Something writhed there, and for an instant he thought it was his torn muscles taking on a life of their own. Then he saw the vines, the thorns, and the bloodshot yellow eye that opened on the back of his hand.
Enkhaelen hesitated, fingers an inch away from the bloody tendrils. “Tirindai,” he said, looking from the arm to Cob's face. “The Thorn Protector. You've carried it since Haaraka?”
Cob swallowed another throatful of blood and got his good elbow under himself. Looking down, he saw vines strung across his chest from an origin-point beneath his left collarbone, some curving up to guard his neck but most wrapped around his right arm. Tight red buds showed in places, recalling the soporific flowers that had dropped his companions in the Accursed Thornland. The bloodshot eye kept watching him, unblinking, even as he lowered his hand.
“Yeah,” he said weakly, feeling lightheaded. “Stuck me with two thorns back then. One went with Ilshenrir. Guess it's been hidin' out since, Guardian and Dark and all.”
Cautiously, the necromancer set his hand on the bark. The yellow eyeball twitched, then closed. With a rasping slither, the vines began to retract.
“Cooperative,” said Enkhaelen. “That's interesting.”
“What're you— What about the other—“
“Shh. Let me do this while I have energy.”
Unnaturally warm fingers encircled his wrist. A tingle flowed from his arm to his neck and chest and suddenly the pain dulled, tight muscles relaxing with an abruptness that made him slump back bonelessly. Enkhaelen leaned over him, running his fingers across torn skin and muscle, and Cob watched in numb fascination as the flesh pinched together, the blood-loss ebbing to a trickle and then ceasing entirely.
“This has been an educational day,” murmured the necromancer as he worked. “I'm gratified to see that the two of you are just as much a mess as I am.”
Cob grimaced and slid a look to Arik. The skinchanger lay just out of arm's reach, curled up into a pewtery ball of misery. His muzzle was covered in blood, his pale eyes liquid. On their other side, the doorway still opened into chilly night; a faint blue glow emanated from beyond, but Cob couldn't see anything more.
Bit by bit, the necromancer sealed his wounds, until finally the last vine-tendril retreated beneath his skin. As the healing flow ebbed, the blessed numbness gave way to a bone-deep ache, worsened tenfold when he tried to move his fingers.
“Stop that,” said Enkhaelen. “It's like you want to lose the arm.” Then he narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on Cob's throbbing wrist. “Something's odd, though. Some sort of—”
“That hurts!” Cob snapped, and tried to jerk away. The pain went up and down his arm in sick waves, making him grit his teeth against nausea, and Enkhaelen released him as if scalded. “Y'gonna mess around, don't do it so it hurts!” he choked.
“Life is pain,” said Enkhaelen with a reflex sneer, then sobered. “I want to look at—“
“You're not touchin' me again.”
“Ugh, fine.” The necromancer glanced toward Arik instead, squinted, then crawled over to tug at him. The skinchanger made a miserable sound but uncurled enough to let the blue needles from Enkhaelen's fingers slide into his chest.
“What're you doin' now?” Cob said, trying to wedge himself up again.
“Fixing his ribs. I cut him off from the Wolf to make him stop, so this shouldn't unmend.”
Anger, fear and questions clogged Cob's throat so thickly he couldn't breathe. Arik's gaze stayed fixed on him despite the necromancer's work, and he would have done anything to go back and prevent himself from attacking his most loyal friend.
“After this, I am going to sleep,” the necromancer continued. “The two of you can do the rest. There are supplies in one of these crates, fuel for the braziers, that sort of thing. Don't worry about the wolves; I drained the wards in here to wake the ones out there, blocked Raun out, scared them off. They left the sword. Do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. I'm tired. Show me that you have some value beside 'thorn-filled meat shield'.”
Cob had no answer for that. He watched as the necromancer took Arik's arm, inserted hooks of blue energy, then yanked and twisted with indifference to the skinchanger's groans until the broken limb looked straight again. A few more crackles of pale light, then Enkhaelen heaved to his feet, the bracework already draining from his legs as he staggered to another patch of cushions. As he collapsed, the wisp hovering at the ceiling winked out.
