by Ru Emerson
A moment's respite; the creatures withdrew. Not far enough so they could escape, but enough to allow them to breathe. Ylia looked over her companions. No one badly hurt yet, but—Nisana? Realization smote her, hard. She had not seen the cat—since when? ‘Nisana!’ The inner voice was shrill with fear. ‘Here, silly girl.’ Familiar, reassuring pressure against her leg. ‘You scared me, cat!’ ‘Worry for yourself, girl; I'm well enough.’ ‘But, Nisana—’ ‘But.’ The cat gazed up at her. ‘We'd better have an end to this soon. Stay here, watch only.’ Before Ylia could even open her mouth to protest, the pressure was gone and a shimmering lit the ledge, her sword, Brendan's. Power surged across them.
And a mountain cat stood where Nisana had been: a snow-white cloud-cat, twice the size of any real cloud-cat. The colors of Power played about its head and shoulders; its eyes were twin suns. It yowled, exposing long teeth; Baelfyr touched the canines. Its cry echoed, etched itself across human eardrums, vibrating through the ground. The cloud-cat snarled then, leaped from the rock.
The creatures shrieked, scrambled madly aside and fled down the trail, leaving their dead behind.
And then, there was only a small, tortoise-shell cat crouched on the damp ground. Brendan drew back, the breath hissing between his teeth. Ylia's sword and dagger clattered to the rocks, she leaped down to gather Nisana up. ‘I—I did not know you could do that!’
'Well, I was not certain I could, not anymore.’ Dry, but so weak!
Human arms tightened convulsively, forcing a faint squeak out of her. ‘Nisana!’
'Shhh. Don't worry. And don't hold so tight!’ she added tartly. ‘I am weary, I must rest. It—it is demanding, a shape changing.’ She sounded apologetic, rather embarrassed. ‘What happens when you do not use what you have.’ Ylia fumbled with the straps of the riding pouch one-handedly. She was shaking. Levren pulled the thing free for her; Nisana crept inside, her movements slow, cautious.
“Lev?” For the first time, Ylia became fully aware of their surroundings. It was quiet, dark. Dead creatures all around them; none, that she could see, alive.
“They are gone.” Blood trickled down his sword hand and he favored his left leg. “But so is Lisabetha. And I fear,” he glanced over his shoulder, cautiously lowered his voice, “that Brelian is badly hurt.” Brelian caught the look if not the words, shook his head.
“No, I am fine. Honestly.” He was not. His voice shook, his face was white. “They have taken Lisabetha, I saw them, I must go after!” Nor would he be dissuaded.
Ylia handed Nisana's travel pouch over to Levren. The cat slept so soundly already that she was not aware of it. “Guard her well, Lev. She saved us and will not be able to fend for herself for some time. Keep the others here until Brelian and I return.”
Boots scuffled up behind her. “Boy, if you think you're going anywhere, let alone after those—”
“Marhan, would you rather let Corlin's daughter die, at the hands of those things? Or maybe we should let Brelian go after her alone? He will, unless you tie him; look at him!”
“I'm not talking about Lisabetha, or, Brelian,” Marhan snapped. “I'm talking about you, going after that hoard of nightmare beings!”
“All right. You know what they were using against us, though, don't you? Sorceries, black sorceries. If you go with Brel, how do you plan to deal with them? I haven't much Power and little enough to cope with that, but I'm all we have.” She met his glare unflinchingly. “There is no time to argue, Marhan. I have to go.” Silence. “Do you think I want this?” Silence again. “It does not matter.” She turned away. “You trained me, you know my skills, turn loose of me as you would any of these men!” She took her blades from Golsat, waved Brelian to follow. He shook off his brother's restraining arm and came resolutely behind.
Once again they took the back trail, but slowly now. In spite of his reassurances, Brelian walked as one stunned or sorely hurt, and Ylia needed to cast about with a mind-search to find where the enemy had gone. They had vanished, in those short moments, as though the earth had swallowed them.
