Eyes of Mist

4 - Voice of the Enemy

Ayala crawled out from underneath a pile of earth and stones and straightened herself. Her sprained left arm throbbed with pain, but luckily, the cut on her shoulder hadn't opened again.

It was dark in the cave, but through a small opening just above the rubble, which rose where not too long ago the entrance had been, came a bit of light. Rain was dripping through the hole, but the storm seemed to have lessened somewhat.

The young healer had enough presence of mind to grab her bundle before hastily starting to climb the heap of rubble. Her hip still hurt, but she clenched her teeth driven by hope for escape. The hole was not too wide, but her shoulders were slender, and she was confident she would manage to squeeze through. She'd almost made it when one of the stones she was holding on to broke free of its loamy support and sent her sliding down with some more stones into her starting position.

Ayala suppressed a sob and raised herself to hands and knees. Trying to calm her beating heart, she reached once more for the rubble and searched for a hold that would enable her a safer way up there. Suddenly, she drew in a startled breath and quickly withdrew her hand. She'd felt something soft. Something soft and warm.

After a moment of hesitation, her curiosity won over common sense, and she shoved stones and dirt aside. From under the rubble emerged a slightly torn cowl that hung into the still masked face of the Shakaree. He didn't react to her touch, but in the silence, she could still hear her deadly foe's breathing. He must have been diving full length toward her when the ceiling came down at the entrance. But even like that he hadn't managed to fully escape the masses, although he'd been lucky enough as the some of the boulders had wedged and prevented him from the worst. Yes, he was spared from the worst. At least he wasn't dead.

But for all Ayala could see in the scarce light, that might be just a question of time after all. Blood seeped through the stones soiling his cowl and Ayala's hands. She could not see how badly hurt he really was, but his ragged breathing didn't leave her with the best impression.

Her eyes wavered between the exit and her wounded enemy. As a healer, her first instinct was to help those in need. But did that go for a monster like this, too? Should she waste what Jara taught her on one of her murderers?

The memory of the old Falamar made another wave of pain rise in Ayala. Jara and the others had been massacred, and very probably, this soldier had been first in line to do it. Probably this was the just punishment for the cruelties he had committed. It served him right to stay here and die, should his own folk not find him in time.

Ayala straightened herself and started climbing with clenched teeth, not caring that her movements made part of the rubble slide down. From just below her came a sound echoing in the cave and making her stop dead in her tracks. The Shakaree whimpered softly.

The girl returned to his side. The Shakaree whose shoulders now had come free moved again and groaned in pain.

"Father!" he managed with a strained voice. "You have to... my father..."

She couldn't understand anything else, but that didn't matter to her. Although she was aware he hadn't spoken to her, probably didn't even realize she was there, his words couldn't have touched her in a more profound way.

Ayala had never wasted a thought on the people of Shakaree, and so the realization that even this cruel folk had children came as a shock to her. She knelt down next to the Shakaree and stared at him. Even his voice! It had been no throaty hiss as she had imagined. No, he sounded fairly young and no different from what she would have expected of a young Falamar.

She hardly realized what she was doing when she found herself shoving stones aside and slowly freeing the Shakaree from his stony prison.

At last, she grabbed the young warrior by the shoulders and pulled. With a yank, he finally slid out of the rubble. She labored to turn him on his back and discovered his cowl was pretty torn over his chest. A sharp edged stone had cut into him, but the wound didn't seem to be very deep. She pushed the cowl back and discovered a dagger and a slender sword strapped to his hip. His belly was protected by strong leather straps allowing him to move and still able to deflect light blows. She carefully probed his rib cage and was relieved to find that none of his ribs were broken.

With trembling fingers, she pulled all the small stones she could find from his wound and rinsed it as well as possible with rainwater. After all she wasn't ready to sacrifice her drinking water for him. She pulled bandages out of her bundle and tended to the wound.

Yet as soon as she was no longer busy, her fear returned with a vengeance. Suddenly, she felt very stupid. The Shakaree might be wounded, but he wasn't in mortal danger. And she doubted he'd show any hints of gratitude to her.

