SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2)

by K. B. Sprague

  SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying by K.B. Sprague

  © 2016 by Kevin Sprague. All rights reserved

  Cover designed by Damonza

  Map by Josephe Vandel of MapForge

  Published in Canada by GaleWind Books,

  an imprint of Whisperwood Publishing, Ottawa.

  SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (mobi): 978-1-988363-08-0

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  www.galewindbooks.com

  This novel is dedicated to my loving wife

  And our three little sparks

  It was the Orbweaver who created the universes for Her own consumption, but only after they produced Knowledge. So She infused a strand into every single thing and wove them all together, like a great web, to track the production of Knowledge. One man learned the secret of the Orbweaver. One man realized when it was time for the Orbweaver to reap what She had sown. And when She came for him, he rolled dice for all humankind, and won.

  And this man devised a way to make peace with the Orbweaver, or so he thought. His people had to be disciplined though, and obedient, giving, and most importantly, forever creators of new Knowledge.

  But the man was wrong. The only way to beat Her was to out-learn Her.

  - The Diviner

  Contents

  Map

  Chapter I: Retreat

  Chapter II: Water dancing

  Chapter III: The Dim Sea

  Chapter VI: Interlude - The trapper’s cabin

  Chapter V: Dromeron Odoon

  Chapter VI: The way

  Chapter VII: Spears of the gods

  Chapter VIII: The eyeless Glooms and Isotopia

  Chapter IX: Never forget, never forgive

  ChapterX: Interlude - Nekenezitter

  Chapter XI: A sacred grove

  Chapter XII: Janhurl

  Chapter XIII: The watch

  Chapter XIV: Interlude - The Hurlorns’ stride

  Chapter XV: Who’s who

  Chapter XVI: Strange attractor

  Chapter XVII: Second thoughts

  Chapter XVIII: Interlude - Youth immortal

  Chapter XIX: The Iron Tower of Harrow

  Chapter XX: Hall of the undying

  Chapter XXI: Gambler’s ruin

  Chapter XXII: Into the gloom

  Chapter XXIII: Raven

  Chapter XXIV: Song and trance

  Chapter XXV: The sunless bay

  Chapter XXVI: Clear as mud, Nud

  Chapter XXVII: Diversion

  Chapter XXVIII: Ritual of the brilliant

  Chapter XXIX: Karna’s Whim

  Chapter XXX: Hollow

  Chapter XXXI: Interlude - Velut arbor aevo

  Chapter XXXII: Hurlorn

  Chapter XXXIII: The sapling

  Chapter XXXIV: Shadow and lightning

  Links

  Copyright

  Chapter I

  Retreat

  Paplov was in the den plotting his next course when the news came. Old Mayor Flosh had sent his condolences, along with word that the search could not be kept up any longer: The town had done everything it could, and it was time for people to get on with their lives. The volunteer search crew would be disbanded after an extensive, three-week investigation that had turned up nothing.

  The decision did not sit well with Paplov, and half the town was still fuming over the incident. The Bearded Hills and Proudfoot had offered help that Council largely ignored, stating that their own people were best equipped to handle the situation and that bringing in outsiders would just cause more problems. Then came “volunteer” searchers from Harrow – soldiers. They received a hero’s welcome. Yet, less than a day in, the Harrow crew had announced that the search was hopeless. Sadly, the entire operation was a mess, and badly handled.

  Paplov had his own ideas about where the group was last seen and their heading. Why there had been no sign of my parents or the other delegates was puzzling to the point that he suspected foul play. Harrow claimed they never received their “guests,” but not all Webfooters trusted the word of the dominating power, especially Paplov.

  When the town officials arrived, I was waiting on the stepping stone path outside our hut, as I had done each and every day since my parents’ disappearance. I had hoped to be the first to hear the good news that they had been found; that they had taken a wrong turn, gotten lost, and ended up in the Western Tor or some other unlikely place. After the officials left, I lingered there under the willow for what must have been hours. I didn’t go inside for lunch and Paplov didn’t make me eat any dinner… both dishes sat full, nothing touched.

  The days that followed were very quiet. Paplov spent a lot of time out and about, while I stayed home and ate meals with the neighbors. They were especially kind to me, and they were always so sure that my parents and the others soon would be found – the next day, the day after that, and the day after that. But I could see their smiles wearing thin as the days rolled by, and I caught how their expressions changed when they looked away after saying it.

  I never stopped believing that one day they would come back – that Mother would come running to me with arms wide and a big smile and give me the biggest hug and tell me how much she missed me. She would never leave me alone… I suppose I was never quite alone though. I always had Paplov. He’d always lived with us.

  Even he wouldn’t think to look down here. Who would? – no one I know.

  Here, beneath the bog, I have no one. I am really, truly, alone.

