Into Forbidden Lands
Z'essh

Argolan looked at Illiom in astonishment.

“You know him?”

Illiom nodded.

“Remember that sandstorm that separated us on our way to Calestor? I did try to tell you about it, but I thought I had hallucinated the whole incident.” She nodded towards the man standing before her. “This is the one who came to my aid. The only thing I remember clearly are those markings, they are unforgettable.”

Many of the Shakim had facial tattoos, but none with a pattern like his. She could not stop staring at the man and he gazed back at her in amused satisfaction.

The red-haired Shakim spoke sharply to Illiom’s desert saviour, who immediately stepped back. The leader then spoke to Dreel even though his gaze kept flitting to Illiom.

“He wants us to explain what you said, about knowing a way through. It is true that no one has gone into the Forbidden Lands and returned, but it is known that recently things have been crossing over from the other side.”

“Things? What things?” Argolan asked.

Dreel looked at the Shieldarm peevishly.

“I think he really wants an answer from us first.”

Argolan nodded impatiently, but deferred to Illiom.

“Tell him we have an artefact that might allow us to cross safely.”

Illiom was conscious of omitting the fact that they did not know if Seren’s Stone would work, but this did not seem like the right time to display uncertainty.

Dreel translated, then turned back to Illiom.

“He wants to see it.”

“Ask him why,” demanded Argolan, taking a step forward.

The tribal smiled.

“Because we may have a use for a thing that can get us to where the evil comes from,” Dreel translated.

“What evil?” the Shieldarm asked.

“Foul things have been crossing over ever since the end of summer. They always come at night, and mostly when there is no moon in the sky.”

“Flying or walking?”

“Both,” the dwarf translated.

Illiom caught Dreel’s attention.

“Tell him that this is precisely why we are going into the Forbidden Lands – to stop the foul things from waging war against our people.”

For the first time in the conversation the leader looked surprised. He turned to his closest companions and muttered. A rapid exchange ensued, one that Dreel seemed unable to keep up with.

The Shakim turned to the dwarf and made a brief statement.

Dreel’s expression brightened.

“His name is Jan’ankt, leader of this band of Shakim, and he is now offering to escort us.”

This was so unexpected that no one said anything for a few moments.

Argolan pursed her lips thoughtfully and turned to the Chosen.

“What do you want to do? I think this is a decision for you to make.”

“I thought they were inclined to kill the whole lot of us a moment ago,” said Malco, eyes wide with surprise. “And now they want to enlist in our army?”

“An army…” Sereth mused. “Now there’s a thought!”

Scald smiled in amusement.

“A pretty small army! But I suppose a few hundred is better than seventeen.”

Illiom liked to see Scald smile; it transformed him completely.

She nodded vigorously.

“We can use all the allies we can get.”

“What about water?” Argolan asked, bringing their focus back to practicalities. “Can they spare some? We are almost out.”

As the dwarf translated the Shieldarm’s request, Jan’ankt’s eyes widened. He spoke to his men and they responded with laughter.

“What did he just say?”

“He just told them what you said, that we’re running out of water.” Dreel shrugged, looking confused.

Before Argolan could press further the Shakim leader walked towards them. They parted for him and he proceeded directly towards the carved mount looming behind them.

“He wants us to go with him,” Dreel translated the leader’s instructions.

As though on cue, Jan’ankt turned and beckoned them to follow.

He stopped a dozen paces away from the sheer wall of stone that was the belly of the dragon and looked upwards. He raised his hands, palms facing the monolith in a gesture of supplication and then emitted a strong, clear sound that resonated against the dragon. He repeated the call, each attempt different from the preceding, as though seeking a particular tone.

He finally reached a pitch that sent shivers down Illiom’s back. It was as if his voice had spliced in two: the new tone appearing alongside his normal voice. It was high-pitched, like an eagle’s call, weaving in and out in harmonic resonance.

And as the Shakim sang, a deep rumble answered from within the stone of the carved giant.

A tremor shook the earth and sand cascaded as a wide section of the Dragon’s belly lifted and swung inwards until it came to a halt with a jarring crash.

A torch was lit and Illiom saw that the inside of the monolith seemed empty, yet her eye was drawn to a shadowed area of ground within.

As they entered the space, she realised that it was actually a circular pit in the floor.

Illiom knew then what she would see. Nevertheless, she joined the others as they peered down at their own reflections, tremulous in the torchlight in the depths of the Dragon Mount’s hidden well.

Illiom had never seen the Shieldarm so pleased. It was a good indication of just how heavily their situation had been weighing upon her mind.

The tribals, who numbered over three hundred, set up camp alongside their own between the Ice Dragon’s great stone forelegs. In no time at all the combined encampments were transformed into a busy and thriving outpost with Shakim, Riders, and Chosen attempting to communicate with one another.

Dreel enjoyed more popularity than he had possibly ever experienced. Illiom, who had questions of her own, found it almost impossible to approach him as he was now constantly surrounded by a throng of people requesting assistance.

