by Brian Fuller
Again the malevolent voice intruded into Gen's mind. “I am at your command. I serve those with the power of my making. Long have I waited.”
The voice, solicitous and urgent, carried with it a taint of violent intent, an avalanche eagerly awaiting a yell to send it in a destructive course down the mountain.
“I am Ghama Dhron. I am sixteen thousand strong. I can bring you aid.”
Gen shivered, the creature’s dark language reminding him of the demon that crushed him during the Chalaine’s betrothal. He ignored the call, shoving the offers of assistance out of his mind until the scratch and thump of a large number of Uyumaak on the other side of the wall set his heart pounding. Lying on his back, he leaned up to chance a look, finding the field swarming with the yellow eyes of the Throgs. Several memories of the disgusting beasts surfaced from Samian's memories. He had taken great pleasure in sticking arrows in the floating eyes.
“The Uyumaak are many. They are made from the same power as I. My poison will not harm them, and their skins are too thick for my bite. Command me and I will take the bodies of the dwarves laid in this field and drive your foes into the abyss.”
Snuffling on the other side of the wall turned to thumping.
“They are upon us!” Gen yelled, leaping to his feet. As one, nine Hunters leaped over the wall and toward their prey, one remaining to summon the rest of horde. The eyes of the Throgs raced to where the battle was joined as a host of Warriors and Bashers emerged from alleyways into the moonlit field.
They fought desperately against the first wave of Hunters, sustaining many shallow cuts as they retreated slowly backward against uneven ground.
Gerand wiped sweat from his brow after the last Hunter fell. "What are those floating yellow orbs, Gen?"
"Throg eyes," Gen answered. "I'll tell you about them later."
“No need. We’re dead,” Volney said.
“Then let’s make a heroes stand!” Gerand yelled. “And let them find a pile of Uyumaak at my feet!”
Gen swallowed hard as no fewer than twenty Warriors and a handful of Hunters hopped the wall. The Uyumaak bolted at them, circular mouths contracting and expanding as if already imagining their meal. More approached from the city. Gen had no choice. He extended his thoughts outward to the ethereal force. “Come!” he commanded, not sure what to expect.
At once, a mighty keening wail tore through the field, a sound of dark relief and delight, the pleased expression of a murderous convict set loose from his prison into a field of unsuspecting blood. The Uyumaak drew back, momentarily unnerved, and Volney and Gerand stood rooted, wide-eyed with horror.
“This way!” Gen commanded, leading them in the direction of the pit that Tornus showed them earlier that night. They did not travel far between the graves and weeds before a mass of sleek, dark serpents boiled into the field like dark water, groups stopping to burrow into Tornus’s shallow graves. One by one, dwarven skeletons wrapped in snakes rose from the ground, one snake poking its head through an eye hole while others wrapped themselves around the bones, adhering them together and striding forward. Dwarven weapons as bright as the day they were crafted glinted in the light of the moons, serpentine hands gripping them with purpose.
The Uyumaak did not wait until the snake-animated skeletons formed a column five hundred strong before deserting the field at a dead run for the confines of the city.
“What is your wish, master? Shall I pursue?”
“Yes. Clear the way for us,” Gen replied in thought.
“I thank you, master. Ghama Dhron will not fail you.”
The counterfeit dwarven army sprinted away in pursuit, leaving the field quiet, save for the whistle of the wind through the weeds by the disturbed graves. Gerand and Volney looked around, faces troubled.
“A lot of strange things have happened tonight,” Volney finally said. “But Holy Eldaloth! That is the most disgusting, horrifying thing I have ever beheld!”
“The chill in my spine is permanent,” Gerand added. “Gen, do you have any idea what just happened? Because, despite the fact that we have just been delivered, I don’t think the sound of my clapping for joy would overcome the thunder of my knees knocking.”
“I do not have an explanation,” Gen answered. It was mostly true. “It is a creature of dreadful evil and violence, but for some reason it helps us. We must accept the gift. I don’t think we have a choice.”
