by A. C. Cobble
“It would go out anyway if we leave it untended,” said Sam. “It’s better to conserve the fuel. I think there’s something out there, Duke, but if not, I will apologize profusely and make it up any way you’d like. There’s no point being out in these woods if we don’t investigate potential activity.”
He hitched his pack, checked his broadsword, and thought about what he could get away with requesting if she was wrong.
Ignoring her knowing look, he gestured for her to lead them. She started off into the dark, promptly tripping over a hidden branch and falling to her knees.
Wordlessly, he helped her to her feet and was relieved when she started down the trampled trail they’d taken from the frozen river. Out on the river at night, the wind cut like a knife, but it was better than braving the knee-high snow drifts beneath the trees in utter darkness.
“Which way?” he asked, his breath billowing out in front of him, blending into the moonlit white landscape. He tried not to think how familiar it felt to his vision of the underworld.
“Inland, I guess,” she said, raising a hand above her head, apparently trying to feel the wind.
Silently, they marched into the dark, trusting the moon to show the path. If anyone actually was cooking meat, they didn’t want the fae light to give them away. Their boots crunched like fireworks on the frozen snow, but there was nothing they could do about that.
After several hundred paces, Oliver paused, sniffing. Sam stopped beside him and nodded. Wood smoke, definitely, and they’d been traveling away from their own fire. Perhaps a bit of burning fat? His stomach clenched in hunger, and he looked at Sam tight-lipped. She’d been right. Someone else was in the woods with them. Trying unsuccessfully to walk quietly, they continued on until several hundred paces later, they stopped again.
Small sounds echoed through the trees on the frozen night. Nothing identifiable, but along with the smoke, Oliver was certain it was man-made. They looked around, peering between dark tree trunks. Oliver pointed her to the right bank and then he climbed the left. He peered into the forest, seeing nothing but white snow and black bark. Across the frozen river, he could see Sam waving him over. He crossed and climbed up beside her. He saw a telling glow deeper in the forest. A fire, a big one, was burning merrily.
“What do we do?” whispered Sam, pointing at the snow around their feet. “Sneaking will be almost impossible in this stuff.”
He nodded. She was right. “We don’t sneak, then. Remember, we came all of this way to talk to someone.”
Resigned, she nodded and then started into the dark woods, feeling her way carefully forward through the knee-high drifts.
He followed behind, one hand on his broadsword, the other hand steadying himself against trees as they passed. Certain they were making enough noise to alert anyone of their approach, he wasn’t surprised when they finally entered a clear space and found a roaring fire and nothing else.
“Well, that’s rather strange,” remarked Sam, edging closer to the blaze, he guessed to warm herself, but she pointedly sniffed like she was trying to find the cooking meat she’d claimed was nearby.
“They must have fled,” he surmised, glancing around the empty clearing.
“I did not flee,” said a voice from the opposite side of the fire.
Oliver jumped, uncomfortably aware he’d just looked in the space that a small man was now occupying. Had the man been in hiding, or had he simply appeared?
The old man smiled at Oliver as if he could read his thoughts and said, “Follow me.”
Oliver shared a look with Sam and then shrugged. They’d come looking for someone, and they’d found him. On the positive side, the man did look rather old. Hopefully, he could answer why the Coldlands had sailed to war twenty years earlier.
The old man led them down a path in the snow worn clear by frequent travel. He moved with a spry dexterity that reminded Oliver of Thotham. The man seemed at home in the woods, lit only by the burning fire behind them. It cast tall, menacing shadows from the three of them on the trees ahead before they lost the light behind the thick trunks.
Shortly, they saw a black mound of rock rising out of the forest. It was near a height with the trees and likely would have been invisible from the river. From above, it would have looked like any of the other giant boulders that lay scattered throughout the forest. As they approached, Oliver saw the front of it was bracketed by two pinpoints of light. They braced a dim glow, which he guessed was the mouth of a cave.
