The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  Yehuda Leib stood beside Behemoth, unmoving, uncomfortable.

  Presently, Dumah lifted one hand to gesture at a low stool next to his chair.

  “The lord high general invites you to sit,” said Behemoth.

  It felt unwise to draw nearer to Dumah. It felt, frankly, unwise even to move in his presence.

  But Yehuda Leib was clear-eyed. They, after all, had brought him here. They wanted to speak with him. That was his advantage. And it wouldn’t do to shy away from it.

  With a light nod, Yehuda Leib strode across the room to where the lord high general was seated but did not, himself, sit.

  Again, Dumah gestured to the stool.

  “The lord high general bids you sit,” said Behemoth.

  Yehuda Leib looked at the stool and shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back.

  There was a long silence as Dumah regarded Yehuda Leib.

  And then, with the raising of an eyebrow, he lifted his feet from the table beside him. Quickly, he sorted through the various documents on the tabletop and found a thick sheaf of papers, which he tossed onto the ground in front of Behemoth.

  “Ah,” said the little rat-faced demon, bending to retrieve it. “The lord high general wishes to share his intelligence with you.”

  Yehuda Leib didn’t look at Behemoth. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Two terrestrial nights ago,” said Behemoth, “certain omens in the snow and sky indicated to the sorcerers of the Army of the Dead that a significant shift in power had taken place in the Far Country. For this reason, the lord high general consulted with Lord Dantalion, an ancient ally, who gave the following response to our inquiry.”

  Here Behemoth riffled several pages and began to read.

  “ ‘War is coming,’ ” he said. “ ‘And much will be decided by the weapon that carries itself into the Far Country.’ ”

  Behemoth looked out over the top of the dossier.

  “The weapon that carries itself,” he repeated, tossing the dossier back onto the table. “This was a compelling piece of information for us to receive. War, after all, is our dominion.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Dumah cracked the knuckles of his huge hands with a sound like a volley of musket fire.

  “The lord high general took this opportunity to commission reports from his various intelligence assets among both the demons and the armies of the living with the goal of determining the identity of the weapon that carries itself into the Far Country. There were several possible candidates, including literal weapons, as well as a few recently deceased soldiers and tacticians of note. In the end, though, Lord High General Dumah was far more interested in the notion that you, Yehuda Leib, son of Avimelekh, are the Weapon That Carries Itself.”

  Now there was a long silence.

  Dumah watched Yehuda Leib.

  Yehuda Leib was very careful to do absolutely nothing, though his heart seemed to swell in his chest as if his name had finally been pronounced correctly for the very first time.

  Soon Dumah inclined his head slightly, and Behemoth continued.

  “Yehuda Leib, we wish to offer you a bargain. I am sure that you saw the scale of our army as you came into the castrum this evening. There is more strength here than it is practical to deploy under a single commander, and accordingly, it is our pleasure to offer you the deferred commission of field marshal general of the Army of the Dead, reporting directly to Lord High General Dumah.”

  Field marshal general? That was as high a rank as anyone could have without being the lord high general himself.

  “With respect,” said Yehuda Leib, “surely there are soldiers in your army better qualified than me.”

  “Of course there are,” said Behemoth. “But the lord high general is of the opinion that excellence in command relies upon change and adaptation—faculties unavailable to the dead. He wishes his field marshal general to be possessed of both the assets and the liabilities of mortality.

  “For this reason, if you accept our commission, we will exploit our contacts and resources in the armies of the living in order to make you more qualified than any other living man of war. You will serve an apprenticeship of some thirty years’ length, during which time we will arrange to move you from army to army, commission to commission, so that you may have the opportunity to study with the greatest commanders now living. It will be our pleasure during the term of your apprenticeship to supply your every want as only those in our position are able—with the finest food, clothing, housing, horseflesh, men, and women you could possibly desire. At the end of this period of apprenticeship, you shall return to this castrum and take command of one-half of the forces of the Army of the Dead, which will be yours to organize and deploy as you see fit, in accordance with the orders of the lord high general.

  “You shall have the greatest military career in history. The lord high general has already begun to lay plans for the campaigns the two of you shall execute together, and, having seen only the smallest portion of them, I must say that in accepting this commission, you shall make a legend of yourself.”

  Slowly, Dumah shifted his hulking mass and raised himself up to stand over Yehuda Leib.

  “What do you say?” said Behemoth. “Will you pledge your allegiance to the Army of the Dead?”

  Yehuda Leib’s heart was racing. This was, of course, an incredibly tempting offer.

  But if his time with Mammon had taught him anything, it was that there was nothing so dangerous as a tempting offer.

  “Boy,” said Behemoth behind him. “The lord high general is not accustomed to waiting.”

  With a long sigh, Yehuda Leib finally lowered himself slowly onto the low stool before Dumah. “I wonder, Behemoth,” he said, “if I might have a word with the lord high general alone.”

  Behind him, the rat-faced demon gave a scoff, and Yehuda Leib could hear the sneer in his expression as he answered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am the lord high general’s most constant servant. Anything you wish to say to him you may say to me.”