As, in a sense, it had. Before and to the left, down the long incline, there: a strong accumulation of Fear, strong as a beacon. How, how did I not sense it earlier? The answer to that was easy, frightening. Because it had need for secrecy. Because it can shield against AEldra power when it has need. Because it has no fear of being followed, horror that it is, to its lair. It has greatly misjudged its prey this time, she thought grimly, and the thought steadied her. A little. Enough.
A tight copse of a dozen or so trees; in their midst a tall jumble of stone and slabbed rock. And at the center of that jumble an opening into the earth, leading down and in at a height not much more than a man's, wide enough for two. Just within the entrance lay one of the creatures, dead and pale in the starlight. A short sword was still clutched in one of its forelimbs.
Carefully, hoarding her pitiful strengths against future need, she knelt to probe the black opening. Brelian leaned against the rock, guarding the rear. She could hear his labored breathing, sense the pain in it. There, the Fear that said they had gone this way, that they were not far ahead by straight measure. There, also, another fear, which radiated like a madness, and she knew Lisabetha still lived. Though for how long, who could say?
“Brelian.” Silence. She glanced up. He leaned against the rock for support, hunched over a little, and his breath was coming in gasps between clenched teeth. “Brel. They have gone this way. But you—”
“No. I cannot leave her.” His voice shook. “If my Lisabetha lives in that place, I swear I will bring her forth alive, though I perish myself.” He choked, swallowed hard. Ylia caught at his arms with suddenly chilled fingers.
“Brel. Listen to me. If we go—in there, we must both be strong. If you—Brel, are you all right?” Fear gripped her at sight of his face. To lose him, and the girl ... But he shook his head.
“I am winded, that is all.”
It wasn't true, anyone could see that. But she knew she could not convince him to wait, could not leave Lisabetha, either. No choice. Mothers guard us! She drew a deep breath, let out a little of the fear with it. “Then you had better live as well, my friend. One of us may need to carry her, and I would rather it were not me!” He smiled, a mere ghost of a thing, and plunged into the tunnel without further word.
The darkness was absolute at first, and without the second level of Sight they would have come early to grief: The tunnel twisted and the floor was uneven, strewn with rock and dirt fallen from ceiling and walls. Not far from the entrance, however, the cave suddenly widened and a thin, yellowish light came from the walls and floor, not unlike gaslight over the southern swamps. There was a cloying odor that coated her mouth. Dead things. It was disgusting, but there was no room in her for further fear. She glanced at her companion, increased her speed now that he could see as well.
Silence, save for the muted plop of water dripping somewhere. Ylia stopped, caught at Brelian's arm when he would have gone on. The light was fading, a little; directly before them was a sharp bend. “We're gaining on them.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes briefly, nodded. He started forward, paused as her hand caught at his sleeve again. His face was greenish in the evil light. “They are beyond that corner, Brel; another moment, we'll be on them.” Her voice was steady, low-pitched, muted by the stone and dirt all around them.
“Then—”
“I will create a diversion with the Baelfyr and thereafter take rearguard. You must grab Lisabetha, retreat as quickly as you can. Will you do this?”
“I—but you cannot—”
“I can,” she hissed fiercely. “Do not be another Marhan. I am protected in a way you are not, either of you, remember that!” He nodded reluctantly. “She is your concern, Brel. If you stay to aid me, we will all die!” That, finally, reached him. “And I am not Brendan. I will take no unnecessary chances, believe that! Do not waste the ones I must take.” He nodded again, this time in true agreement. �
��All right, then.”
Her heart lurched, painfully. His cloak had fallen aside, revealing a dark, damp stain on his breeches, just below the belt. Even as she stared, it spread, ever so slightly.
Oh, no. That's a killing touch. How far has he come with that? And, how far can he still go? “Brelian?” He gripped her arm reassuringly, even dredged up a smile. Tears blurred her vision, she dashed them angrily away. “Damn you, you lied to us!” His gaze followed hers, the smile faded. He shrugged then.
“It doesn't matter, Ylia. Don't worry, I'll get her out.”
She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, kissed his cheek.
“I know you will.” It was a real smile, however blurred with tears. Brelian briefly tightened his grip on her arm, turned to start down the tunnel. “Go when you have her, and go quickly, swear it!” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve; gripped sword hilts with a hand that was beginning to shake.
