slightly.

“We will want to hear your tale, Michael,”
Cristoc continued. “
There are many who have not heard of your father or the baby king he brought into our midst. Your tale will be a great one for the young ones to hear.”

Cristoc barked a command and the warriors quickly formed behind the company. With Tearock on his left and Cristoc on his right, Michael walked into Basra feeling a bit abashed. Cristoc had bestowed a great honor on him by walking beside him rather than leading the way. It was so much more than he deserved. How could he possibly live up to their view of his father?

The distinct “Clack! Clack!” of practice swords and shouting grew loud, echoing off the adobe buildings as the company entered the city. Passing the second neat row of houses, the stone-paved street opened onto a large practice ground, three hundred feet long and almost as wide, with different areas sectioned off for various skills. Walking past archers and spear throwers, Michael stopped to watch men training with shurikens.

“Are you familiar with shurikens?” Tearock asked.

Michael nodded. “Dad taught us.”

A wide grin spread across Tearock’s face. “Excellent.” Clapping his hands, he called for shurikens.

“No need,” Michael said, pulling a shuriken from his belt.

Tearock’s face lit up as he took the sharp metal triangle. “I had these forged for your father; a gift for beating me at a game of Ten Bulls.”

Michael laughed. “I could never beat him. He always cancelled out my bullseye.”

Tearock laughed. “His strategy was impeccable. I am glad to see he left these to you. May I?” he asked, motioning at the target.

“Of course.”

Tearock’s throw was precise, the shuriken digging into the red bullseye. He smiled at Michael, challenging.

“A fine throw,” Michael stated, imitating his father when he was about to cancel an opponent’s throw. Pulling a shuriken from his belt, Michael flicked his wrist and the shuriken struck the triple mark cancelling Tearock’s bull’s-eye.

Tearock laughed heartily. “Well done! A’lan taught you well. We will have to play a full game tonight. Come now, I have someone I want you to meet.”

Tearock led them through the training ground past men and women sparring bare handed, using feet to strike as much as hands, and to a small throng of people watching two men, identical twins, sparring with dual short practice swords. They moved with amazing speed, strike and counterstrike, action matched by reaction. Their swords seemed like extensions of their arms.

Michael glanced at Garen with raised eyebrows. His friend nodded his agreement. The use of two shorter swords was intriguing, far different from the longsword style of Timmaron.

The twins blocked and attacked at the same time; their movements dance like, their attention equally split between offense and defense. Michael felt like any fluidity he might possess was unrefined compared to their skill. Looking around at the other people, practice swords forgotten at their sides, others leaning on bow staffs, and many with the same look of amazement on their faces, Michael realized he was not alone in his thinking.

A grizzled man at the other end of the throng, long gray hair pulled back tight and held back by a leather cord, paced back and forth, viewing the sparring from various angles. His discerning eye missed nothing. Occasionally he barked a command or admonishment, causing the twins sparring to intensify. The clack, clack of their practice swords was rhythmic yet at a chaotic pace Michael couldn’t believe they sustained for so long.

The instructor clapped his hands together and shouted a command. The two men broke apart breathing heavily, but poised, waiting to strike. Another command and the twins relaxed fully as they bowed to their instructor. With a gaze that could sear hide, he returned their bow and dismissed them with a wave toward Tearock. Wide grins formed on their faces.

They chided each other playfully over their sparring as they approached the company. Michael looked between them and Tearock, noting the strong resemblance. They each embraced Tearock and greeted him with a firmly stated ‘father’ while their eyes glanced over the company.

“Michael, allow me to introduce my sons, Dalan,” he pointed to the one on the left, “and Dalan dela Darela” he pointed to the one on the right.

“Call me Darela,” the young man said, grimacing at Tearock, “Father tends to be formal.”