Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “So, we made it to the top…” Rian said. “I always pictured it being much… grander. Perhaps that there would be some temple up here, or maybe some ancient carvings from a time long past. This, though, is just a cave full of water.”

  “There is beauty in knowing the truth, though,” said Hafgan, closing his eyes.

  “Pfft. My life would be better off, had you not shared your truth.”

  “You would prefer to live a lie?”

  “I would prefer to live a lie that I didn’t know for a lie, you dimwit.” Her insult lacked any real enthusiasm, however. “So, instead, I had to choose between leaving the people behind to flounder, or at least try to teach them something that had value beyond their belief in a false goddess.”

  “I am beginning to believe that faith is little more than a way to spread values among the people. Traisen spread the value of war and combat with just a hint of honor. Oletta embodied the value of wisdom, knowledge, and logic…”

  “Which is why my temple was always so empty. What could compare to the fun of war and battle?” Rian asked wryly.

  “What indeed? Perhaps, had more people followed you, Rian, we wouldn’t be in this cave.” Rian was silent at that. Perhaps the statement had sounded too accusatory. Hafgan sighed.

  “We should sleep. Tomorrow, we need find a descent on the other side of this mountain.”

  “No.” Yurin’s voice was firm. Hafgan’s eyes struggled to open, seeing his brother staring, unmoving, deeper into the cave.

  “Brother, we must rest. I must rest.”

  “You will rest soon enough, Hafgan. As will we all.” His tone was strange, and Hafgan felt an aura of danger. Had the Flawless God returned?

  “That’s… ominous,” mumbled Rian, apparently feeling the same thing. She gained her feet and helped Hafgan up even as he reached for his weapon. Again, the gifted spear was strangely warm, and he felt a surge of energy flooding through his weary body.

  “Rian… where exactly did this spear come from?” He examined the weapon—was it beginning to glow? Traisen’s symbol, certainly, seemed to shine softly. Rian’s eyes were wide, seeing the same thing.

  “I don’t know. That fool Ulin had it; he said his people had stashed it away for who knows how long. Said the spear belonged to you, whether you knew it or not. He was half-mad and half-dead, though, so I didn’t pay much attention. I had other things on my mind, like killing that bastard Leyr and getting us the bleeding fuck out of Hackeneth.”

  “Come.” Yurin began to walk deeper into the cave.

  Hafgan followed, still staring at his weapon.

  It was only a few minutes before they came to an impassible wall, when their path diverged from the fast-flowing source of Enorry Falls. There was nowhere to proceed.

  “Hold up your spear,” commanded Yurin. His voice was clear. It was as coarse as ever, but his words were calm and controlled… so unlike him.

  Hafgan did as commanded, feeling almost compelled. He longed to reach into his hedwicchen, but it was unattainable.

  The spear began to glow, a soft blue light spreading from under his hands until it consumed the length of the weapon. Similarly, the wall began to glow in the shape of a door, with a circular hole appearing in its center. Without knowing why he did it, Hafgan jammed the spear, the key, into the hole. The wall faded from existence, and the three walked in.

  Again, almost as if pushed.

  They continued down a path for a time, not speaking. What was there to say? It was all too surreal to be reality. Perhaps Hafgan had fallen asleep, and this was a delusion of his fevered mind. Perhaps Wiscon had killed him, after all, that this was what came after. Perhaps he had never left the Pwoll.

  While the walk only lasted a few minutes, it somehow seemed like they had traveled a long, long way. To another world, maybe.

  “What is this place?” Rian asked, her voice holding a heavy awe.

  They had entered a chamber that was unlike anything Hafgan had ever seen. Pillars, perfectly carved in every style, were visible as far as the eye could see. And the eye could see far, given that it was as bright as day with a light emanating from nowhere. The ceilings, gently arched, were carved beautifully with every major scene from Wasmer history. The fabricated history, anyhow. There was Finlyn, the miner, unearthing the natural phenomenon that was the Cylch. Arwinyadd Anerin, slain from behind by an axe-wielding human. And, as he watched, an image formed, showing Hafgan standing over a fallen Leyr and a bleeding Taern, turning his back on his people.

