Keon stared down at the spot where Avana had been but a breath before. The dust had barely settled over the drag marks that had been raked across the ground when her shield sent fresh plumes blooming into the air. She hadn’t even had a chance to react before she’d been dragged into the mist. A pang of guilt tugged at his chest. His thoughts towards her over the last few hours had been anything but pleasant. Heck, part of him—deep down—may have even wished her some kind of misfortune. But not like this.
“Avanaaa!”
Zahara grabbed Keon’s hand and stuffed something between his sweaty fingers.
“They get close, you swing it at them, yeah?!”
She ran to fill the gap, rolling over Avana’s fallen shield as she grabbed it. Keon looked down at a yellowed, origami-like paper sword; the fibres of the ancient parchment tickling his fingertips. Columns of cursive script wound their away around the folded edges of the blade. He could’ve sworn he’d seen it before; the same phrase repeated over and over again. Turning it round, he ran his fingers tenderly over the embossed words.
Dwell in his shelter. Live under his shadow.
Your refuge and fortress. Your King whom you trust.
He felt his grip tighten around the hilt. It sounded like something his dad would recite. Did he carry one like this? Was that why the words seemed so familiar? Though his ankle twinged, he took a bold stance; his weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Then the voices came. All other sounds seemed to withdraw at their advance; the clamour of battle becoming a distant hum as though plunged underwater.
“Come on then!” he yelled, taunting with the point of the blade.
A bright fog suddenly closed in around him.
“He comes to us.”
“Most prodigious.”
“He thinks himself wise…and brave.”
“He’s reckless.”
“Or curious.”
“We esteem curiosity.”
“And temerity.”
“You seek answers.”
The last voice boomed with a force that almost knocked him off his feet. The lights pulsed around him; each one accompanied by the whoosh of ignited blue flames. He quickly regained his footing.
“The Scarred Warrior doesn’t give answers. Full of riddles he is.”
“Most ambiguous.”
“And these ones won’t help you.”
“But we will.”
“You need only ask.”
“You need only trade.”
He wheeled around as he felt something tug at his shawl. Nothing. The paper hilt scrunched beneath his fingers as his grip tightened.
“Tell us your name.”
“That’s all we ask.”
“Tell us your name…”
“…and we’ll tell you ours!”
“Get back!”
Keon swung at the air. The fog around him seemed to retreat, as though threatened by the blade. Suddenly, a wall of sound rushed in; the clouds billowing and blowing around him. Spinning the sword round, he drove it deep into the dirt to anchor himself. Then he heard the singing, like a salve to the ears and warmth to the soul; healing carried on the wind. It fought as a mighty rushing wind against the clouds, raging until they dissipated.
Opening his eyes to peer through the evaporating mist, he caught sight of a figure some feet away, walking through the quagmire. The ground cleared before their feet; the fog fading at the sound of her tones. Suddenly, the melody struck the chord of a memory, though the words were unfamiliar.
Sree Josva kristhuve
Dhaivathinte Kunjaade
rekshikkunnu paapiye
nin thiru rektham maathram!
He could see the Millionth and Fifth now, shields held up to block the rush of vapour. As the last of it cleared, Avana stepped out into the open and the singing ceased. The Mysts were gone.
* * *
“That—was mad!” said Keon, hands clasped around his skull, “I thought you were dead! What did you do?! How did you do that?!”
She dusted off her bracers, not bothering to look at him.
“The King told me to sing, so I sang.”
“What. He spoke to you?”
“In the midst of the cloud, yes,” she said impatiently.
“Wait, why didn’t you just do that in the first place?”
She stared up at him through the bent ridge of her immaculately threaded eyebrows.
“That’s not how it works. It’s not some super-power I can turn on and off as I please. I did as I was told.”
Keon eyed her up and down as though her very words stank.
“Alright, alright…Can the rest of you do that?” he said, wheeling round to the others.
“Every now and then,” smirked Kai.
As the group regathered, Shem’s stare met Avana’s. For a good few seconds, their eyes battled it out in mid-air; neither one willing to yield. Then he turned, looking for something else to anchor his gaze to.
“Good job,” he said, coming within inches of bumping her shoulder.
“It’s called doing as you’re told!” she barked at his back.
Dawit was doing a last sweep of the area when Shem shuffled up beside him. Not a puff nor sliver of smoke lingered, mercifully.
“Those tents might not be such a bad idea now,” he said, anticipating Shem’s question. “The Mysts won’t regroup for hours. We can make our ascent before then.”
Shem offered an almost imperceptible nod, “Might be worth moving closer to the wall in that case. Less sides to cover and we can start scaling it if needs be.”
Dawit nodded, gaze on the ground.
Shem eyed his comrade for a few seconds and then squeezed his shoulder.
“Don’t over think it, mate. You’re doing fine.”
“We could be doing better though—that’s on me.”
“Eh—It’s kind of my fault too. Showed a little hack to the kid and it made us late...”
“Dude…You need to stop doing that.”
Shem’s face said, ‘I should, but I probably won’t.’
“But seriously, I’m sorry mate.”
It was Dawit’s turn to put a hand on his shoulder with a knowing smile.
“I’m probably not the one you should apologise to, brother.”
With a final pat, he proceeded on his way. Shem’s eyebrows bunched in a grimace.
Not a chance!
* * *
The next few hours passed without incident. They forged four tents. Three of the crew were placed on watch duty in two-hour rotations. Again, Keon barely slept, his mind abuzz with the night’s revelations. How the heck had Avana done that? And how had the King spoken to her?
The plan was to scale the cliffs in a few hours. It would still be dark, but not as dark. They could take their time without the pressure of sundown. Apparently, Mysts roamed Underland at night, and were partial to desolate places. You could tell if they were near from their piercing cries.
“Some say they were originally only half-human, so they didn’t die like normal people,” Zahara had told him. “When they died, it was like a half-death; like the human part of them was just—taken. And the part that was left is what we see. Now they roam Underland in constant torment, seeking Mirrors.”
“Why Mirrors?”
“Control a Mirror and you control a body. It’s why they ask questions; they’re looking for a way in.”
“And what happens if they find one?”
“Then, your body becomes theirs,” she’d said with a shrug. Keon had wondered why she’d seemed so blasé about something so horrific.
He’d held her gaze, feeling like there was more she wasn’t saying.
“You ever see it happen?”
She never answered; just poked at the campfire with a stick.
He shuddered at the thought, pulling his shawl tighter around him. One of them had grabbed it; he was sure of it. How close had they gotten to getting what they wanted? His body. They’d asked for a trade. His name in exchange for theirs. Was that how they got in; by asking your name?
He rolled over to the other side, flinching at a shadow moving across the outside of the tent. Ghosts. Ghosts you could touch. He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. What on earth was this place?
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