  It was a massive risk, but Yehuda Leib could see no other way forward.

  Slowly, just as he had been instructed never to do, he lifted his eyes to look directly into Dumah’s.

  Dumah stiffened, straightened.

  Yehuda Leib did not blink.

  And slowly, almost lazily, Dumah waved the back of his hand toward Behemoth.

  “But,” spluttered the little rat-faced demon. “But, my lord!”

  Now Dumah lowered himself back into his creaking chair, careful not to move his eyes from Yehuda Leib’s. He lifted his arm and pointed a thick finger at the curtain through which Behemoth and Yehuda Leib had come.

  “Are you certain, my lord?” said Behemoth, almost desperately.

  Dumah dropped his arm.

  Behemoth sniffled, furious, humiliated. “Very, um…,” he said. “Very well. I shall go and, uh, check on the other prisoner.”

  And, with a shushing of curtains, Behemoth was gone.

  Dumah leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrows, and spread his hands wide.

  * * *

  —

  Go on.

  “I thank you for bringing me here, Lord High General,” said Yehuda Leib. “And I thank you for your generous offer.”

  Yehuda Leib swallowed. Was he sure about this? If he offended the lord high general, then these might be the last words he ever spoke.

  “But I don’t think I can accept.”

  Dumah leaned forward and knotted his thick fingers together beneath his exposed upper teeth. Yehuda Leib’s heart clattered in his chest.

  “War is coming, yes. But it’s not a war that will take place in thirty years. It’s a war that has already begun. And as Lord Dantalion has told you, a lot depends upon me. I am the fight, and as soon as I am able, I will carry myself to
the enemy.”

  Lord Dumah raised one open palm as if to say, Where?

  “There,” said Yehuda Leib, and without breaking his eye contact with Dumah, he pointed at the many-sided tower at the center of the model beside him. “To Death.”

  Dumah leaned back in his chair and began to tug at his muttonchops.

  “He’s taken something—something of mine. I intend to force my way inside his tower and take it back. If I have to go alone, I will. But I’d feel far more comfortable with your army at my back.”

  Slowly, Dumah stood and paced his way over to the model on the table. Death’s tower rose high into the modeled clouds, its innumerable little faces meeting in a universe of sharp corners.

  “At this point you must be asking yourself why you would ever want to tempt a foe as strong as the Angel of Death.”

  Dumah didn’t respond.

  “Well, when I overthrow him, he’ll need to be replaced.”

  Dumah’s back was to Yehuda Leib now, and he leaned on his map table, one beefy fist on either side of his castrum.

  He was thinking. But Yehuda Leib didn’t need him thinking. He needed him mad.

  “You were an Angel once, weren’t you?”

  Dumah turned around swiftly, something deep in his dark eyes flashing.

  “Come with me, Dumah. Let me win your final promotion. Let me make you the Angel of Death.”

  Now a long, still silence held the chamber, as absolute as the silence of the grave. Dumah leaned back on his map table, his eyes fixed and thoughtful, his arms folded across his broad chest. Yehuda Leib was tempted to say something more, to prod, to add to his counteroffer, but he held his tongue: there was nothing more to say.

  Presently, Dumah stood and flexed his fingers. Slowly, he stalked back to his chair and lowered himself down to sit lightly on its edge. His eyes narrowed as he stared hard at the boy on the little stool in front of him.

  Yehuda Leib didn’t move a muscle.

  Dumah extended his hand.

  * * *

  —

  On a cold, dark night in the middle of winter, an old woman found herself wandering through the forest in search of the small summer strawberries that grow in the shade.

  The old woman was unsure how she had gotten to the forest—she couldn’t remember leaving home, couldn’t remember bundling into her warm clothes. All she knew was that there were berries around here somewhere, and that if she kept looking, she would find them.

  These were the best kind of berries, tiny and soft. She remembered them well from her girlhood, when she’d crouched in the bushes, staining her lips and fingertips red: one for her mouth, one for her apron, and so on and on.

  She could take them home. She could share them with her son, Zalman, and her granddaughter…

  What was her name?

  It seemed to have slipped her mind.

  The old woman had just come upon the berries when she heard the sound, and at first she was sure that she must be imagining things.

  But she was not.

  The column burst out into the clearing like a ball from a musket: men in ragtag rows, stepping all out of time, their buttons and weapons and uniforms mismatched, and more and more and more men—the old woman had never seen so very many. Now horses came as well, and cackling creatures astride them. Mules, camels, chariots, even a pair of elephants, dead and decomposing, thundered by the old woman in the brambles.

  She was not foolish; she kept hidden and did not draw attention to herself. But when one particular boy reached the clearing, she could not help but rise up to get a better look.

  She knew that boy. The gray pony beneath him moved dexterously at his urging, as if it were a part of him. In fact, it became quickly clear that the entirety of the column, the entirety of this fearsome army, was simply an extension of his body.

  This, of course, was Yehuda Leib.

  He had come to retrieve his father.

  He had come to overthrow Death.

  But something about him had changed.