  A Pip’s sharp mind can become confused in a maze with so many twists and turns and obstacles along the way, and in such poor illumination. Nevertheless, finding the entry cave should have been straightforward because Kabor should have been there to help. I needed his discerning eye for geologic detail and good instincts for direction and slope, if not stability. Working together, the path would have been obvious, one filling in the gaps where the other faltered. But Kabor would never go that way. He would never go back. Without the Stout to lean on, I had to think of some new way to better my odds.

  I dumped the contents of my pack and rummaged through the sticks of deepwood and the odds and ends until I located my deepwood box. Flipping up the lid, I nodded with a grin at what I saw. Inside, everything was dry and intact: a folded piece of parchment, a pen and two ink bottles, one quarter-full and the other full – all leftovers from Proudfoot that I didn’t bother to remove.

  “Perfect,” I said to the box, and perhaps the lurking cloaker – my name for the face-sucking creature that had attacked me and probably was still tracking my every move. “I’ll map my way back, which is half as good as having mapped my way here. And you, Cloaker, if you’re listening, will make a fine welcome mat some day.”

  Just having a plan set my mind at ease. It would make for slow going, but slow and steady progress towards a reasonable goal beats going nowhere fast and just getting more and more lost. I gathered my scattered belongings t
ogether and set out once more, sketching as I went.

  Right away, there were difficulties with the map. There was no way of knowing what direction I started off in, or subsequent directions except by reference to the most recent bearing. Paplov’s compass, which I had inherited simply by never bothering to return, was safely at home and neatly stashed away in the drawer of my night table. So I made another vow that I could never keep, with the walls and with the vermin and with the face-sucking cloaker to bear witness.

  “Never again will I leave without my compass…”

  That just opened the floodgates. I couldn’t stop there.

  “…and a lantern… and a small shovel… and food… and clean water… plus a change of clothes.”

  The list went on.

  “…some soap… a toothbrush… matches.”

  And there were many emergencies and unexpected turns for the worse to consider, and so the list expanded.

  In the end, it seemed impractical to carry everything that might be needed. The sorts of things Mer Andulus carried were probably more than enough. He went into the wild for weeks on end and returned none the worse for it. All the prospector had on him that morning we met in Webfoot was a small pack with pots and pans tied on, an axe handle sticking out one side, something rolled up and roped on top of the pack (probably bedding or a small tent), a pick and a hunting knife on his belt, a pair of good, solid boots, light clothes brown and beige and tan in color, and a full brimmed hat with bug netting.

  I kept on with what little I had until I came to a part of the cave system where the path split into three forward directions, fanning out in a wide arc. None of them looked familiar. A short walk down each did nothing to confirm which one we had originally taken. I stood at their junction, staring at each in turn. The walls pulsed in an angry red glow with the flicker of the light-bearing bog stone. The throbbing in my head began to pulse along with it.

  This is hopeless. I cursed the old tree gum that brought me to that place, and I cursed its former bearer.

  I sat there for a long minute feeling sorry for myself, until I felt a small, tickling patter across the back of my neck. In a frenzy, I brushed the culprit away and rubbed my skin vigorously, then ran my fingers through my hair. A large centipede dropped from my sleeve and scurried off along the floor. I won’t say what I did with it.

  The entire situation infuriated me to no end. I shook my fists at the cave roof and pulled at my hair. I hurled curses at Kabor for not listening, at Gariff for not helping as much as he could have, at Bobbin for being utterly useless, and at Jory for not defending us the way he said he would. No blame could I assign to Holly. I finished deflated, and hollow, rhythmically thumping the back of my head against the stone-block wall. The mind-numbing pain flooded my senses. And as I sat there exhausted, having expelled all of my untamed demons, the strangest chill came over me. It was a chill that told me I was not alone – speaking ill of the dead while the dead listened in. An icy tremor shot up my spine. But would the dead hear my unkind words? Of course not – they’re dead. It was a silly, superstitious thought.

  And as the trailing guilt swept over me, the fury that had taken me at unawares began to pass. A minute later, it was gone. I relaxed my arm and my grip on the stone, and then sighed deeply. Tantrums can be exhausting.

  Focus on the problem, I told myself. A fact is a fact. I was lost and lost is lost, no matter whose fault it was. Somehow, on the way in, I had failed to notice the funneling in of three passages into one while following Kabor. Maybe I was half-asleep at the time, or distracted, or maybe the shadows painted the illusion of a single passage. Deal with it.

  “Holly. Bobbin… Jory.” In my mind’s eye, I could see all three faces, plain as day. Bobbin’s was round and smiling and mischievous; Holly’s coy expression drew me in; Jory’s steadiness inspired confidence.

  I looked up and scouted around. It’s left. I have no idea how I knew.

  With loose stones, I created an arrow-shaped marker to show which direction I planned to take. Then, flattening the map out on the ground, I traced out my path as best I could, having kept track of paces to record distances and estimating the angles by eye.

  After what must have been hours trekking through tunnels, I began tripping over my feet, and nodding off mid-stride. I made it to a familiar chamber, beside the whirlpool Kabor and I had stopped at on the way in. Eyes barely open, I drank deep and refilled my waterskin. An opportunity for food presented itself. I won’t mention what I ate. Then I found a place to get comfortable, and looked over my map.