“I apologize for the odd invitation,” said the old man over his shoulder. “Some discussions are best conducted in mystery and at night.”
“What is this place?” asked Oliver as they reached the mouth of the cave. He peered inside the dark maw and saw a tunnel that opened into a larger room that was lit by torches.
“My home, among other things,” explained the old man. “Come along.”
He took them inside, and Oliver was stunned to see the room was expansive, as wide across as the Cloud Serpent was long. It was partitioned by rough branch and hide screens. It seemed a comfortable, if primitive, living space.
“Food, drink?” asked the old man, pointing toward a table where a platter of steaming hunks of meat sat beside a kettle containing a savory-smelling broth. “It is custom in the Coldlands to serve fresh meat, which we can hunt for even in the depth of winter, along with stored vegetables stewed in the animal’s juices. I’m afraid there’s no bread or other delicacies that you may be used to, but I do have some beer. It’s brewed with tubers and only approximately similar to what you drink in Enhover. It is quite cold, though, which I believe is how you like it.”
“I-I do…” stammered Oliver.
“Instead of poisoning you, I could have simply left you alone, Oliver Wellesley,” said the old man. “I am quite sure that you would manage to get yourself killed soon enough.”
“How do you know my name?” asked Oliver, his eyes darting around.
Sam growled, raising her spear.
“You trod across the skin of the underworld like a giant, young lord,” stated the old man. He glanced at Sam. “You will not need that weapon here, Knife of the Council. I mean you no harm.”
“Pardon me if I do not immediately trust you,” she said.
“The spirit in the weapon, was that your mentor?” asked the old man. “I sense no animosity from him. Do you? You trusted his judgement, once. I hope that did not change with his passing.”
She frowned.
“Come, eat and drink, and we will talk,” said the old man. “Elk, taken just this morning. Onions, potatoes, and carrots in the stew. Familiar fare, is it not?”
Embarrassingly, Oliver’s stomach rumbled.
Looking down at the pile of roasted meat, juices still leaking from the warm slices, Oliver sat back. The way his stomach felt, stuffed with the vegetable stew and mostly the meat, even the little old man might be able to thrash him. He worried briefly that was the ancient man’s plan, but he decided it was unlikely, so he leaned forward and used his belt-knife to spear another delectable cut of elk.
Beside him, Sam had eaten but not relaxed. He wondered what she sensed about the old man, whether she could tell if he was one of the Coldlands’ vaunted shamans or just an odd fellow who practiced on the fringes as she did. Not that she would admit to that.
“So,” said Oliver, tucking his thumbs behind his belt and stretching his back, “we’ve waited as you asked. Please tell me why you brought us here.”
The little man, his face as browned and wrinkled as a chestnut, grinned. “I did not bring you here. You brought yourselves. I only invited you into my home as I thought it possible you’d see it tomorrow when you continued your journey upriver.”
Oliver blinked. “You sought us… The fire, it was meant to draw us in, was it not?”
The old man nodded. “It was. I did not draw you into the Coldlands, though. You came here on your own. I am curious. What is it you seek?”
“We’re the on
es asking the questions,” growled Sam.
“You’re the ones visiting my home,” pointed out the old man.
“Perhaps we can tell you some things and then you will answer our questions?” asked Oliver.
“Perhaps,” said the old man. “I am not a mind reader, you know. I do not know why you are here. I was only able to identify you because of the impression you’ve made on the other side. My ancestors saw you there, striding through the underworld like you were its king. They called to you, along with the others. They told me about it, and then they saw you in Northundon, where they remain trapped by your nation’s awful sorceries. When a young man and a young woman arrived on our shores and hiked up the river, it was no great leap to guess who you might be.”
“Our sorceries!” snapped Oliver. “You are the one talking to the spirits!”
“I speak to the same spirits that led you here,” remarked the old man. He glanced pointedly at Sam and then back to Oliver. “Let us not pretend I am the only one who knows anything about them.”