They walked toward the city tentatively, weapons at the ready. Uyumaak lay dead along their path, cut apart and scattered. Rarely did they find the body of a snake torn by an Uyumaak claw or smashed by a club, but the the Uyumaak and their Chukka masters could not hold against the puissant force of the dark army. When they arrived at the courtyard, the serpent-animated dwarves stood in ranks. Three of the skeletal warriors held a struggling Tornus fast.
“Do not approach him,” Gen warned.
“I am quite content to stay where I am,” Volney asserted as Gen strode forward between the ranks of the creatures, the hissing and sleek black bodies testing his courage.
“This one we could not kill. He is a Craver.”
“Throw him in the pit,” Gen ordered, “into which he threw you and cover it with the rocks he used as grave markers. Then follow us onto the mountain road. Bring as many of the green lanterns as you can, but shutter them. I will give you further instructions once we are on the road.”
“Your will.”
Sir Tornus glared at him, face alight with discovery. “You can command this abomination!” he yelled as he was dragged away, army following to aid in the task of his final incarceration. “I know what you are! Do they? Do you want to tell them or should I?”
“Silence him,” Gen ordered.
Two snakes wrapped themselves around Tornus’s mouth and nose, turning his epithets into muffled grunts of frustration.
“Let’s go,” Gen said to his companions, who waited until the snake-dwarves had cleared away completely before joining him.
“Gen,” Gerand said nervously, “I hate to ask this, but can you communicate with that . . . thing?”
Gen nodded his head in reply.
“How?” Volney blurted out, face shocked.
“It uses Mynmagic to speak directly to the mind. It uses the corrupted tongue, just as the demon that sprang from the Burka pattern. I do not trust it, but it seems eager to help us for the time being.”
“You mean. . .” Volney started.
“It’s coming with us,” Gen finished.
“Are you mad?” Gerand objected. “That monstrosity could turn on us and destroy us at a whim! It is evil! Can you command it to stay behind?”
“I think doing so would anger it. It is evil, but it appears indiscriminate. Remember that it just annihilated hundreds of Uyumaak and is now burying a Craver. It thirsts for violence and cares little for right or wrong, our side or their side. I have a feeling that we and the Chalaine’s party will need aid before this is over. The Chukka are fools if they have not secured the beachhead against us, and Ghama Dhron is—at this point—willing to do as I say, for what reason I cannot fathom.”
“Ghama Dhron?” his companions said in unison.
“Its name. It means ‘Wrath of Poison’ in the dark tongue.”
“I don’t like this,” Gerand stated frankly.
“Neither do I,” Gen agreed honestly. “I will keep it at a distance, if I can.”
They crossed over the extended bridge, the early morning wind drying the sweat on their bodies and chilling them. They turned right onto the road, which started a slow, switchbacked descent through whispering pines.
“We have the mystery of Echo Hold solved,” Volney commented at last. “But what of the Craver? Why didn’t you kill it with your sword when you had the chance?”
“He could not be killed. His wounds healed the instant I delivered them. Do you remember nothing from when you were in thrall to the lantern?”
“Not a single thing,” Volney answered.
“
‘They only have eyes for the lantern,’” Gerand quoted. “And how did you manage to escape that?”
Gen could not help but notice a note of suspicion creeping into his companions’ voices.
“As with the wail of demons, it seems that the effect of the lantern can be overcome by sheer will.”
Gen knew this did not satisfactorily explain what had happened. When Tornus had opened the lantern, it held no attraction for him. That, combined with the Craver’s inability to consume him led to some disturbing conclusions.
“As for the other question, Mikkik created Cravers. . .”
“There are more than one?” Volney interrupted worriedly.
“There were. Mikkik created Cravers to feed on the souls of living creatures. While no one knows for sure, it is rumored that creating them requires some kind of sacrifice. They do not eat. They do no sleep. And they can only be killed in two ways: a Trysmagician has to unmake them entirely, converting them into a different substance all at once, or they have to be starved.”
