Chapter One
"The Yunhi people were surely the most civilised of them all.
They lived in the Hambani village,
and guarded it fiercely with their magical spells.
To befriend them was to befriend a noble ally—and a bloodthirsty enemy …"
--The Pasegean Scrolls
Syrah stood upon the bluffs overlooking the small Hambani village. Some watchman, she thought, noticing that Elder Sahka was asleep at his post. But I guess, everyone has their bad days—and weeks, and months … Her thoughts trailed off as she was reminded of why she was standing there.
The past few days had been horrible. Her marriage (if you could call it that) to Jakra had been short so far, but extremely sour. She had been sold to him for but three calves and a bull. It had outraged her that she meant so little to her family. It just goes to show how much I ever meant to my family. All I was ever good for was cooking, cleaning and being sold for cattle. Or should I say chattel? While Syrah knew that it was not their fault, but who else was there to blame?
The sun was beginning to rise. Soon it would be time to leave. Yet Syrah still paused, watching as the golden orb ascended. Her hatred too was rising, building up inside of her like some animal, waiting to be unleashed. No one ever cared about me. "No one!!" In her anger, Syrah had uttered the last words aloud.
Sahka stirred, and Syrah ducked behind a tree, thankful that this village was situated near the jungle, and this created a lot of foliage. As she watched the old man wake, she watched him closely. He looked much like her own father, the leader of the Alanu village. The same coffee-coloured hands grasped the walking staff; his eyes full of such perception that night and day looked alike. Yet he could not see through Jakra’s false promises and ideas. Sahka turned his head in Syrah’s direction. This is not the time to think these things, she thought anxiously. If he sees me, I’ll be in an even worse situation than I am now.
The elder stood, head drooping from lack of sleep. Syrah kept behind the bush, thinking her body nimble enough to cope with the strain of the cliff edge. She was wrong. Her foot slipped, nearly sending her to her doom many spans below. Sahka heard the noise and, drowsy though he was, stumbled towards the small tunabe bush near Syrah’s hiding place.
As she grasped the bush to pull herself up again, he saw her. "You! What be you doing near that cliff?" Not waiting for her answer, realisation dawned on him. "Ah, I know what you be thinking. You want escape Jakra, eh? No, you know go anywhere. You stay here with master Jakra." At this, he grasped the horn from around his waist, and lifted it to his lips. Syrah knew that if his mouth ever touched that horn, she would never see daylight again. She pulled her dagger from her boot and plunged it inside his leg.
Sahka screamed in agony. Knowing that this too would awaken the village, she retrieved her dagger. Though she hated the thought of blood and death, it was her only hope. She lifted her arm high in the air, above the elder’s chest. Placing her other hand on the dagger as well, she thrust it down into his heart. A final bellow of anguish, and the deed was done.
However, Sahka was not the only one screaming. War-cries rose from the thought dormant village as warriors began to pour out of their homes. An outline could also be seen from the main hut. Syrah quickly cast safeguard, as Jakra was an experienced magic user.
Jakra emerged from the hut, his purple cloak strung around his neck. Syrah shivered when she saw Corlena, another of Jakra’s ‘prizes’ leave as well. Guess I’m lucky that he didn’t call on me yet, she thought thankfully. However, if I don’t escape, I doubt that same luck will not be bestowed upon me again.
Jakra saw Syrah on the bluffs, and realised what was going on. She’s a feisty thing, that one, he thought, a sneer creeping across his face. And now she’s all mine. All I have to do is make sure she doesn’t get away this time. He threw a fireball at her, which dissipated as soon as it came in contact with her safeguard spell. "Damn the girl," he spoke angrily to Corlena. "She has magical protection." Corlena gave him a not-so-innocent smile, which he ignored.
Syrah watched as Jakra shot a fireball at her, realising that if she hadn’t had the foresight to cast a protection spell, she would be in serious trouble right now. Then she nearly kicked herself. What am I thinking! This isn’t serious trouble? She noticed that the warriors were starting to climb the bluffs, and decided that it might be a good idea to leave.
Jakra began to prepare a bladestorm spell, in which many magically charged daggers would fly at the proposed target. Corlena realised that he had gone into a trance, and left him. Syrah also saw him, and thought that her time to get away might just about be up. But she could not leave without killing Jakra now. She knew that. Somehow she had always known.
Deviation was a very useful spell. Its ability to turn the spells back on the caster was unrivalled. The only others were the weak reversal, and the even weaker twist spells. So, when an evil shaman was casting a bladestorm on you, what do you do? The answer is obvious now, and was obvious then. Syrah performed the incantation, then awaited Jakra’s doom.
Bladestorm was finished, and Jakra turned his head towards Syrah, the leer upon his face disgustingly evident. He cast the spell, which sent hundreds of tiny blades towards Syrah. But wait! There was something wrong. She was smiling too. He howled as the blades returned to their caster, creating for him an immediate death.
The warriors were still coming at her.