For a long time, Cob just stared into the dark. His arm, neck and leg-wounds throbbed intensely, the chill of the floor a bare comfort. Faces swam before his eyes: Fiora, Darilan, Ilshenrir, Rian, Lark, his parents, the others he'd drawn into this unwittingly. Those he'd hurt and lost.
Eventually the scrape of claws on stone roused him, and he looked over to see Arik there, dim in the indigo glow through the door. The skinchanger reached out hesitantly to nudge his shoulder, claws curled inward.
“Hoi,” Cob said softly.
Arik's ears perked from their tucked-back state. “All right?” he murmured.
“Yeah.” Cob made a concerted effort to sit up, ignoring the spikes of pain in his thigh and hip where Arik had clawed. “M'fine. You? He said he cut you off...”
Arik ducked his head, ears tucking flat again. “Ninke Raunagi took us over. Wanted us to eat you. Enkhaelen stopped it and made sure I can't be taken again.”
“But you're a skinchanger...”
Gaze still lowered, Arik said, “Not anymore.”
A chill went through Cob. He tried to push up but dizziness smacked him hard, turning his limbs heavy and useless. “He can't do that,” he forced through inert lips. “It's what you are, what you were born as.”
“Things change,” said the wolfman. “Spirits leave, realms separate. I am a dog now.”
“You're not—“
“It's better like this. I will not attack you again. I will keep you safe.”
Looking into those mournful eyes, Cob could only grimace. “Maybe y'shoulda killed me. It's what I deserve, for—“
“No,” said Arik, and reached out to clasp Cob to his furry chest. “It does not matter. We lived. We will fix things.”
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but they were stubborn, and the more he tried to fight them, the more the dark well in his heart overflowed. Too much had happened too swiftly, and between the pain and the guilt and the exhaustion, he had lost all control. Couldn't even hold back from crying long enough to beg off and find somewhere private for it.
Even if he had, though, he knew Arik would have followed him. No amount of tears or snot could dissuade his last friend.
So he buried his face in that furry chest and let it out, desperately glad that Enkhaelen was already asleep and miserably appreciative of the wolfman's soothing croon. Eventually the sobs ebbed, then the shakes, until there was no sound but the soughing wind outside. The air in the chamber had gone frigid, and he remembered what Enkhaelen had said about fuel and food.
“We should...do stuff,” he managed, and got to his feet with Arik's help.
By star- and ward-light, they investigated the crates. Arik's nose was far more helpful than Cob's eyes; he located the food within moments, and the charcoal and tinder for the braziers with a few more sniffs. The sparker wasn't there though, so they spent some time rummaging for it, coming up with clothes and blankets and books upon books upon books before Cob finally located it on the desk. His right arm hurt too much to work it, and Arik's was weak as well, so they had to struggle and curse at it with their lefts.
Finally, a spark caught in the first brazier. Cob hadn't realized how cold he was until he held his hands over the new flame and felt them start to thaw.
The wind was now the worst problem, especially since the doorway had no door. It was just an empty arch, its wards punctured by the silver sword that lay in the trampled snow. Beyond, runes stretched into the darkness, blue as
dying flame, to encompass a familiar panorama of ruins beneath a looming cliff-wall.
Enkhaelen's manor was up there, hidden by trees. His wife would be in her broken crystal bier, hands still curved as if to clasp the hilt of the sword.
Looking to the necromancer curled up in his cushions, Cob wondered what fresh nightmares awaited.
After some thought, he dragged the sword just inside the threshold, reasoning that the wards had already been broken so there was nothing else for it to destroy. He and Arik tried to pin blankets over the entry to keep the wind out, but they couldn't find nails or a hammer or anything helpful and the stone was too smooth to serve as a hitch. Eventually they just pushed crates in front of it and called it a night.
Shoulder-to-shoulder by the brazier, they ate dried fruit and root-chips, hard cheese, cured sausage. The last two made Cob's stomach protest, but he was too hungry to care. There was plenty to go around, as if Enkhaelen had meant to provision a small army, and they both went through several packets before they slowed.