She reached for her bundle again but before she climbed out, she paused to think. Maybe she could at least reduce the threat the warrior posed to her somewhat. Should he wake up sooner rather than later and follow her, he at least shouldn't have his weapons at his disposal.

In a hurry, she grabbed the sword handle and pulled the blade from its sheath. It wasn't as broad as the swords the Falamar used, and the blade curved back slightly. She dismissed the idea to climb up with the sword in hand and cut herself in the process. Instead, she thrust the blade as deeply into the wet earth as possible and then shoved dirt and stones over it until it wasn't visible any more. Now she only had to get rid of the dagger and be on her way as fast as possible.

She got up and turned around to the Shakaree.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and shoved her against the cold wall of the cave. Her head collided with the stone hard enough to make her bite her lip. Dread washed away all numbness when she became aware of the icy blade of the dagger against her throat.

But far colder seemed to her the colorless eyes of the Shakaree who was about to kill her.

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Tamaril clenched his hands to fists.

Why didn't she run when she had the chance? Why pity a monster?

In his frustration, he started pacing, his jaws tense with helpless anger. He had hoped so much she would survive, and then she acted as foolish as this! He stopped with his back to the book and forced his breathing to calm down.

This did no good either. If he wanted to know whether or not she'd die, he just had to keep writing.

The white-haired youth brushed his hand over his eyes and fought against his tears. "But how can I do that?" he whispered. "How can I write a story like this?" A thought jolted through him and left him standing dumbfounded at his desk staring blankly into space. Could he maybe change the story? Did he dare?

The hand holding the quill was shaking. No, he didn't dare. Maybe there was still another way. Maybe she was clever enough to escape her opponent.

For now he decided to let the story flow through him as usual.

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Jorcan felt his heart hammer against his ribs. His body protested against the sudden movement he'd forced himself into so shortly after regaining consciousness. Dizziness and nausea made him shiver. He clenched his teeth and gripped the girl harder to keep from losing control.

That was his first priority: control.

He tried to calm his breathing and to analyze the situation. The girl wasn't armed and was in bad shape, although she wasn't severely wounded. A survivor of the attacks? Had enough Falamar survived to strike back? Did she lure him into an ambush?

His survival instinct urged him to simply cut her throat and think things through afterward, but he fought against the impulse. He wanted answers first.

"How many are you?" he hissed at her.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but she managed no sound.

"Where are your allies?" he urged.

She stared at him with big dark eyes, obviously frightened but also very confused. "I only wanted to leave," she whispered with a shaking voice.

So she was a survivor on the run who had passed here at a bad time. But... a memory resurfaced from the turmoil in his mind. "You were already standing in the cave when it collapsed. Why are you still here?"

Her left arm, which had been trapped between them when he shoved her against the wall, moved, and he realized from a surge of pain that something was different about his chest. He looked down surprised to note bandages over his throbbing wounds. Confused, he stared at her for a moment.

Then he shook his head in consternation. "Don't tell me you believed you could do this, Falamar."

When she returned the confused look he'd given her a moment ago, he continued, "You thought you could capture me? Get me to your people alive? A pitiful little thing like you?" He laughed without mirth. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

That created an unexpected spark in her eyes. "I'd despise myself had I sunk to your level and killed someone who was defenseless," she hissed back angrily. "But one of your kind wouldn't understand that anyway." Tears were in her eyes, but he wasn't sure if they were tears of anger or of pain.

Well, in a way she was right. He really didn't understand her.

Without another word, he turned her around so that she stood with her back to him but left the dagger linger at her throat. Over her shoulder, he glanced at the collapsed cave entry. No, he wouldn't be able to squeeze through that small hole over the rubble, but at least, no other Falamar could get in either without him knowing it.

He reached for his sword's sheath and found it empty as expected. After all, the first sound he heard after regaining consciousness was the ring of a sword being drawn. He knew that sound well enough to keep him from guessing what had happened.

"Where is my sword?" he asked with deadly calm, and the Falamar knew better than to try and feign ignorance. Silently, she pointed at a spot among the tangle of stones and dirt. When he shoved her there, she revealed the sword's handle without resisting, and he grabbed it eagerly. The blade came free with surprising ease, and he felt his spirits rise with every bit of control he regained.