“But you said they don’t eat,” Gerand pointed out.
“They consume the essence of the living. It is a powerful need, and they must feed to survive.”
“That’s why he kept those lanterns out!” Gerand deduced.
“Exactly. Legend says they had to be kept from consuming for one year and a day. Of course, trapping one without being consumed is difficult, especially without magic.”
“So if Tornus really wanted to die, why didn’t he just starve himself to death?” Volney asked.
“The process of starving for over a year with food plentiful nearby probably proved too difficult. He wanted to be ended quickly. I don’t know whether to pity or curse him.”
Volney humphed. “I think I’ll choose the curse option. He is one of the most—if not the most—notorious traitor in the history of Ki’Hal.”
“Until me,” Gen deadpanned, ending all conversation.
“I am near, master. What do you wish?” Ghama Dhron asked.
“Send half ahead and leave half behind. Kill any Uyumaak you find, but leave alive all else.”
“Your will.”
“Stand back off of the road,” Gen told Gerand and Volney, who obeyed without question. In minutes, two hundred and fifty snake soldiers marched eerily by, weapons resting on bony shoulders. One flicked his ax at a tree as it passed, a cloven squirrel falling to the ground. They waited until they lost sight of the ghastly company around a switchback before following.
“I’ll say one thing for this evening,” Gerand said, voice upset. “It has been instructive. I think the only thing left to happen is for Mikkik himself to hike up the path and dance a jig. You’ll let us know if he’s coming, won’t you Gen?”
Chapter 56 - The Savior of All
Maewen permitted them little rest, awakening the company long before dawn and spurring them to pack more quickly. For the first time in her life, the Chalaine shouldered her own burden despite numerous offers to relieve her of it. She felt the need to prove she could stand on her own legs, and the virtue of Gen’s Training Stones infused her with an unusual vigor and a confidence in her own strength.
Samian had started his instruction immediately after Maewen had returned the stones, and the Chalaine already felt she could buckle, draw, and resheathe a sword with her eyes closed and hopping on one leg. While she had no pretensions that she would ever acquire the skill of Dason or Gen, she took a smug satisfaction in knowing more of the sword than her husband.
“Gather to me quickly,” Maewen ordered. “I have argued with myself all night about which course to take, and I choose the riskier one in terms of the way but safer in terms of Uyumaak. I am going to take you over the mountains and hopefully into the Dunnach River Valley and from thence across the plain to the lake. The wind and water in the mountains will hinder our enemy’s sense of smell, and, without a wide plain, it will be difficult for them to come at us in numbers or use their archers effectively. The dangers, of course, are the weather and the raw wilderness we must traverse.
“I will be plain. There is no trail. I have never traveled this way, before the Shattering or after. It will be cold and arduous, and a misstep in the wild can be deadly. If anyone sprains an ankle or breaks a leg, they will be left behind, Chertanne and the Chalaine excepted, of course. If any feel to disagree, do so now, but this is the course I think best.”
“What is the other option?” the Ha’Ulrich asked grumpily.
“The other way is to travel along the edge of the foothills but stay on the plain. The way is longer, but the travel would be faster. We would also be more visible and the Uyumaak able to approach us with superior numbers.”
After no one voiced any objections, Maewen removed her two knives from their sheaths. “We will be traveling in the dark and fog for the next few hours. If you have a weapon, keep it at the ready. Your vision will do you little good, and you must rely on your other senses to keep you safe. The Chalaine, Chertanne, Mirelle, Fenna, and Geoff walk in the center of the party. I will lead, and Dason, bring up the rear. Walk close together and raise a quiet shout if you are separated. Let’s get into the mountains.”
