The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Outside, the wind sang among trees and rocks, a faint, lonely sound.

  He tensed, skin prickling and ears sharpening as fear permeated his veins. That wasn't the wind. It was a voice—lilting, female, and strangely clear for how distant it must be. He couldn't quite make out her song, though he knew in his bones that there were words to it. Words he should attend to, should obey…

  A sob echoed from the darkness, close enough to drown out the song. The wrenching misery of it twisted his stomach—all the more as it continued and he recognized it as a child's cry. A little girl's.

  Arik's weight kept him down. He tried to peek up at his friend but there was no light in their shelter, just an odd hissing sound where the fire had been. The low horizontal entryway was visible only by the contrast of the rock walls; both were black, the outside lightened infinitesimally by the volcano's distant glow.

  Cob's heart thumped hard against his ribs. Every kind fiber in him wanted to call out to the weeper and singer—to rescue them. The little girl was so close that her wails resonated in their cave; all it would take was a word, a sound, and she would find them.

  As if aware of his urge, the weeping broke off. Silence fell—not empty but listening.

  He held his breath. Above him, Arik trembled like a leaf; he didn't need to see to know that the wolfman's ears were pinned back and his tail tucked protectively between his legs. No sound came from his maw, not even a whimper.

  A few heartbeats passed, then the sobs began again—wet and wrenching, a child with some inconsolable pain. His hands fisted with the desire to find and defend her, to destroy what had harmed her. To call out, call out, call out…

  He bit his lip hard. Whatever this child was, she couldn't be human.

  Another cessation. Another intense, prying silence. Then a shift of darkness at the cave entry. A huff of breath—not a new sob but a sound that made him think of drawn-back upper lips, displayed teeth, gleaming eyes. A hunter seeking a scent.

  A sigh.

  Then a deeper silence, emptier. His hackles eased, but he kept holding his breath anyway, until his lungs burned and his eyes watered with the need to exhale. Even then, he tried to keep it in, but it slipped away through his teeth as his vision filled with glitter.

  The sobs resumed—further away, softer. He inhaled carefully.

  “Winter Graces,” Arik murmured in his ear, hot wolf-breath making him twitch. “Rhila, Rakila… Cold and Solitude, seeking victims.”

  He nodded his understanding, though he had only the vaguest clue. From his comrades' tales, he'd thought the cold-girl only attacked houses and the solitude-woman only lured lone travelers. But then, the talks on those far northern spirits had been brief; they'd mused much more about the dangers of the Riftlands.

  There was nothing to be done except wait until the sobs and the song had passed entirely out of hearing. Even then, they stayed in place long enough for Cob to nod off again, hazy images of snowy slopes and dark trees dancing behind his eyelids.

  He woke as the weight departed, the wolfman shifting away to do something near his feet. He tried to prop himself up on his right elbow, but a lance of pain went through him, and he remembered with queasy suddenness his missing forearm. A black vise clenched around him, his lungs robbed of air, his heart too tight to beat.

  Then he swallowed the terror and despair—crushed it down into the well that held his rage, packing it tight with the strength he'd gained from fighting with the Guardian. It sat there in the pit of his stomach, dense and sick and roiling—but it didn't come back up.

  He took a few slow breaths, trying to compose himself. He could manage this. He'd been through worse.

  A weird smell filled the air, damp yet smoky, and he swiped the heel of his remaining hand across his eyes. “What're you doin', Arik?”

  The wolfman flapped a sheet of cloth toward the cave's entry, the motion just visible in the dim new light it revealed. “Unsmothering the fire,” he rumbled. “Threw a wet blanket over it. Glad it did not burn.”

  “To hide from the Graces?” He squinted off to the side and saw Enkhaelen still bundled in place, inert but for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

  “Rhila seeks fire to douse it. Figured I'd douse it myself first. Was already low. Ahh, ruined the blanket, curse it.”

  “We'll survive,” Cob mumbled. “Sure we should be lightin' it back up so soon?”

  “We have to. Need Enkhaelen awake to fix you. I should have made a bonfire as soon as I found shelter, no matter the size of it.”