  As I sorted out the bearings and slopes, something about the architecture kept nagging at me. The man-made caves looked more like ruins than anything else I had seen. But what really struck me was that everything looked better upside down. Archways should close in at the top, not the bottom, to better support their load. Gariff had taught me about keystones. It’s no wonder the tunnels were littered by cave-ins if the ceiling was meant to be the floor.

  The idea was intriguing, but sleep weighs down your eyelids regardless of the bright ideas behind them. So I slumped down and settled in for a rest with my back against the wall. I tucked the map away in its box and the stone in my pocket, and then finally closed my eyes and began to nod off.

  No, the cloakers. I jarred myself awake. I will not let them suffocate me in my sleep. Kabor and I had caught our first glimpse of a cloaker in that very chamber.

  I fumbled for my pack in the dark and dumped out its contents one more time. Then I slipped the leather loosely over my head and closed my eyes once more. I drifted off imagining Kabor talking it up with the townsfolk and figuring out how to free me from my entombment. I could literally hear his voice. It was a pleasant thought and I wanted to hang onto it. Nevermind that Kabor dropped the stone and has no light to see by. Nevermind that if I really believed he was alive, I would still be at the pile, waiting, not here…

  *

  I was taken aback when I found myself approaching the entry cave, in such short order that the travel time seemed to have just melted away. Everything seemed closed in as I crawled on hands and knees through the low tunnel to get there. Near the waterline, I noticed something not there before… a lump of weeds… no… a person… a wet person tangled in weeds. The person was lying down as though sleeping. Has someone else come to the air pocket? I wondered. Holly?

  I crept over slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb. It was a woman, wrapped not only in weeds, but also in the long rushes of the bog lands above. She lay on her back, arms folded across her meager chest. Water pooled under her drenched hair. As I drew close, I could see bare bones jutting out of her rib cage. Remnants of cloth and flesh clung to those bones.

  She sat up abruptly, eyes wide. I froze. The woman’s chest heaved as she sucked in air like it was her last breath, wheezing and gurgling all at once. She leaned over to one side and spat, and then turned to glare right at me. Wet, knotted hair clung to her cheeks. Her voice was the soothing murmur of a gentle brook.

  “I’ll take care of you now, I will, I will. No worries, my lovie.”

  I could hardly believe it.

  “But… Mother?” I said. It was her. I could see it in her eyes. She pulled me in close. I let her. She stroked my scalp, running her fingers through my hair like she used to and kissing the top of my head.

  “I missed you so, Nud, I did, I did,” she said as she squeezed me tight – too tight. I couldn’t breathe. She was soaked, and she made me all wet. But it still felt good… for a minute… for a long minute – until I really needed to breathe. I… I… I can’t breathe. My lungs are flat. I struggled and shook, and tried to push her away.

  She whispered into my ear. “You must RUN!”

  What? Where?

  Finally, I remembered where I was.

  The cloaker. No the pack… it’s just the pack.

  I woke up sweating.

  Every muscle was sore. Dark thoughts lingered in the back of my mind; dark thoughts for dark places.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and took out the stone. The cavern was clear – good. No cloakers, no hags. I stood up, feeling drawn and thin and lacking in color or substance, like the leached blade of a fallen leaf – a dry leaf. I sipped from my waterskin and swished the refreshment around in my mouth. It wasn’t enough to wash away the bitter taste of last night’s supper. It would be slow to fade. The smaller bits, the hard parts that broke off the main body so easily, resurfaced regularly in my mouth. I launched them into the air from the tip of my tongue.

  The next leg of the journey actually did go by faster than anticipated. I crossed the chasm into the natural caves with little difficulty. Striding through the dark passages, I dwelled on simple thoughts about the bog and the Mire Trail, Mer and Webfoot, Oda, and clouds floating high in the sky of the world above; light thoughts for dark places.

  And as I hiked on, I grew to appreciate how the walls of the limestone passages were like natural works of art, sculpted by time, water and gravity. The ceiling held a rat’s jaw of cave icicles, dripping wet with the cement of their spiky, ground dwelling counterparts. I remember this place, I thought, for it bore some of the first images I saw after leaving the entry cave on that ill-fated night. I was getting close.

  By the time I came to a certain tunnel – the last stretch before the crawlspace to the entry cave – my pulse had quickened and, despite everything bad that had happened, a sliver of optimism shone through to my bleak, desperate soul. There would be no “lump” near the waterline on the other side, I told myself. Mechanically, and more for completeness than necessity, I paused and added a reference to the map.

  When I looked up from my map, my heart sank into my stomach. The pen dropped with the inkbottle. The clash of the bottle against the stone floor might as well have been a clap of thunder.

  They hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls. Some dangled by a ropey tail jammed into a crack, others lay flat against the surface. I had stumbled upon an entire nest of the vile, face-sucking cloakers. They were everywhere.