Part 8
Enris Makar
TKC 238 and 239
Resting on my sword, I study the situation.
There are less than thirty Ilfin remaining to me. This untried
army has shrunk to virtually nil. Everyone else we brought across the plains is
dead. Those who are left are the fit men and women able to run long and fast enough
to escape the Glonu – that is how they have survived until now, for they are
not fighters. The old and the young are gone, as well as those who were too
slow.
My gaze lifts to my sister. She is known as Lyra here – how strange.
Lyra’s aura is one of grief and horror, and helplessness. I
have seen her employ her talents to kill and it bows her soul.
Damin Mur has lost all expression. He sits on a boulder
alongside Lyra, but there is nothing to read in him. Damin is now a true
soldier. He functions on automatic and he possesses the stamina to go on long
after others surrender.
The older man, Mirlin, has not given in yet, but he is close
to simply sitting and waiting for death to take him. He is now the sole
westerner left in the gathering.
The one Damin calls Artur is indefatigable. The man is huge
and refuses to surrender. He is also filled with rage. Apparently he is the
final survivor from a place known as Grenmassin, other than Lyra and Damin.
The Messengers Joseph and Hanna, although older, have kept
up. Their auras are of hopelessness.
My ghostly comrades have fallen, but they did us a service
in taking all ethereal Glonu with them.
We now fight real men with mighty weapons and an
inexhaustible supply of ammunition. The time of the sword has passed.
Fortunately these men have no talents; it is the single advantage remaining to
us.
Straightening, I sheath my blade. I wonder how we will win
this as I do so. Our options are now limited. At present all we can do is run
and hide.
Hearing the whine of cruisers, I squint through the foliage.
One flies over too swiftly to mark our position, and there are at least four
others in the region. Far enough away not to see us, by the lower tones of
their engines.
“Damin!” I call out.
The fair-headed man stands and closes in. I notice he does
not look at Lyra, and she watches him sadly. They are married, but in war love
cannot function well.
“Enris.” Damin halts in front of me.
“Tell them we stop for ten minutes only.” I have made him my
second.
The man folds his arms. “They are exhausted.”
“I am aware, but we will generate a heat signature the
cruisers will read. Ten minutes.”
Damin nods stiffly and heads back to his perch. I hear him
tell the others; no one responds. They are indeed exhausted.
Lyra strides towards me, her face set in determination. “Horin,
we need …”
“My name is Enris,” I state.
She curses under her breath. “Whatever, brother. Now you
listen to me; I am older than you are …”
“I am the eldest Makar,” I interrupt her. “Even if you could
claim years on me as my sister, you have not before been to war. Here my word
is law.”
She blinks at me, taken aback. “Enris, please.”
I lean closer to whisper, “Find the path to the Spire. We have
not much time left to us. The slower you are, the more will die.’
She pales markedly, and swings away to return to Damin’s
side. I inhale for equilibrium. Hurting her is not my intention, but it is a
truth, without our ethereal guides, we are lost. Lyra alone knows how to find
the Spire, for all view of it has been obscured by cloud and smoke. As a
landmark it has vanished, leaving nothing to follow.
We must find it or we are doomed.
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