  “You said you wanted a temple at the top of the falls, Rian. I though it a kindness to comply.” The voice had radiated from the walls—a quaking sound that seemed to come from every direction.

  “What? Who is that?” Rian spun around, her eyes wide. Hafgan, though, just stared at the carving, even as it became more detailed. For some reason, his image was holding the same spear that he held now. And, he could swear that Taern was actually smiling through his rage.

  “How do you not know my voice? Are you saying that you have been deaf for all of these years?”

  Rian suddenly darted forward, pushing past Hafgan and Yurin, who stood with his arms folded, leaning comfortably against a pillar.

  “Rian!” Hafgan shook himself from his revelry, grabbing at her wrist. Rian, though, slipped away. He ran after her as she dodged around the beautiful, ornate pillars. But she didn’t go far.

  Rian came to a sudden and abrupt pause, Hafgan nearly tackling her down before he could stop himself. She leaned back into him, apparently wanting some comfort that he could not provide. He laid one limp arm across her chest.

  “Hafgan… you were wrong. You lied to me,” she whispered.

  A Wasmer woman stood before them. At least, sort of. She was part woman, part stone, almost as if the mountain had melted around her and formed a second skin. Her face was untouched—it was a rough, weathered face that had seen more than any living being had the right to see. Her arms still seemed to maintain some remnants of the living, shifting slightly at their approach, but always touching a stone podium in front of her. The rest of her was indistinguishable from the granite of the cavern walls.

  “Oletta…” whispered Hafgan, falling to his knees as Rian did the same. Oletta, the Goddess of Wisdom, smiled a thin, weary smile, almost as if she understood that the foundation of their beliefs had been rocked, caught in a landslide, and tossed off the side of the mountain.

  Yurin barked a laugh which ended with a rough, metallic cough.

  Chapter 41

  The journey to Agricorinor was without incident.

  It only took a few days, riding double and eating scant rations. Merigold was stuck firmly in front of Lisan as they traveled off-road to avoid any Sun Guard or Sestrian patrols, all while desperately hoping to dodge roving Menogan bands. Each of them were showing signs of exhaustion beyond just the physical. Lisan continuously muttered to herself, too quietly to be heard by Merigold riding scant inches away. Ill’Nath never released his hand from his club, and he always had his eyes behind them. Meri practiced questing, knowing that if it came down to it, she would need to draw from her horse to create some sort of defense.

  She didn’t give the horse a name this time.

  But, despite their anxieties, the journey to Agricorinor was without incident. The same could not be said of their arrival.

  “Agricorinor will be visible over the next ridge,” Lisan announced, her voice taut as a bowstring. “Mane brought me nearby, once, but I got no closer than this.”

  “It will be nice to finally rest,” said Merigold in an effort to assuage the warrior’s nerves. “After we find help for Cryden.”

  “I certainly hope you know something I don’t. The pasnes alna do not welcome outsiders, and certainly not those who are on the run from who knows how many soldiers.”

  “I know a lot that you don’t,” Merigold joked. Lisan said nothing, but reached for her bow and preemptively began to string the weapon with awkward, gloved fingers. M
erigold glanced back at her in alarm.

  “We won’t need that, Lisan. Please trust me.”

  “Trust me. Do you hear that?” Lisan asked in a hiss.

  Ill’Nath also swiveled in his saddle, holding Cryden in place while setting his eyes on the western hills. There was little in the way of trees around them—just snowy, rolling hills that served to obscure vision in all directions. They kept to the valleys as much as possible so as not to be seen, but this technique also blocked their own ability to scout. Their battered group paused to listen.

  The wind swept over the hills with a hiss, and there was a slight creak as Lisan finished stringing her bow. And then there came the whinny of a horse from just over the hill to their west, as well as the jingle of armor in a saddle and someone coughing. Merigold felt her stomach tighten. They were traveling several hundred yards off the road, so any other armored folks making an attempt to be stealthy, out here, meant trouble.

  “We need to move, but quietly,” Merigold whispered. “Once we pass the ridge, we can make hard for Agricorinor and hope for succor. They will certainly rush to protect one of their own.”