He put the dagger back in its sheath, then he wiped the sword clean on the already stained dress the Falamar was wearing. She didn't move, just stood there and gazed longingly at the little hole that lead towards freedom.

"You aren't fast enough for that," he stated matter-of-factly and saw her shoulders sag. "The less you hope for escape, the better. Do as I say, and I will not hurt you too much."

He could see her shiver, but outside, the light was diminishing rapidly. He quickly grabbed her shoulder again and pushed her to those of the provisions that hadn't been ruined by water or dirt. "You'll set up a fire now, and tomorrow you'll start cleaning a way out for me." He smiled evilly. "If you are good enough, I might just let you live as a slave, Falamar."

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Ayala had not expected to be able to find sleep that night. Yet, when she was done piling some of the wood the Shakaree had stored in the back of the cave and managed to light it with the fire stone she had in her bundle, she felt a leaden weariness in her limbs. All the pain of the day, all the fear, made her numb and curl up on the ground.

She saw the warrior watching her, then she just closed her eyes. Her last thought was relief because he seemed to feel too much disgust to touch her. Then she fell asleep.

Her sleep was deep and dreamless. She was almost surprised when she woke up the next morning and couldn't remember any nightmares ruining her peace. She blinked but stayed as she was.

The fire had burned down, and through the little exit hole, she could see just a bit of drizzle. The Shakaree sat leaning against the opposing wall. His eyes were closed, and his chest heaved and sank in a low rhythm that convinced her he'd really fallen asleep as well.

She got up as silently as possible, but when she started moving, her clothes rustled, and his eyes sprang open. She returned the gaze of his pale orbs for a moment, then the disdain in them made her lower her eyes to the ground.

In the silence of the moment, there was suddenly a sound Ayala only recognized after a moment as the growl of her empty stomach. Her cheeks burned with a bright red, and she cursed herself both for her traitorous body and for caring what the young warrior might think of her.

Wordlessly, the Shakaree tossed over Ayala's own bundle. She didn't hesitate much and produced some of her provisions. While she was eating, she kept glancing over to him from time to time, but he didn't show much interest in her breakfast and busied himself with cleaning his weapons. Maybe Shakaree didn't eat? No, that was a stupid thought. They bled just like Falamar did, and their bodies didn't seem to be any different either. Maybe he'd already eaten while she was sleeping?

"You better hurry up, Falamar!" His words interrupted her musings. "You have much work to do."

She swallowed a more hostile answer along with her next bite, then she said in a low voice: "Ayala."

He raised an eyebrow, and she added timidly: "That's my name. Ayala Norinlas from Sanwa's estate."

"Once you're dead, Falamar, no one will care about your name," he mocked.

Fear made her choke on her meager breakfast, and she decided she was no longer hungry.

When she got up, she felt a bit unstable at first, but with relief, she noticed that her hip hardly hurt any more. The prospect of clearing the entrance of rubble until both of them were able to climb through the hole immediately dampened her mood again though. Outside thunder was rolling over the mountain, and Ayala saw the light fade rapidly. It seemed all too fitting for her situation.

When Ayala started her work, it didn't take long until the rain started again. The Shakaree was standing below her, not close enough to get his share of the water and mud, which came her way with every movement, but still too close to allow her an attempt of escape through the crevice. The young Falamar had hardly any feeling in her fingers already, but nevertheless, there was not much of an improvement with the opening she was trying to widen. The water was icy and ran down her arms of which one hurt badly as the bandages were rather soaked by now.

The rain got worse, and Ayala had trouble keeping her footing on the slippery mud. Again she reached for a lump of dirt, but she had just pushed it aside when a rock came lose and slid towards her. She managed to grab it, but the movement made her get out of balance even more. For a moment she waved her other arm about, trying to regain her balance, but then she landed on her injured left side and slid down to the cave ground.

She clenched her teeth to keep from crying out and raised her head fearfully. The Shakaree had drawn his dagger again and was staring down at her darkly.