They left the ringed hill through the same opening they had entered, turning west and plunging into an almost impossible dark. The Chalaine followed Chertanne more by sound than sight, her husband’s stumbling and cursing warning her of obstacles in the path. By the time the first hint of light blushed the sky, she doubted they had covered a mile. The putrid stench of Throgs sometimes invaded their nostrils but quickly faded, inciting muffled curses. The Chalaine drove out thoughts of snaky tubules launching from the dark to leech blood from her leg, but images of Geoff pale on the ground stoked her fears until morning flooded the sky.
For the next several days, they climbed steadily and slowly, and—despite Maewen’s ample skill—they found themselves backtracking to find better routes or alternatives to dead ends. Only the foul reek of the Throgs and the intermittent appearance of a yellow eye just out of bowshot bespoke the enemy’s presence.
Maewen’s analysis, as usual, left little opportunity for hope or comfort. “The Uyumaak likely know the mountains better than we. It could be they have elements ahead and are content to let us stumble along until we encounter one of their fortifications.”
To the Chalaine’s satisfaction and relief, after Geoff’s near fatal encounter with a Throg, Fenna had doted on the dispirited bard, seeing to his comfort and cheering him with light conversation and little compliments. Both she and her husband tired quickly, breathing heavily and trudging slowly at the slightest incline, and as Maewen led them deeper into the mountains, the grade of their path increased in steepness and difficulty. Whatever their struggles, no one huffed and blew or complained more than the sunburned Ha’Ulrich, who found opportunity to curse nearly everything on the trail when he wasn’t busy sucking wind.
His comments ranged from the annoying to the ridiculous. “I swear, it’s as if someone placed these rocks here for me to trip on!” “I thought this was the top?” “Surely Mikkik created these bugs.” “I think moving more slowly is in order, for everyone’s safety. This reckless sprint into the mountains is folly enough as it is.”
Maewen eventually gave up trying to convince the Ha’Ulrich to keep quiet, though Chertanne’s complaints gradually subsided into barely vocalized mumbling.
For her part, the Chalaine found little difficulty in their ascent, thanking Gen for the stones she knew imbued her with a greater fortitude than most of her party. She used what surplus of strength she had to aid her mother, who, while uncomplaining, wore her exhaustion openly in spite of every attempt to hide it. Cadaen appeared ready to carry her at any moment, and between his help and her daughter’s, Mirelle kept pace.
As Maewen promised, the nights in the mountains chilled them almost beyond toleration. As a concession, she allowed fires, saying that the Throgs ensured that the Uyumaak knew of their whereabouts, fire or no, though she chose camps that w
ould keep archers from using the light to pick at them in the dark. Geoff spent the evenings writing in his book, Fenna snuggled next to him. The Chalaine huddled with her mother, and Dason always sat uncomfortably close on the other side of her, whispering compliments and hopeful prognostications, however lightly the Chalaine treated them.
A full week into mountains they hiked through a lightly forested ridge just below the snowline.
“We should have an easier time of it now,” Maewen comforted them. “We will descend as directly as we can toward the Dunnach.
“I cannot see the river,” Chertanne said, peering into the valley below them.
“It is at least two ridges over, perhaps three,” Maewen explained. “We aren’t done ascending completely.”
Chertanne's face fell. “At least the weather is holding."
“It isn’t,” Maewen contradicted.
“What do you mean?” Athan inquired.
“Look to the northeast,” the half-elf invited them, casually whittling at a new arrow. “There is a slight haze at the trailing edge of a storm. Didn’t you feel the wind change?”
“Will it be bad?” Athan prodded.
“Yes, but brief, as well. We will need better shelter than we have found previously.”
“And when were you planning on informing us about this storm?” Chertanne grumped.
“I figured it would become rather obvious to you in a few hours.”
“I am the leader of the caravan!” Chertanne asserted. “Please inform me immediately of any changes of this kind.”
“As you wish. You may also want to know that a company of Uyumaak will likely overtake us by nightfall, probably around the same time as the storm. What do you command?”
Chertanne’s eyes widened and then darted about. “What do you suggest?”
“I suggest we find better shelter than we have found previously, by which I mean more defensible to weather and enemies.”