  Cob grimaced at the hunch of Arik's shoulders. “I told you, it's not your fault. My arm...” A rill of nausea trickled through him. “It was goin' bad already. Ever since Erevard cut me. And then the Dark, and the black water, and the burnin', and the bites and scratches… I saw it—think I even knew it on some level, but I never let Enkhaelen do anythin' about it. 'S my fault.”

  Arik glanced back at him, still sunken-shouldered and sad. On the low-burning coals, a new branch was kindling, licking his fur with warm light. “It was my teeth that bit you, my claws that scratched. My hand that held the blade.”

  “If not you, it woulda been me.”

  “You?”

  “If it really was rottin'...” He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing down the taste of brine. Seeing that darkness well up in his scars had been terrifying enough; he could only imagine how he would have reacted to seeing his flesh peel and suppurate. “Gotta do harsh things sometimes t'preserve y'life. I wish it didn't have t'happen, but I'm not sorry y'did it. I jus'...”

  He looked down at the thorn-riddled stump. Words failed. The bad feelings strained at their well-cap, so he fixed his gaze on the reviving fire and worked on his breathing.

  Arik didn't intrude. Bit by bit, he fed the coals back up to a lively flame, then moved to position Enkhaelen's feet in it.

  “D'you think he can actually...fix this?” Cob murmured finally. “He doesn't look so good.”

  “We must hope.”

  “It's been a while though, and he's still a lump of char. Whatever he did in the volcano… I don't know. It took him days and tons of healin' to get better before, and that was in the temple.”

  “Must try.”

  “I jus'...” He looked at the stump again, pushing away the revulsion. “It's… This won't stop me from walkin'. I think we should move first. Get somewhere secure, somewhere friendly, like… I don't even know. Do we have any friends, when we walk with him?”

  “Trifolders,” said Arik doubtfully.

  “That's a no, then. But we gotta move on. Put the Seals back before we're found by somethin' we can't handle. Which right now seems like everythin'. ...Why did Mariss let us go?”

  The wolfman shook his head. “I'm not sure. Not what she expected, I think.”

  “Did she take the sword?”

  “No.”

  Cob exhaled. “So we got lucky. Even with m' arm. We shoulda died, all three of us. Still could die in a moment if some wraith spots us. Can't wake Enkhaelen up enough t'protect us while we're trekkin', so we need t'get the trekkin' part done as quick as possible. Go over the Rift, down to Varaku or...or Kerrindryr. The Metal Seal is in the High Country.”

  Frowning, Arik shook his head. “We mend you first.”

  “What if he can't? What if he wakes up and says 'pike that'?”

  “He won't.”

  Strangely enough, Cob believed it. Enkhaelen might have no time for pleasantries but he had never declined to help, and Cob didn't doubt his abilities. Spinning a new arm from a ragged stump seemed like a task he would enjoy.

  But that lump of char wasn't in a state to help anyone.

  “How long 'til the Graces come back?” he said. “If one of 'em snuffs fires, how long 'til she comes to snuff him? We gotta get outta here and do our recovery in some real shelter—somethin' with doors, and beds, and people who don't wanna kill us, and...and...”

  He realized too late that he was getting teary. The misery weighed down his lu
ngs, hitched his breathing; he held up his remaining hand quickly to forestall Arik from coming over. “M'fine,” he said, cursing the watery note in his voice. “M'jus' tired of everythin'.”

  “Then we should wait, rest...”

  “No.”

  “Can't go out while the Graces still roam.”

  “...Right. But in a couple marks. Promise me. We need t'get outta this land, over the Rift. I don't care where we cross, we just need t'do it.”

  Arik nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “Thanks. Now I…” The exhaustion was there again, dragging at his eyes. He hated it. He didn't want to rest; he wanted to run, as far and as fast as possible. Down the Rift-line, up the Thundercloaks—anywhere but here. Run forever, runrunrun, so nothing bad could catch him.

  Instead, he laid back down.