  “What, Cryden, who is apparently unwelcome in the place? Or you, a wild mage convict?”

  “Yetra willing, both.”

  They started forward again, moving toward the top of the ridge. The horses crunched the untouched snow and cleared their throats. Their packs jingled and knocked together. Ill’Nath shifted Cryden with a loud scraping noise. They must have sounded like a small army, and yet no one approached or raised an alarm. Maybe the ambushers simply focused too strongly on the road and ignored sounds in this direction. Or, maybe they weren’t truly ambushers, and instead just a few hunters out for a stroll.

  As they were about to crest the ridge, Cryden half-moaned and half-yelled in his feverish way. There was a sudden rush of voices then, shouting out something in Rafónese, and an echo of horses trotting off in all directions.

  “Shit,” Lisan muttered. “It’s time to ride. Let’s hope you are right, Merigold.”

  Lisan drove her feet into the horse’s flanks, pushing the beast forward. Ill’Nath, clutching Cryden, had already passed them. Merigold glanced to the west in time to see several dozen Sun Guard cresting the ridge. They must have lain in wait, assuming that the girl with magical powers would strike for the magical stronghold in the northern reaches of Rafón. Merigold only hoped that Captain Tinto was not among them.

  If it came down to it, she wouldn’t want to kill the man.

  Agricorinor rose in the distance, though Meri struggled to take it in during their flight. It didn’t seem like much, though, from her vantage. There were fields of roots and shrubs, the type of foodstuffs that even grew in the winter. Groves of trees, evenly spaced, created both walls and shade. And, though it was just at the edge of her vision, she thought she could see a herd of pigs roaming amidst short fences.

  “Agricorinor is a farm?” she shouted incredulously.

  “Of course, it’s a fucking farm. Where do you think you get your powers?” Lisan barked from behind her. “But it’s a lush fucking farm for all but the students.”

  They continued their rush toward the stronghold of the pasnes alna, still at least a mile away. She could start to make out towers, in the distance, that would betray the posh nature of Agricorinor. It only stood to reason that those in power would live lavish lives. There was something happening in the mage’s stronghold, too, with hundreds of people milling about in a mass, but she was too intent on her own plight to decipher what was going on.

  Doubled up as they were, they could only move so fast, and the armored Sun Guards gained ground steadily. They would certainly catch them well before they reached the hoped-for safety of Agricorinor. Lisan twisted in her saddle and launched an arrow into the center of the rushing horses, but with no visible effect. She wasn’t dissuaded, however, and shot a second time; this time, a horse stumbled and flung a Sun Guard to the snow. Lisan grunted in appreciation, but it would not be enough.

  Merigold needed to do something, but it was extremely unlikely that tossing some of her discs would do more than take down a couple of horses, especially at this distance. She could fire a beam or two, but not accurately from the back of the horse—and again, the impact would be limited. Plus, if she were to draw from their horse, even just a bit, the creature would almost certainly stumble… if not fall outright.

  Merigold gripped her nail-knife impotently. There had to be a way to slow them down. But, what was it? The grip of her nail dug into her skin even through her gloves, and it was a familiar and comfortable biting sensation. And, with that, she knew what she needed to do.

  She turned, seeing that the charging Sun Guard were only twenty yards away. She removed her glove, and touched Lisan’s neck just as she released an arrow.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. And she drew.

  Mane was dragging her from the beach to safety, murmuring pleasantries while insulting her stupidity at being washed up naked on the beach.

  She was bent over the thick comforter of a small bed, Mane behind her as he heaved and plunged himself into her.

  She was slitting the throat of an innocent woman on Mane’s behalf, feeling a terrible shame but doing it nonetheless.

  Merigold shook her head and concentrated on shaping Lisan’s maenen. Tiny nails, each one the familiar shape of her own knife. She crafted a dozen. Two dozen. A hundred. The orange-burning things floated in front of her like a spike trap. It took far less effort, far less maenen, to craft something that she was so intimately familiar with. And, with a sudden thought, she shot them at their pursuers.