Oliver frowned. “Those spirits spoke to me. I did not speak to them.”
“Ah, a vast distinction, is it?” questioned the old man.
“Do not seek to turn my words,” warned Oliver.
The old man held up his hands and waited.
“We came here,” said Oliver, “because of what we found in Northundon. We want to understand why the Coldlands sailed to Enhover, why you attacked. What did your people hope to gain from war with Enhover? Surely you understood what would happen. Surely your people knew they could not win a war against ours.”
The old man, his eyes glistening, brought his hands together and bowed his head. “For twenty years, I wondered if anyone would ask those questions.”
Oliver gaped at him.
“Of course we knew we could not win a war,” stated the old man, his face rising to meet Oliver’s gaze. “We were few, and you were many. We had our spirits, but you had cannon, firearms, bombs, and airships. We had to sail, though, to try and stop what was happening.”
“The destruction of Northundon,” breathed Oliver.
“No,” said the old man. “We sailed to stop a bridge forming to a collection of spirits known as the dark trinity. A connection, penetrating deep into the underworld, fully formed…” The old man shivered and lifted a mug of the bitter beer he’d served them. “The connection would have granted incredible, terrible power to the sorcerers who formed it. They must have thought they could live forever, ruling this world with that power, but if the binding failed, the spirits would have had a foot in this world and their own. They could have wedged the breach in the shroud between our worlds wide open. The dark trinity, as close to the lords of the underworld as there is, could have slipped onto our side. The devastation would be unthinkable. Not just to Enhover but to us all.”
“W-Who…” stammered Sam. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Oh, I’m sure the sorcerers believed they could control the spirits through their binding ritual,” continued the old man. “Sorcerers are rarely humble men or women. They must have thought they’d gain complete control of the dark trinity. Maybe they could have, for a time, but eternity is a long time to trust the works of men, don’t you think? Eventually, the dark trinity would have found a break in the pattern, or the binding would have failed for some other reason. Time erodes all of our creations, even that of arrogant sorcerers. Would it be a year, a thousand years? We did not know, but with the world at stake, did it matter? Any risk was too great, so we sailed to Enhover and we foiled the ritual. The full binding was not completed, and the dark trinity did not walk the bridge to our world, but the taint of the spirits was sunk deep in your land. We fought against it, tried to free the bound shades, but we could not win, so we fled.”
“But why didn’t you… why didn’t you tell anyone?” cried Oliver.
The old man offered a wrinkled smile. “We tried to explain what was happening, but your lands are in the thrall of the Church. We found no ears willing to listen to us. I don’t know if our envoys ever made it to your grandfather, the king at the time. The Knives of the Council were a more formidable organization than they are today, and they hunted our messengers like diseased rats. Our elders had known sailing to Northundon was a risk. We are isolated but not foolish. We knew that we might pay the ultimate price, but our elders had communicated with the spirits of our ancestors and knew we had no choice.”
“Thotham’s prophecy,” murmured the priestess, glancing at Oliver. “A darkness spreading from Enhover to cover the world.”
“I do not know this prophecy,” responded the man, a Coldlands’ shaman, Oliver was certain, “but yes, I believe that is what could have happened. We are not entirely altruistic, I admit. We sailed in an attempt to preserve our own people. Sailing to Northundon was the only way we could do it. Our elders hoped that we would prevail, or that your leaders would come to understand. Despite the risk that would not happen, they decided falling in battle was still better than becoming slaves of the dark trinity. We could die and allow our spirits to be ground by the wheel until rebirth, or we could suffer eternal. Given two unattractive choices, we did what we had to. Those of us who survived have tried to preserve our culture, but I’m afraid we’ve failed.”
“The sorcerer…” wondered Oliver. “Did you kill him?”
“Or her,” remarked Sam. “A woman is just as capable of… Ah, you’re right. It was probably a man.”