But before either of them got around to move, it suddenly got dark.

For a moment panic rose in her, then her eyes adjusted to the last bits of light their camp fire's embers emitted. She could see the warrior's silhouette kneeling next to it, then he lit a torch and stepped back to the rubble. Where just a moment ago the last bit of daylight had dripped into the cave now a huge lump of mud, grass, and stones blocked the opening.

The flickering light of the makeshift torch licked over the now impenetrable wall that loomed over the unusual couple. Ayala glanced at the Shakaree, helpless as to what to do now, but the other didn't seem to notice. He stared in despair at this cage door made of the elements of earth, and his gray eyes shimmered with a feverish light.

He'd hold her responsible for this, she was sure of it. She tried to come up with a good apology, something that would make him understand that she hadn't caused this slide, that the rain had made the earth too heavy, but she was too scared to speak.

Cowering on the ground she waited for her end.

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Jorcan's finger nails dug into the wood of his torch. It's flames made distorted shadows creep over the cave walls and let the Falamar's crumbled shape look even more pitiful.

What kind of fate was this, being buried alive with this dirty, little creature squatting on the ground?

He caught himself shaking with anger, realized that in his mind he was already burying his dagger into the wretched thing, to make her taste his fury. Yet, uninvited, the bloodstained image of Sooral, whom he'd almost killed in a moment of unrestrained anger, rose before his eyes. No, he wouldn't lose control like that again, especially in a situation like this.

That didn't mean he'd let the girl live, but he had to make sure first that he didn't need her any more. And think about how long he'd have to wait for rescue with a rotting corpse at his side.

Charn would surely wait with coming to his aid for as long as he could reasonably justify with King Narcal, especially since he had instructed Rumar not to pick him up again. But probably the guard who was to watch over the provisions had noticed something.

Suddenly, he felt like slapping himself.

Why didn't he notice earlier that there was no guard?! Rumar had even mentioned nobody was up here, and he had been too tired and too thick to question that. Charn may be a fool, but he wasn't stupid enough to leave a base camp full of provisions unguarded. Or had it been Charn's plan to make him die in the cave's collapse? But how could he have known when the wet ground would give way?

Had he rigged the slope and made Rumar spring the trap?

Or did he have nothing to do with any of this?

At a loss with what to think, he reached for the clumps towering before him. No, they wouldn't get out here by themselves, not without proper tools. He glanced at the provisions. For him alone they'd last for weeks. Should he wait for Charn's help?

"Is there another exit?" His voice had been rather low, but he saw the Falamar flinch at his words.

When she finally managed an answer, her voice was so small he could barely understand. "I don't know. Nobody ever told me about this cave."

Useless. Out of all Falamar, why did he have to run into this good for nothing creature? At least that answered the question what he should do with her.

But then his eyes wandered over the provisions again, and another thought rose in his mind. Maybe he had a use for her after all. If he took her along for carrying more, she'd use some of the supplies but not more than she could carry and no additional fire wood.

'You have grown soft,' a voice in his mind mocked. 'You cannot make yourself kill her because she helped you.'

No, that wasn't true. He was just rational enough not to waste any manpower.

'She'll turn against you as soon as you sleep.'

She didn't do that while he was unconscious.

'As soon as she knows who you really are, she will.'

Then she mustn't know who he was.

"Get up and gather as much provisions as you can carry, Falamar. We'll go and look for another exit."

She stared at him in surprise. "You want..." she managed.

"If you think it's a mistake to let you live," he interrupted her coldly, "please tell me now, and I will rectify that."

That got her to move faster. He watched her while he shoved provisions into his own bag and tied fire wood together. At least she seemed to be able to work.

As soon as they were ready, they immediately left. Jorcan kept the torch in one hand and stayed half a step behind his captive. "Something else, Falamar."

She turned and glanced at him but could not meet his eyes. "If you want to address me, call me Jorcan..."

'Jorcan cal Reyn cal Shakar, Crown Prince of the Shakaree,' the mocking voice suggested.

He pressed his lips together. "Just call me Jorcan," he repeated.