  Around his neck, cinched tight against the cold, was a stained red scarf of wool. He had negotiated its release from Lord High General Dumah as part of their larger arrangement, had listened patiently as its extraordinary qualities had been enumerated by the sniveling Undergeneral Behemoth: it was a very powerful amulet, a protection against harm, stitched painstakingly by a mortal woman for her child, stained with the blood of the child’s father, buried with all the dignities of a mortal man. If one of Lord High General Dumah’s scouts hadn’t recovered it for him in the border cemeteries, it might’ve fetched a very dear price on the demon market—a noble title, a grand estate, or perhaps even more.

  Soon Lord High General Dumah himself came cantering up through the column, riding upon his hulking black stallion, and when Yehuda Leib turned to greet him, the old woman in the bushes saw that the scarf had not been given for nothing.

  One of the boy’s keen blue eyes was missing, the empty socket covered over with a black patch, and on the lord high general’s chest there was a brand-new trophy, a medallion glistening in the starlight:

  One keen blue eye.

  It had been a dear price to pay. But there are very old laws that govern the drawing up of covenants and agreements, and nothing binds them tighter than the willful giving of blood.

  Yehuda Leib had paid gladly.

  By and by, the boy and the lord high general moved through the clearing, leading the enormous torrent of the trooping dead behind them, and the old woman was left alone at the berry bush.

  But her appetite was gone now. The vine seemed to bear only dried, dead fruits, small black clots that dangled heavily from their stems.

  With a sigh, she rose to her feet.

  She had become bored.

  Now the old lady began to walk again, going in the opposite direction from the army, but moving toward the same destination: a tall, many-faced tower at the very center of everything.

  After all—the direction you go matters less than you think.

  * * *

  —

  “They’re moving.”

  Lilith let out a low sigh.

  Things were growing more complex by the moment.

  “Where are they bound?”

  The cat shook her head. “I do not know. But the boy rides before them.”

  Lilith frowned. “What do you mean, before them? An outrider?”

  “No,” said Lilith’s scout. “He rides beside the lord high general.”

  This was very, very troublesome. The girl was in Tupik, and the spoon was with her. But now Dumah’s army was on the move. Lilith couldn’t afford to continue waiting here in the forest for the girl’s return—the Lileen were exposed, undefended. If Dumah had learned from Yehuda Leib where the girl had gone, they could be vulnerable to ambush at any moment.

  But, on the other hand, if Lilith moved too soon, she might tip her hand. Did Dumah even know the Lileen were there, biding their time beneath the trees?

  Perhaps the boy had struck a bargain with Dumah on the girl’s behalf. Perhaps they were moving to rendezvous with her now.

  But what if Dumah didn’t even know of the spoon? What if he had different—even better—intelligence?

  It was all terribly unclear.

  Lilith sniffed, leaning against the tree behind her. “How close are they?”

  The cat cocked her head and calculated. “Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes’ march. Do you mean to attack?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lilith. “But I wish I did.”

  “Sister,” said a gray lady, rising from the shadows. “What do you know that we do not?”

  “Much,” said Lilith through a frown. “And still I do not know enough. But the time for planning may be past. Perhaps the time for action has come.”

 
A pair of shining eyes blinked down from the bough above her head, and another gray cat spoke. “It is a great danger, making war with Dumah. Many of our Sisters may be lost.”

  “Yes,” said Lilith. “But the girl carries a tool of great power.”

  “Surely,” said the cat slung overhead, “there are other weapons.”

  “No,” said Lilith. “Not like this. I desire it. And what is more, I refuse to allow Dumah to have it.”

  “Then what,” said the cat, “shall we do?”

  Lilith sighed, unhappy with every option. “Let word be passed among my Sisters: I should like the girl alive if we can have her. But if you must kill her to bring me what she carries, you shall not hesitate.”

  “Lilith has spoken,” said the gray lady.

  Lilith had spoken.

  * * *

  —

  “Very well,” said the Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe. “Shall we go, then? Together?”

  It felt strange, walking through Tupik like this. Everything had changed, and yet all around her, lives plodded forward as if things were the same as they had always been.

  Evening prayers. Dinner. Bed.

  Just like always.

  The Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe led her past the little iron gate into the graveyard on the hillside, but instead of continuing up through the stones and trees, she took a sharp turn. “This way,” she said. “I know a shortcut.” And, pulling the Nameless Girl behind, she began to circle her daughter’s grave:

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  They had separated now, making their tight circles individually around the little hillock.

  “Four,” murmured the Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe to herself. “Five.”

  By the sixth circuit, the Nameless Girl’s head had begun to swim. Her orbit had been tight, and she’d kept her eyes fixed on the grave. Soon she was downright dizzy, and she stumbled as she completed her seventh circle, stepping sideways to catch herself, treading over the grave.

  She stopped, shut her eyes, pressed her fingers to her forehead, and when she blinked her eyes open again, she was somewhere else, the forest dark and snowy, the boughs of its trees reaching out for one another overhead as if eager to blot out what passed below from the eyes of Heaven.