“I swear it,” Brelian said quietly. They moved together, rounded a turn directly into those they pursued.
There were fifteen of them milling before a black cleft in the rock; Lisabetha stood bound in their midst, clearly visible, for she stood a full two heads taller than they. The last of the yellow light turned them an unwholesome grey-white.
Lisabetha's eyes widened; her lips moved, but no sound came. Then: “Brelian!” A breathy, shrill little sound. Enough. The creatures whirled about. Some turned to fly and one or two vanished through that narrow slit, but others brought forth swords and knives.
This is it. She stopped, leveled both hands at them and cried aloud. The draining left her faint, but Baelfyr leaped forth as it never had before, spreading green-edged flame among them. Pandemonium. She cut through those still standing, hurled Lisabetha behind her, freed her sword. “Take her and go!” She sensed, rather than saw, Brelian draw the terrified girl up the passageway, leaving her alone with the Fear.
She was blocking the tunnel, and only seven of the fifteen were still alive and willing to fight. If—no. The Power was gone, at least for the moment. But so much of it—I did that, I did. She thrust the thought aside as the creatures, seeing she made no further use of the horrid flame, eagerly leaped forward.
A sudden calm washed through her as she slowly gave way up the passage, holding back as long as she dared so that Brelian and his Lady could reach clean air. The Fear pressed at her, but it somehow didn't matter.
Thrust, parry, parry again. A rock, awkwardly thrown, glanced off the wall and into her shoulder; she pivoted, drove her blade through the thrower. Lunge again; parry with the dagger as yet another of them tried to slip to her blind side.
Pace by slow pace she retreated toward the outer world, leaving a trail of dead and dying. Have I taken a wrong turning? It could never have been so far. The thought chilled her; she thrust it aside. More of them from below—like ants, without number or end. That thought, too, had better be squelched at once. And then—
Darkness. She stumbled as rubble caught her heels and the light faded. “Nearly there,” she whispered. To use any of the Power at all made her legs tremble, but the second level of Sight was absolutely necessary. Worth the drain. Her sword arm ached, her fingers hurt.
Movement to her left—she whirled, lunged. A side tunnel; one of them had come from it. Another opening to the right—she started as cooler air touched her face, stumbled hurriedly past it. Empty. Was that fresh air behind? She drew a deep breath. Perhaps. Another step—another, oh, Mothers, almost, almost—
A stunning blow crashed against the side of her neck, something hurtled against her legs. She fell.
Breathe deeply, for the Power must have calm and assurance to work; believe, and you drive out fear. So the Training Manual in the First Uses of Power tells us. And so I told the child all the years I trained her. For all her denial of the skills, the Power and the greater strengths themselves, it is rewarding to know that once, at least, she must have listened to me.
15
She did not completely lose consciousness, but she could not force her eyes to open. The Fear pressed upon her, filled her, and there was no strength of will left to fight it away. Cold, boneless fingers brushed her face. A long silence, followed by sudden movement; her arms were bound, her feet. A bandage was dragged across her mouth, tightened.
Move! Don't let tried to raise her head, subsided as the movement threatened to make her ill. Her body was jolted up, onto hard shoulders, moved. Down, further into the tunnels.
It was a long, slow journey, all in the dark, and the way twisted constantly. Always downhill. After what seemed a very long time, they dumped her onto a stone floor. Move. But other hands caught at her shoulders before she could, pulled her to sitting, retied her arms to a heavy post set in the rock. Warily, cautiously, she opened her eyes.
Gloomy, not entirely dark. The cavern was large and low-vaulted, its far end lost in shadow. Several entrances were visible from where she sat, dark holes leading into darkness. Lost. It smote her like a blow. Any of them might have been the entrance they'd bundled her through.
The only light came from an enormous firepit not far away. A flat, dressed stone lay near it. Within a length of the firepit sat a huddle of the silent, spidery horrors. More entered from one of the passages.