Her job done, Syrah ran down the rocky path on the other side of the cliff face she had nearly fallen off only ten minutes beforehand. Was it really that short a timespan? I have killed two men in cold blood, and it was only ten minutes! How can that be possible? Syrah then reminded herself of the dangerous road ahead of her. One wrong step would certify her demise.
The warriors too began to race down the cliff path, several falling to their doom.
Syrah entered the jungle beyond the village, hacking away at the vines with her mediocre blade. But it got her through it. She realised that she could not go by the road to her destination. If she did, she would have to pass her own village; her father would see her; the news of her murdering would disgrace her family … as much as she despised them at this moment, she knew that it would not be a good idea.
The warriors pushed through the jungle, tearing the uncut vines with their bare hands.
The only way that she could ever make a life for herself would be in the capital. Syriana. She had only ever visited there once, with her father when she was very young. It was a supply trip, as the previous year their cattle had been overtaken with a horrible disease that had come from ships in the northern lands of Sonaro.
The town had been beautiful, so she knew that was the only place to head towards. Where else would people be kind to a person like me?
The warriors looked and saw no one in the vast jungle. Nothing could be heard in the jungle. Nothing but Chailan soldiers going to war. They turned and fled.
Hours later, Syrah emerged from the jungle-turned-forest. Into a battlefield. All around her, people were wounded and dying. This can’t be Syriana! she thought wildly. Then she noticed the gates of the town, the letters S-Y-R-I-A-N-A carved into the hardwood doors.
A burning pain entered her right arm. She only had the energy to turn and see what the pain was. An arrow was embedded deep inside her arm. She recognised the colours of those of the imperial army in Chail.
The pain was too much. Syrah had to sit down. Instead, she collapsed to the ground, and the world went black.
Darkness. Then, focusing, stone. Not like a wall, with slabs. Just solid rock. With crevasses. Holes which contained food and other supplies.
People too. A man entered, bucket slung over his shoulder. His silhouette was like that of Jakra, yet he did not have that same presence. His was kinder, somehow. Still Syrah wanted to run, yet she could not. Too much pain was in her arm.
She turned and saw the bandage. Just like those of her tribe, it had the emblem of Elanora, goddess of all beings. The man came towards her. She reached for her dagger. It had been removed.
She saw it lying on a stool nearby, but had no energy to retrieve it. The man was getting closer. She tried to scream, yet it came out only a moan.
The man sat down next to her. "So, you have awakened. I hope you have found your surroundings to your liking." His voice was strange, yet familiar. She wondered who he really was.
"Who-who are you?" Syrah stumbled with the words, an ache in her head leaving her unable to concentrate.
"You do not remember. I should have known you would forget …" The man spoke with sadness lingering in his voice––that voice! Who was it?
Syrah had an idea. "Turn on the lamp, so that I might see where I am." She spoke with authority, and the man obeyed. She recognised him at once. "Rasha! It is you! How did you come to be in Syriana?"
The man was pleased with her recognition, and smiled. That smile always did send shivers down my spine, Syrah thought wickedly, a smile creeping across her face. And it still does …
"Yes, my Syrah-love. However, my place in this town is not one of high status. At least, as far as you would be concerned." The smile had dissipated, and his face was sad.
Syrah laughed. "What on earth do you mean, Rah? Have you gotten into dirty business?" When she realised he was not laughing, she was surprised. "You haven’t! You didn’t!"
"I had to, Syrah. What else might a man like I do in these desperate times. Chail has attacked Syriana, and thievery is the best way to make any type of living."
Syrah turned away from him, disappointed in his attitude. "I cannot accept this, Rasha. You have obviously changed, and not for the better. Leave me now."
Rasha dropped his head in shame. "I will go wash the other bandages in the stream. I shall return soon." Syrah dropped her head to the pillow and fell asleep.
Sunlight shone in through the small holes in the wall, awakening Syrah from her doze. Rasha must be collecting water … then her thoughts became bitter. … good. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy, that’s for sure!
Syrah found that the pain in her shoulder wasn’t half a bad as before, so she stood and took her dagger from the stool. "I suppose I had better check on Rah before I try and get out of this place … just so he knows where I am, of course."
She walked to the cave opening. It was covered with a wooden door that had been camouflaged with paints. Well, its not a bad idea … Syrah pulled on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Must be an outward opening door.
So, Syrah pushed on the door. It began to open, but it was hard going. He’s a thief, and he doesn’t even have any oil so that he can keep his hinges in order?! When she finally got the door open, she walked out. Death awaited her.
Rasha had been dead for hours. The arrow had not pierced his heart, only close to it, but still his face had contorted with pain as he had suffered the slow and painful death. Syrah gasped. He still held her blood-stained bandages in his hand. She knelt down beside him and said a quick prayer for his soul to Elanora.
Then, Syrah took the bandages, and returned inside. Night’s dark cloak would be all to hide her, and then his body might be buried. She had some thinking to do.
Copyright 2000 M. Lees