As the charcoal burned low, Cob's eyelids sank. He tried to fight it, worried about the wolves and the nightmares and the whole outside world, but stubbornness couldn't win forever. Finally, head pillowed on Arik's furry shoulder, he slept.
*****
When he awoke, it was still dark.
He shifted slightly, grimacing at the ache in his tailbone from the cold stone floor and the overall throb of his arm and chest. The brazier was out, the chamber quiet but for Arik's faint snores. He felt warm enough where he was—several layers of borrowed clothes and blankets plus the wolfman's presence helped—but it made him loath to move, so he just stared at the blocked doorway.
Starlight filtered through the gaps. He had a vague recollection of the calendar: if this was still Darkness Day, then the mother moon would be dark too, and the child moon just a fingernail-sliver. And if it wasn't Darkness Day...
If they really had broken the sun...
That's ridiculous, he told himself. The Imperial Light was in the Palace, not the sky. They're not the same. Nothing could possibly harm the sun.
But before the founding of the Empire, there had been the Long Darkness. Months and months of ceaseless night with no glimpse of the sun and no hint of warmth. Crop failures, freezing temperatures and mortal terror had blanketed the known world, and only the rise of the Imperial Light had dispelled it.
He'd argued just this point with Lark in Bahlaer. It felt like a lifetime ago. Since then, he'd learned better—or thought he had—but if the Long Darkness had come again, it could be no coincidence.
What can we possibly do now?
Maybe the Seals were involved. Though they were closed, only one had been replaced; the other five were still bound to Enkhaelen's soul, ready to tear it and the Ravager apart should he die. Their disposition could be occluding the sun somehow.
Kill him, urged a voice inside. Not a strong one like the Guardian's or the Dark's, but a small, stern, pragmatic one that sounded too much like Darilan. He knew it couldn't be, but it squeezed at his heart all the same. If the choice is between killing him and causing damage similar to the Sealing, or letting him live while a Second Darkness consumes everything...
No. The sun could still rise. Some other force might be hiding it; it didn't have to be their fault. They might manage to replace the Seals quickly. There was no reason to resort to murder. Not yet.
Hopefully not at all.
Fiora would have laughed at him. She'd gone for blood from the beginning, attacking Enkhaelen whenever she could: in Haaraka, at the nightmare manor, at the Palace itself. He almost wished she'd been chosen instead of him, because maybe she'd been right.
But if she wasn't… Far better for him to bear this burden than to lay it on her.
Staring at the gap, he wondered if she was all right. She'd gone away with the Crown Prince, ostensibly to return to Cantorin and her temple, but he couldn't be sure. He'd never been sure about her. They were bound together by the red thread of their child, but they'd never been truly close. There hadn't been enough time or peace for it.
When he concentrated, he felt the connection, small and faint—a remnant of the Guardian's senses. Would it fade, and with it his night-vision, his hardiness? Or were they gifts? Reparations for all the Guardian had taken from him?
No way to tell.
He sat up slowly, aware that as the first one awake, he should light the brazier again and do something productive like make tea. His arm still ached, but all his fingers worked, and a bit of light exertion shouldn't hurt. There were tins of herbs in the supply crates, though they hadn't pulled them out during their hunt for food. He could melt some snow from outside—
As he rose, his guts made a horrible sound, and something sank like lead in his belly. Sweat broke out on his face. He lurched over to grapple with the obstructing crates, desperate to make enough space to get out, and merely winced when something tipped and crashed with a sound of scattering shards. Cold wind burned at his skin as he shoved himself sideways through the gap, then shuffled quickly around the side of the structure.
It felt like an eternity before his innards finally quieted. Wobbly-legged, he shoved off from the wall where he had hunched and managed to take a step, then looked up, miserably aware of eyes on him.
Arik stood at the corner of the structure, wolfish ears tucked back, an apologetic look on his furry face. Further away, past the dim blue etchwork of the ancient ruins' wards, shadowy figures retreated into the trees.