The Coldlands sorcerer’s lips curled into a thin, bitter smile, and he shook his head. “I do not know who offered the horrific sacrifice. A trinity, our elders suspected, but we never identified the members of the cabal.”
“They’re still out there!” exclaimed Sam, sitting forward, gripping her fork. “You have to do something!”
“It is not my task to murder sorcerers,” said the man, a steely glint entering his eyes. “That is what you do, is it not?”
Sam sat back.
“W-Well, surely… What…” stammered Oliver.
“My people expended ourselves stopping the full ritual from coming to fruition,” stated the old man. “We tried to do more but we failed. We ran out of time. Your airships appeared above and rained fire on us. We fled, and your people pursued us, intending to decimate every trace of the Coldlands tribes. Some few of us were able to hide, to avoid your bombs and your swords, but we are no longer a people. Our young, those few that there are, have migrated south into Rhensar. They’re assimilating into the culture there, and within a generation, there will be no more of what you would recognize as Coldlands folk. We are finished in this world, and it is only a handful like myself who are able to keep the connection to the other side. When we join our ancestors, we will be forgotten. The only evidence of our existence will be in history books written by your empire.”
Oliver winced.
“My people are finished,” continued the old man. “I continue our ways out of habit more than anything, but perhaps there is a way I can help you. It would give me some pleasure if you were able to put a knife into the ones responsible for my people’s downfall. I am an old man, but not so old that I’ve lost all of my petty notions of revenge.”
“Help us,” said Oliver. “How?”
The old man stood. “Come with me.”
He led them to the back of the large, stone chamber, and Oliver saw what was clearly a sorcerous altar. Patterns were inscribed on the wall behind it, and the altar itself was comprised of piece upon piece of yellowed bone. Oliver shuddered, refusing to look close enough to see whether they were animal or… Grimacing, he saw a handful of scrolls, a knife, bowls, and other implements he’d come to associate with the dark arts, but what the man held up and showed them didn’t look like it had anything to do with sorcery at all.
“Is that a chicken bone?” wondered Oliver.
“Yes,” confirmed the old man. “A furcula.”
“We call them wishbones,” muttered Oliver, glancing at Sam out of the corn
er of his eye. She did not return the look. She wasn’t looking at the old man either. She was studying the altar instead. “Ah, what are we supposed to do with the wish… the furcula?”
“The taint of the dark trinity is still upon this world,” remarked the old man. “This bone will help you sense it. It is attuned to those spirits. With this, I believe you can find their presence on this side of the shroud. See here, see the runes inscribed on the different forks? You will feel a slight tug which will pull you to the presence that fouls our world.”
“Why do you not use it?” wondered Sam.
“I am too far away,” answered the old man. “Here in the forests, the furcula pulls me toward Enhover. From this distance, that is all I can tell. Is there one source of the taint, several, I do not know. I wish I could find out, but I cannot unless I traveled to your shores.”
“If you seek revenge, then why have you not done so?” questioned Oliver.
“The sorcerers and your family destroyed my people,” reminded the old man. “What can I do against such a power?”
“What can we do, then?” snapped Oliver.
The old man shrugged. “Do as you wish. I do not care if you die, but unless the murderers of my people return to these lands, this device is of no use to me, so I give it to you freely. I know of you, Oliver Wellesley, and I know you were only a boy when my people were killed. I hate your people, but I’ve gained enough wisdom in my years to understand it was not you who rolled the bombs or held the blades. There are others behind this evil, and I hope to the spirits that you kill them.”
“It was his family who bombed this land,” reminded Sam, eyeing the old man suspiciously. “That does not bother you?”
“I play no trick on you,” assured the old man. “This device will lead you to the taint of the underworld. What you do with what you find is up to you.”
Frowning, Oliver reached for the wishbone, and as he held it, he felt it tug slightly in his hand. He jumped, nearly dropping it. Gathering himself, he turned, following the pull of the small, forked bone until he was facing away from the old man. He was facing west, toward home.
