Osha tried to swallow under a rising panic, but his mouth had dried out.
The final object was again made of shining white metaclass="underline" a piece shaped like half or maybe more of the circumference of a round tube ... but its length was slightly curved toward the solid side.
He had no idea what it was at first. It looked a little like the white metal handle for an Anmaglâhk short bow, once the bow’s arms were removed to be tucked away in hiding. But this object was longer, open on one side, and slightly curved along its length. Bow arms would never stay in place once inserted into it.
Unlike the sword, everything else before Osha was similar to the tools of the Anmaglâhk, but different in ways that made the pieces unsuited to guardians of the people. The true weapons of an anmaglâhk would not be lying beside a sword, so whom were these objects for?
He raised his eyes to the first Chein’âs as he pointed at the sword. “Where do I take this? Who is this for?”
None of them answered, and he began to wonder whether they even understood his words.
The first one rushed at him.
Osha back-stepped twice, but that one halted at the sword. It scooped the metal with its claws and flipped the blade outward. The sword clattered to Osha’s feet again, and the Chein’âs pointed at the blade ... and then at him.
Fear and revulsion rose in Osha. He could not believe what he guessed.
The first Chein’âs let out a hiss like water striking hot stone. It pointed at Osha’s left arm and then at his right.
“What do you want?” he rasped, fighting to breathe the heated air.
It curled its clawed fingers above its opposing arm, as if drawing something down and off that forearm. It whipped that hand outward, as if casting that something aside.
Osha touched his right hand to his left forearm. All he felt there was a sheathed stiletto beneath his sleeve. The agitated Chein’âs mimed the same movement again, and Osha shifted one foot back and set himself.
“No. I am Anmaglâhk! I have my gifts—from your people—to prove this!”
At his angry shout, all three rushed him.
Osha faltered, unable to strike at them ... unable to commit another sacrilege. One of them latched its hand—its claws—around his left forearm, and he screamed.
Smoke rose from his sleeve beneath that searing grip.
Osha struck back as the other two leaped at him. His fist hit the first one, and a jar shot up his arm as if he had struck stone. He heard his flesh sear an instant before he felt it.
Their clawed hands burned him through his clothing as he fought to throw them off. It was like fighting children made of black metal, and everywhere they tore at his clothing, smoke rose with more burning pain ... until they pinned him down.
Out of his frayed and charred sleeves, they tore off his stilettos, sheathes and all. The pain left him half-blind, half-conscious, and in spasms. He felt them digging for his bone knife and garrote. And then they were gone from atop him, and he tried to roll on his side as he clutched at the plateau’s rough stone.
He could barely see while clinging to consciousness. All that he spotted was one of their shadowlike forms far off, as if it now stood at the precipice’s edge. That one began tossing things over the edge, and Osha screamed from deep loss more than pain.
His body felt as if he had been burned all over, and he lost sight of everything as the world turned black.
Sometime later he opened his eyes slowly. He did not know how long he had simply lain there in the heat. When he raised his head, he still lay on his side, and one of them remained.
The Chein’âs again squatted off beyond reach and pointed at the sword.
Still shuddering, Osha tried to push himself up.
The Chein’âs let out a screech that echoed across the plateau like metal upon stone.
It rushed to the five arrowheads and the other white metal object, snatched them up, and threw them; they fell right beside the blade. The small creature bolted away along the plateau and leaped over the edge.
Osha’s sight blurred with tears.
It was not enough that he had been cast out, no longer Anmaglâhk. The Burning Ones had forced upon him something so vile, so human, in the eyes of his people that he would be shunned ... cast out, should they ever learn of it.
He collapsed on his back. If he lay there long enough in the heat, perhaps he would simply die—and that would be better. He closed his eyes, slipping away in the dark, waiting for the pain to end.
Get up.
Osha twitched in unconsciousness. At first he did not know whether he had truly awoken again ... until burning pain on his skin and a breath of searing air confirmed it.
Get up ... now!
He stiffened at that voice and opened his eyes, but all he saw above him was darkness broken only by the chasm’s flickering light as it wavered upon the slanted rough stone of the wall behind him. Even that was too hazy in his half-conscious suffering.
We serve ... even with our deaths. So why waste yourself this way?
Who was there? Who was speaking to him?
Searching for that voice, Osha rolled his head toward the far precipice. The plateau was little more than a blurred black plane that ended in red sky, like sometimes seen before a dawn ... or at dusk.
Look at me ... and listen!
Osha struggled to twist the other way, and it hurt him all over. He barely made out the opening he had come through to reach the plateau. Everything around that black pit in the stone was blurred with dim red light. But something—someone—stood in the darker shadows beyond the opening.
What we are is not found in what we are given. What we are called is not why we serve.
Osha could not make out who was there. What little light breached the opening exposed a form of sharper shape than the blurred stone of the chasm wall.
We serve without question ... or acknowledgment ... or reward. We serve in whatever way comes to us.
Osha struggled to his hands and knees. That voice was too painfully familiar, though he should not—could not—have truly heard it after so long.
What he could make out through the opening appeared to be a man. There was a hint of a cowl or hood, almost colorless, and perhaps a cloak with its corners tied up across the waist over a tunic. All of that attire was the same colorless tone down to leggings and high felt boots ... perhaps of forest gray.
Do not forget what little I was able to teach you. Honor me in that ... not in memory or mourning ... or a worthless death.
Osha pushed up, somehow climbing to his feet amid the pain, and squinted at the shadowed figure.
“Jeóin ... Teacher?” he tried to say, though it came out a hoarse whisper.
The figure did not move or speak again. Perhaps the too-dark pit of its cowl shifted, as if looking beyond him.
Osha teetered as he turned enough to peer at what still lay upon the stone. Even the sword, the arrowheads, and the split tube were blurred in his sight, and when he looked back ...
No one was there beyond the opening.
Osha rushed over, stumbling, and looked up the steps leading back to the white metal portal.
“Sgäilsheilleache!” His scream tore his throat, though it did not stop him. “Please ... Sgäilsheilleache ... come back.”
The only answer he received was the echo of his own torment, and he crumpled upon the first step. When he had no tears left, he crawled back out upon the plateau. On his knees, he stared at what had been given to him in place of what had been taken from him.
He had to accept it all. He might no longer be Anmaglâhk, but he could not disrespect the covenants. He could not shame his lost teacher.