  Horses began to fall across the front line, pierced by tiny nails. Men were crushed by their own horses or flung free and trampled by the next line. Merigold flinched at each death, but her lips were a straight, tight line. She had told them, back in Polanice, that pursuit would mean death. And, at the precipice of Agricorinor, she was not going to give in now.

  Lisan rested draped across Merigold’s back, holding onto her with one arm. She was conscious, but barely, and she said nothing. Merigold held her wrist tightly, lest she lose her grip.

  Pursuit had halted. There were still many mounted Sun Guard, but they rode in confusion and had taken to helping their fallen comrades rather than focusing on pursuit. At least, though, Meri had a clear path to Agricorinor. Someone would certainly help them, and then the Sun Guard would turn back rather than approach this vaunted… farm.

  Turning back to their destination, Merigold almost yanked on the reins to turn the horse around when she got a better sight of what they faced. “Yetra, you scale-bellied fish-fucker,” she swore, and not exactly under her breath. The people milling about in front of the towers, amidst the farms, were Menogan. She could see their brown cloaks hiding their armor—the same cloaks that had covered them during the ambush. They were battling an outnumbered force of bronze-armored warriors, presumably whomever kept Agricorinor safe from more conventional invasions.

  The Menogans were staging an attack on the stronghold of the mages. And, from the looks of it, they were winning.

  There were flashes of light—of green, gold, and red—dissipating into nothing as they struck near the battling Menogans. The pasnes alna were attempting to rain destruction down upon the invaders from the safety of their great stone towers, but the Menogans had created a barrier with their own metsikas; an umbrella that protected them from a rain of destruction. Occasionally, a depleted blast of energy would find a gap in the barrier and leave soldiers writhing in pain, but they harmed as many defenders as attackers.

  The Menogans were clearly winning, despite the gasconaded power of the pasnes alna. With that barrier in place, there was little they could do. If Merigold were to guess, she had to think the pasnes alna, locked in their towers, would run out of living fuel for their assault before long.

  And then it would be over.

  No one was safe in Agricorinor, and there would be no one on this cont
inent who could fight off the Menogan metsikas.

  With that barrier in place…

  The Menogans had not noticed Merigold yet, though, distracted as they were by the battle.

  “Ill’Nath. Take Lisan and the horse, and travel east to that grove, out of sight of the Sun Guard. Keep Cryden safe and wait for the battle to be over. Agricorinor must win here. I… I need to help them.” She clenched her teeth so tight that they might crack. She was one small girl with barely any control over her powers, but she had spent enough of her recent life being helpless and scared of the dark. She would do what had to be done, live or die. She would stay true to her course.

  And even in her thoughts, Merigold realized that she sounded like Lisan.

  Ill’Nath, grinning that frightening grin of his, reached into a saddlebag and pulled out… of all things, a small white rabbit. The thing was shivering in fear, completely disconcerted and confused by having been in that pack for who knew how long. Ill’Nath handed it over to Merigold.

  “Hush…” she whispered, gently stroking its pure white fur. She looked up at the islander as he led his laden horses toward the eastern grove. “How long have you had this?” she called after him. Ill’Nath shrugged, grinned, and loped off with his horses. Merigold shook her head at his back; such an incredulous man.

  Without the vantage of her horse, it was much more difficult to make out the flow of the battle. The snow had fallen more lightly here, and tall grass provided her with some cover as she approached the fight. Her goal was clear. Break the barrier and help the pasnes alna win. A barrier of that size must be maintained by a number of Menogan metsikas. If she could manage to stop even a couple, the barrier should fall. She glanced behind her and saw that the Sun Guard was still in disarray in the distance, while Ill’Nath was all but out of sight in that grove of trees.

  She continued, in a crouching run, to cover the remaining distance to the rear of the forces. The sound was becoming deafening, louder than the only other great battle she had witnessed in Florens. But she had never been this close before. Standing tall for an instant, she could see a mass of brown-cloaked soldiers pushing against one another with hardly enough room to swing a weapon. If anyone glanced back here, they would see her, and the lifeforce within this rabbit would not save her. But, thanks be to…. Well, thanks be that no one did.