DARK ANGEL
Grandmother pulled her cloak about her shoulders,
almost too weak to manage even that much by herself. Immediately
Lala was by her side helping her.
“Good child,”
Grandmother said, patting the girl’s hand. “Good, good
child.”
They were still in
the cave, the dreary cursed cave, for Grandmother had been too ill
to travel, too feeble to even move. Some days ago a welt had formed
on her hand—a spider bite, she suspected—and excruciating body
aches and fever followed. She dimly remembered directing Min to
lance the welt and make a poultice with herbs from her pack to
extract the poison. Evil dreams paraded through her mind, of being
entwined in her own yarn, of it burning, burning, burning into her
flesh, and of dark creatures feeding on her while she screamed;
images of gore and horror that made her shiver still.
Then one day, thanks
to the ministrations of her faithful people, she awoke. She simply
awoke weak, hungry, and parched. So they lingered in the relative
safety of the cave while she recuperated, she cursing her frailty
and every moment they lost in their quest to rouse the Sleepers. If
only she could stir herself to full strength.
Instead she was a
feeble old woman with skin sagging from bones, unable to even place
her cloak on her own shoulders.
Deglin maintained
the fire just to keep her warm. He’d dared venture outside to
collect more wood. He didn’t go far, didn’t go beyond her wards,
which, thank God, did not fail while she was sick.
“Somethin’ out
there,” he muttered to her once. “Keepin’ an eye on
us.”
Yes, there were
Watchers. She would deal with them when need be, but at the moment
she was more interested in what she
could watch. She wanted to look into the fire—perhaps God would
speak to her again, provide guidance.
“Lala, child,” she
said, “fetch my yarn.”
Lala scampered away
and was back in seconds with the yarn basket. Grandmother picked
through the balls of yarn with shaky hands. This would not
do.
“Child,” she said.
“You will have to help me tie knots. I’m not yet steady.” She did
not like to think what kind of disaster a mistake could cause, with
the etherea of this place so unstable.
Lala had learned
well from watching all the time and playing her string games. Her
nimble little fingers flew with each knot Grandmother named.
Sometimes she’d have to prompt Lala to the form when the girl
paused, her young face perplexed. “Remember the knot where the
bunny goes into the hole?” Lala would then solemnly nod and finish
the knot.
When Lala tied the
last one, Grandmother took the snarl of red yarn and inspected it
closely. Yes, her clever, dear grandchild had done very well. But
now, she wondered, would it work for her since she had not done the
actual tying herself? She’d tried to project her intent into the
knots as Lala worked, but she wasn’t sure it was enough. So she
yanked some of her wiry gray hairs from her head and wove them into
the snarl best as she could, impressing her intent upon it. Then
she tossed it into the fire and stared and prayed.
She must have stared
for a long time for she dozed off. Her awareness of her people fell
away and the world turned gray, yet she was still aware of the
crackle of fire. Shapeless dreams, lacking the violence of her
fever dreams, came and went like dancers waltzing across a ballroom
floor.
A face intruded on
her dreams, formed just beyond the flames. It was a masked face.
Grandmother jolted fully awake and found the face wasn’t a dream at
all.
“Who are you?” she
demanded.
Behind the mask,
haunting eyes stared back at her. Just stared. What did it mean?
Who would come to her in such a form?
“Who are you?” Sweat
dripped down Grandmother’s temple. The jovial red sequins and
feathers of the mask mocked her.
The entity did not
answer; it just stared.
In a more pleading
tone, Grandmother asked, “What are
you?”
The flames flared
and the mask was replaced by a visored and winged helm of steel so
bright it almost hurt to look upon it. Live symbols swarmed and
wiggled across the steel, symbols the like of which she had never
seen before and therefore could not interpret.
The vision pulled
back revealing the armored figure mounted on a great black horse.
She knew the stallion—he was the steed of the god of death the
heathen Sacoridians worshipped. Black as the charcoal of her fire
he was, demon spawn. He pranced and snorted, his rider armed with a
lance and shield. This was not, she thought, the death god who rode
the stallion, but some lesser avatar. Even so, Grandmother felt the
threat of the pair, felt the hairs stand on the back of her
neck.
Then the vision was
gone. The fire was a normal fire, and she discerned her followers
moving about the cave and chatting. The cold returned to her bones.
Lala tentatively touched her arm.
“Yes,” Grandmother
said, her voice trembling. “I saw something. Something evil.” The
masked entity, who was also the demon steed’s rider, was a
deceiver. A spy. “An enemy sent up from hell to defeat us in God’s
work. A Dark Angel.”