Did I take enough time ... did they get free? If Brelian's strength held... She held her thoughts fiercely away from herself. What would they do now, her companions? One lost, another near to death ... She closed her eyes, probed the core of the Power, but it was cold and dead; even the use of the second level of Sight was denied her. Time. If there's enough of it, enough for the Power to rebuild itself. But it frightened her, a little. If I used all I had, more than I had right to. If I used everything, all of it in that burst of Baelfyr. Not a good thing to think of. She twisted her hands, worried the bonds that held them. Tight, not unbearably so; with care, they might become loose. And then?
Weapons. If she could pick one or more of those nearest her, take them unaware. Perhaps. Worth a try. Worth the thought, anyway. She studied those grouped near the firepit. Verdren's warning—the one she and Nisana had triggered—Fear. Fear-That-Follows. What manner of thing was it? But when the inner voice would have answered, she hastily silenced it.
They were not truly spiderlike, for they had six limbs instead of eight—two for standing, a third some were using to brace themselves upright, three with handlike bifurcated tentacles. Most of them wore a weapons-belt slung across the roundish body, and these had short swords—iron, by the look of it, and not well-forged at that. Those without the belts carried spears tipped with chipped stone blades. One or two held bows, though these seemed poorly crafted and could not have had any great range. Many of them were naked under hide cloaks roughly pieced together, the fur still hanging in ragged patches from the inner side; a few wore a longer tuniclike garment woven from grasses and hair.
The faces—she could hardly stand to look upon them. Eyes large and nearly round, giving them the intense look of owls. They did not blink. Eyes the color of blood, without white, without brows, though on some a semblance of brows had been painted or tattooed, along with lines on the backs of the primary tentacle-arms. They had hair, lank stuff the color of the skin, so that from any distance they appeared to have none. Boneless narrow faces, with the merest of noses: thin slits between the eyes, above the mouths.
The mouths. Things of nightmare: Pale tongues, long pointed teeth, no lips of any sort. Whatever I have slain by the tens this night, I will call down no disfavor of the Guardians for taking human life. These—they are not human!
The thought struck her funny, she could almost have laughed at it. Well? Go ahead, call upon the Guardians, why not? And—and yes, the Mothers—why not the One of the Chosen? See which of them will aid you from this hell! She flexed her hands again—the rope was looser, but not loose enough.
The chamber was suddenly and painfully lit as wood was thrown on the fire, torches lit and jammed into clefts in the walls. Those near the firepi
t crept away as another entered, surrounded by attendants: chief or shaman. He wore some kind of dark red robe that left only his head and primary arms exposed. An obsidian dagger hung from a strap around his neck. He moved to the dressed stone, sat, gestured to those who guarded the prisoner. One of them caught at her plaits, tore the gag free.
She worked her aching jaw back and forth, spat. The shaman watched with those impassive, expressionless eyes. But when he spoke, the language he used—haltingly, and with many ancient and long-unused words—was the speech of Nedao!
“You are of the Plain. Why do you come here, to slay my folk?”
“I—you ask this of me?” Her voice cracked shrill, out of control, but the creature took no heed that she had spoken at all.
“You do not belong here. Is it not enough you drove us from the warm lands to these high places? This is our home now, the home of Mathkkra. You do not belong here.”
He waited then, but she was stricken dumb. Not Mathkkra, no! Terror momentarily blinded her; a roaring filled her ears and she would have fallen over had the post not kept her upright. She had never listened when she was a child to those tales; she still avoided them, those that told of the cave dwellers, the blood drinkers, the Mathkkra. Pale as death itself, it was said, they stole into the Plain on dark nights, killing, drinking the blood of whatever kind of thing they killed. Until Merreven ha'da Wergn had ridden against them, slain them all. In hundreds of years, none had been seen, and they had become figures to carry at Harvest-Fest, creatures in tales to frighten imaginative children.
She bit her lip hard. The shaman watched her with those red, near-round eyes.
“You killed many of our kind this night. Also, you took away the one they would have brought here. You take its place.” There was an obscene grace in the movement as he wrapped opposing tentacles around the haft of the knife, held it aloft. A murmur of many whispering voices filled the chamber. The blood drained from her face.