  *****

  There were other waking times: brief, incoherent, no more than snatches of light and shadow. The white hawk flitted across his eyelids but he couldn't find the path to follow it; the usual phantoms eluded him in deference to a plunging black depth. Despite his burst of fear, he couldn't struggle; he just fell into its arms and let himself be pressed to its velvet bosom, cradled in that place beyond dreams, until it drained away like so much rainwater.

  He blinked awake to an insistent pressure in his bladder and a faint snoring at his back. The fire had burned low again, painting the walls a sullen smoky ochre. Outside, thick rain or sleet pattered against stone and shrubs, the scent of ash still heavy in the air.

  It took some effort to extricate himself from the layers of blanket and cloak. His absent right hand passed through them but caught against the raw stone, an abominably strange sensation. He wished it would go away. If he had to be handless, he felt like he'd manage better without the mind-trick of it.

  Nothing to be done, though, so he got up and ducked his way toward the opening. Rain silvered the air beyond, the stink of ash even more pronounced; a grey slurry met his feet, cold and gritty. Grimacing, he hunched at the edge of the wetness and fumbled at the drawstring to his breeches, trying to hold the waist in place with his stump. He could feel his absent hand there, tingling against his thigh; it was all he could do to not use it.

  His breeches slid, cold air whisking in. He cursed through his teeth, then gripped himself, pointed, and—

  Something moved out from his absent arm. Something touched him.

  A shriek left his lips, stone biting into his neck and back as he lurched against the low roof. As he jerked his right arm away, he glimpsed something like a snake go with it, whipping along with the motion of the stump. His feet came down in cold sleet and nearly slid out from under him, forcing him to grapple at the rock wall with his good hand.

  “What?” came Arik's muzzy voice from deeper in the cave.

  Cob took a moment just to stand there and breathe, then rescued his breeches from around his thighs. The thing on his arm swayed and recoiled back up to his shoulder with muscular contractions: the cursethorn vine going back into hiding.

  “Pikin' shit,” he hissed finally, “don't do that. I don't need help.”

  “Cob?”

  “S'fine, Arik. Jus' the thorn bein' weird.”

  “Are you—“

  “I'm fine!”

  Arik made a doubtful sound, but to Cob's great relief didn't stir any further. A few more deep breaths, then Cob managed to get himself back into position and do his business without unasked for assistance. Getting his breeches tied up again was a task beyond him though, and he cursed more as he shuffled back into the cave.

  By the dim firelight, he saw Arik's raised brows. “Help,” he muttered grudgingly.

  Without comment, the wolfman did up the cords, then pointed Cob to a sitting place. Cob obeyed, aggravated with himself more than anything, and let his friend dry off his feet before turning to add wood to the fire.

  For a while he just sat there against the cold wall, feeling useless and miserable as Arik tended to other little tasks. Can't even take a piss. Certainly can't fight anymore. Climb? Ha. Going up the Thundercloaks will be horrific.

  They'd be better off without me.

  For a moment, that thought flared large in his mind: that it would be far easier for Arik to carry Enkhaelen there on his own than to do it with a crippled tag-along. The wolfman could climb with his claws, hunt for himself and survive the cold just fine in that fur coat, and could build a fire when he needed to rouse the necromancer. He didn't need Cob.

  But he knew Arik wouldn't leave him behind. No argument, no insult, no injury could make him go—and Cob had started them on this trek. Guardian or not, whole or not, he needed to see it through.

  Focusing on that allowed him to slowly pull himself into a fragile equilibrium. When the wolfman pressed their one cup into his hand again, he drank the boiled water without complaint.

  “We should go when the rain stops,” Arik rumbled, evidently uneasy in the silence. “Or before. We have oilskins, we can walk in the wet. —But no, too dark, the lantern is broken. No stars.” A great sigh.

  “Lantern's broken?”

  “When you fell. When Mariss came.”

  He didn't remember much of it. Teal-colored light and silver… “How's the damage out there?” he murmured instead.

  Arik sighed. “Landslides, floods, trees down. The Corvish will have fled. Anyone else, I cannot tell. Have not been here before, do not know who lives here. Wyndon is south, Gejara north, but how far?” He shook his shaggy head.