The presence of water, and the Shakim’s offer of an escort, meant that they could postpone their departure till the following evening, a welcome reprieve for the weary travellers.

They still adhered to their newly established routine of sleeping only during the day, and so whiled the night away conversing, eating, dozing a little, and drinking their fill.

The Shakim cooked on their own fires, the aromas wafting over to where Illiom sat. Jan’ankt insisted that the Chosen’s party share their food and not deplete their own supplies.

Much to the delight of the Shakim, Sereth strummed his harp through most of the night.

Illiom and Tarmel eventually drew away from the noisy camps to wander under the magnificent, star-bright desert sky.

The night was perfect, marred only by Irrsche’s glow; for the Illstar hung in the southern sky, an inescapable reminder that this was just a reprieve, and that their real test still lay ahead.

The bitter cold eventually chased them back to the camp to seek the warmth of one of several fires that were burning under the watchful presence of the Dragon Mount.

With the arrival of dawn, they all retired to their bedrolls and slept, while Iod baked the land with his incandescence.

That evening they awoke early and were ready to depart long before sunset. They filled their skins, as did the tribals, and were preparing to mount when Illiom’s desert rescuer, accompanied by Dreel, approached.

“He wants to speak with you before we set out,” the dwarf said.

Illiom nodded.

“Tell him that I wanted to speak with him last night, but it was impossible.”

“He understands,” Dreel interrupted. “He tried to do the same. His name is Z’essh.”

“Well, tell Z’essh that I thank him for helping me during that storm. I do not know what would have happened, had he not been there.”

“He says that it wasn’t only him, for he was but one in a larger party. Though he’s the one from whose bottle you drank.”

“Well, I am still grateful.”

The tribal bowed, but his indigo eyes narrowed slightly. Around them, people had begun to mount their horses.

Z’essh stepped closer and took a hold of Illiom’s hand. He said something in Shakim, his eyes fixed upon her. Dreel then turned to Illiom with a caution that had not been present before.

“He’s saying that they didn’t replace you by accident,” the dwarf moistened his lips. “He says you called them.”

“What?”

Dreel shrugged, turned to Z’essh and spoke a few words.

Uncomfortable with the man’s scrutiny, she nevertheless faced him, unblinking.

“Not with words,” he continued. “They would never have heard you in the ruckus of the storm. They heard you in here,” and Dreel tapped at his temple. “He says that that was how they found you. That you called them.”

As the dwarf spoke, Illiom studied the pattern on the man’s face.

“And when he touched you,” Dreel continued, “he felt something about your purpose. He wanted to see if he could feel it again now.”

Illiom glanced down at the Shakim’s hand holding her own.

“And does he?” she asked. “Does he still feel it?”

As Dreel delivered her question, the man’s eyes lit up and he smiled.

“Stronger than ever.”

They remained so in silence for another moment until Z’essh withdrew his hand and lowered his eyes. He spoke his next words while gazing down at the ground before Illiom.

“He wants to pledge his blade, his bow, and his water to you, if you will have them.”

Something more was happening here than met the eye, Illiom was certain of it. She kept looking at Z’essh as she answered his request.

“I accept, but only if he understands that I have nothing to give him in return.”

Dreel’s eyes widened in alarm, but he did not protest. When he translated these last words, the tribal looked up at Illiom again.

“He expects nothing more than the opportunity to serve,” Dreel fumbled for the right words. “I guess the nearest thing in Common would be power. He does not serve you so much as he serves your power – the power that you serve, that is.”

Dreel nodded, pleased with his efforts.

Illiom smiled at him and mounted Black Lightning.

The Chosen and their party rode with a dozen or so tribals, including both Jan’ankt and Z’essh. The rest of the Shakim took up the rear.

Turning in the saddle, Illiom glanced back at the Dragon Mount. It was tinged with the fire of the setting sun, the giant effigy staring straight past the party’s heads into some faraway place and time.

The sea of tribals behind her was both overwhelming and reassuring.

They had not gone far when Jan’ankt released a volley of words that sounded like a string of imprecations.

“They spit a lot when they talk,” noted Malco in a half-whisper.

“They will escort us to the edge of the Forbidden Lands,” Dreel translated, “and watch as we cross the Wall of Bones.”

“Thank him, but what is this Wall of Bones? I have never heard of it,” Argolan said.

Dreel exchanged words with the leader.

“It is the boundary with the Schketra-la, the Shakim name for the Forbidden Lands.”

“Is that what Schketra-la means?” asked Elan. “Forbidden Lands?”

“No, it means Life-swallowing Plains.”

“Charming,” Scald said, but his eyes retained their new-found twinkle, and his lips had still not lost their smile.

After that they rode in silence. Darkness enclosed them completely for a time but, within the hour, a luminous glow behind them heralded Sudra’s rising.

She lit up the landscape in a spectral, silvery glow that lingered throughout the long night. Inevitable as fate, Irrsche also rose to challenge Sudra’s dominion.