Cob wiped his face with his sleeve and hobbled wordlessly to the door, Arik retreating before him. Inside, nothing had changed, so he moved to refill the brazier then lit it from the sparker, silently cursing everything that had happened in the last few days.
“It was the cheese,” Arik rumbled through his fangs. “Rarely sits well with me either.”
“Guardian's 'gifts' aren't all good,” Cob agreed.
Once the brazier had heated, he did what he'd intended to do and melted snow over it, then steeped the herbs to punishing bitterness. Arik extracted more food but Cob begged off, still feeling watery inside.
The cold wind scooped away every smidge of heat until they finally draped a blanket across the gap he'd made. Fixing that problem motivated Cob enough to start finding and lighting candles, and with each new flame he felt his mood rise. Another cup of tea and he managed the courage to eat some dried fruit and chew a pungent root that Arik said was medicinal.
Through it all, Enkhaelen lay inert.
Cob preferred him that way, but it was strange to look across the chamber at the enemy who had plagued him for months and see a small fragile victim. He'd curled up like a child without a blanket to cover him, bare feet peeking out from the edge of his borrowed robe, but his sleeping face was not childlike. He looked battered. Part of Cob longed to apply his knuckles to that face, but the rest of him just felt bad.
“We should wake him up,” he told Arik finally. “This's his place, his stuff. We shouldn't be diggin' around more without his say-so.”
The wolfman nodded cautiously, shaggy brows furrowed. He looked much better—no longer bloody at the muzzle, his arm mended, his breath strong and even—but there was still pain in his eyes, and distance. Cob thought he knew why. “If he cut you away from the Wolf,” he said, “then he can probably stitch you back. Right? Once the Wolf's calmed down?”
Arik looked away, ears flattening again. “Perhaps.”
“I'm sorry that... That I got us in trouble with it. That I hit you. There's no excuse. Even with the Guardian messin' with me, I shoulda known better...”
Arik made a halt-gesture and Cob obeyed, abashed. Despite how long they'd been together, they'd never really talked, and it seemed this wasn't the time to start.
“I will wake him,” said Arik, rising. “He is less likely to harm me.”
With clenched teeth, Cob watched the wolfman approach, crouch, and nudge the necromancer with a claw. When Enkhaelen didn't stir, the claw became
a careful hand, then a more vigorous one, until he was shaking the man by the shoulder like a doll.
Nothing happened.
“Is he dead?” Cob said incredulously.
Arik shook his shaggy head. “He has a pulse. Breathing. Warm too.” Cob saw him pry an eyelid up. “Heavy sleeper.”
“Well...pinch him?”
Cautiously, mindful of his claws, Arik did so. Nothing happened.
“...Smack him?”
Arik gave Cob a reproachful look. Cob shrugged apologetically. “Maybe splash some water on him. Or snow.”
“He passed out when we stepped into the Hag's Needles' cold wind. I do not think cold things will wake him.”
“Wait, is he warm-warm or hot-warm?”
Arik pressed his hand to the necromancer's forehead. “Warm-warm.”
Chewing his lip, Cob considered the situation. He'd felt the necromancer's fever-hot grip on his arm before, but had brushed it off as just that—a fever. Thinking back to the Guardian's visions though, he remembered Enkhaelen standing at the island's edge, the wound in his arm glowing sullenly as smoke and blood boiled from it—and before that, walking through the inferno that was the manor house. Indifferent to the heat, the vapors, the flames themselves.
“Fire-blood,” he mumbled, then used the sparker to fish a glowing coal from the brazier. Carrying it over, he shooed Arik to a safe distance then cautiously unfolded Enkhaelen's limp right hand and tipped the coal into it.
For a moment, all was still. Then the necromancer's fingers curled slowly around the coal. His eyelids fluttered, his arm bent...and he popped it into his mouth.
Cob stared, aghast, as the red-hot ember crunched between his teeth, sending sparks and small fragments to sizzle on the cushions. One eye slid open, pinspot-pupil swimming in pale iris, then slowly widened, sharpened, normalized. The corner of his mouth quirked almost like a smile.
“Lamp oil,” he rasped.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 3