  “Not far enough.”

  “Likely, yes.”

  Cob squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to imagine ruined villages. He'd seen the results of avalanches more than once in his youth; the village below his cave-home, Risholnis, had lived under constant threat of them, and the quarry in the Low Country had experienced several in his time. He remembered the roar, that horrid sound of ripping stone...

  “How many people did we kill?” he wondered aloud.

  Arik settled beside him, nudging shoulder against shoulder. “No more than a natural eruption. Likely many less. We gave warning, more than the mountain does.”

  “I know. I jus'...”

  “It is a bad season for it, but not your fault.”

  “Isn't it? If we'd let the Emperor go on with his business, let Enkhaelen stay locked up, the sun would still be shinin'. He'd...he'd keep convertin' people, yeah, but that's a slow thing. We coulda found some other way to stop it. This… How do we fix this?”

  A heavy arm tugged him close, and he went with it, hating his need for comfort but not about to fight. “We did what was right,” the wolfman huffed into his hair. “No one knew what would happen, not even Enkhaelen.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “If you knew then what you know now, what would you have done?”

  Frowning, Cob stared into the seething coals and considered it. His memory of the Palace was hazy, but he recalled the fatalistic optimism that had driven him toward it. Buoyed by Fiora's determination and burning with Dasira's knowledge, he'd felt he had no choice—and he doubted that foreseeing this long midnight would have stopped him. He would have trusted, like then, that someone would tie up the loose ends after he cut through the knot.

  “The same thing, I guess,” he mumbled. “I jus'… I wish it hadn't been necessary.”

  They sat like that until the sound of the rain faded into infrequent drips. Then Arik got up, forced a few more slivers of dried vegetable on Cob, then crammed him back into all the clothes he'd been stripped of previously. Cob accepted the mothering with an occasional grunt, not inclined to argue; he just wanted to move on.

  By the time they were ready to go, the storm was over. In the distance, the volcano still spat a streak of fire, but it was small and muffled; another few marks and they would lose it behind the other peaks. The sky was dull grey from end to end, no sign of the moons or stars—only the occasional flicker of lightning and a drizzle of dry cold ash.

  Cob pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose, a
lready tasting the stuff in the back of his throat. Visibility was low, but the fire-glow on the clouds provided a dim pervasive luminance, and more reflected off the rough waters below the burning peak. Cob tried not to imagine what that landscape had become.

  “After you,” he mumbled, trusting Arik's judgment far more than his.

  With a nod, Arik headed out, the bundle of Enkhaelen slung across one shoulder and their packs on his broad back. Cob just had the sword; he'd wanted to protest being given such light duty, but after slipping on the silty-wet rock barely three steps from the cave and nearly bashing his face into a dead tree while trying to brace on it with the wrong arm, he swallowed that urge. Right now, Arik knew best.

  At least his eyes could handle it. Removed from fire- or lantern-light, they rapidly adjusted to the gloom until he found he could pick details out from the shadows. The air was cold but not enough to bite, and the exertion warmed him quickly. He still felt weak and wobbly, but he'd forced himself to march in worse condition before, and for far less reason.

  Up and down the rocky trails they went, charting a course by guesswork and the glow of Aekhaelesgeria at their backs. The going was slow, everything so covered in ice and ashen slurry that they could barely tell boulders from bushes, live trees from dead. The irregular shadows the volcano threw before them didn't help.

  It was that need for care that saved them, when Cob paused to steady himself in the middle of an old rockfall and heard behind him a sound like a low, breathy hum.

  “Arik, hide!” he hissed, and immediately flattened himself into the shadow of a boulder, curling his legs up beneath the oilskin and tugging down his hood. He couldn't see whether the wolfman obeyed, just heard the scrape of claws on stone, then the strengthening hum as whatever it was came closer.

  The sound itched at his memory. As it intensified, he felt a twinge in his side, then paired aches beneath his shoulder-blades—and suddenly recalled two flat black shapes above him, crystal chains hanging down to bind him tight, crystal hooks embedded in his back. Those flying wraith-mounts—raywings.