Thera Awakening

by Steve Jackson

  "Probably," Rathe said. He figured the soldiers would be better off believing in savages then in nameless monsters. Nothing breeds fear like the unknown. "Sore throat, Loric?"

  "It's nothing." He coughed again, reflexively. "I'll be all right, sir."

  Rathe wasn't so sure, but telling Loric that would do nothing for him. Instead he smiled and patted the man on the shoulder. "We're making camp soon," he told him. Loric nodded.

  "Loric's got a cold?" said a voice behind Rathe. It was Tam. She'd been looking more serious of late.

  "He's got something," Rathe answered. He considered. "I'll give him a rest tonight. Digging graves didn't help." He noticed Orvig, lowered his voice.

  Tam followed his glance. "I'm sorry, Rathe," she said quietly. Rathe guessed she was apologizing for her remark at the clearing. "I know you and the dwarf are close."

  "I never knew my parents," Rathe replied. "They died when I was a baby. Orvig raised me."

  "I'm sorry," Tam said. She was the youngest of seven children. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have no living kin, then gave up and changed the subject. "Have you ever seen a savage, Rathe?" asked Tam.

  "Once before," Rathe told her. "I was on garrison duty at Fort Tara, during logging season, when two came to the fort to barter hides and fresh-killed meat."

  "What were they like?" Tam asked.

  "They were dressed in skins, and I remember they carried spears with flint tips." He shrugged. "I didn't get to talk to them—I was on kitchen duty that night."

  Tam grinned, probably at the thought of an officer doing scut work. "That was before you became Watch-Second?"

  Rathe nodded. "Right. But now I am." He grinned back at her. "So pick up your heels, soldier," he said. "Camp's a few miles off."

  They marched for an hour before it was too dark to continue, then pitched camp a few hundred paces from the dirt road, on a grassy knoll beside a stream. Most of the soldiers dropped immediately-- it had been a tiring day. Hoth set them to digging a latrine. They lacked the manpower to build a stockade, so two men would be on sentry duty at all times. Hoth wanted no campfire; after they dug the latrine, they ate cold trail rations. Tam and the other soldiers grumbled, but they saw the sense of it.

  Loric's cough was no better. Ignoring the soldier's half-hearted protests, Rathe relieved him of watch duties and ordered him to get a full night's sleep. They'd split the extra watch time. Rathe had assigned himself the last watch, the hours before dawn. He made sure the rest of the troopers were bedded down, checked the sentries—Tam had first duty—and then unrolled his camp blanket. He spread it on the wet ground, pulled off his boots, and made himself a pillow with his pack, hands behind his head. With everything that had happened, he might not be able to sleep, but it was good to just stretch his legs...

  Someone was shaking him and whispering his name. He opened his eyes. A dark shape squatted down next to him. It was Tam.

  "Your watch," Tam murmured. She yawned tiredly. He stifled a yawn of his own and blinked sleep from his eyes. It was raining again, a light drizzle. "Any problems?" he asked sleepily. His back had a crick in it—probably a rock. His throat felt dry.

  "No sign of anything," Tam said. She yawned again. "The night's quiet."

  Rathe checked his pack. "Where's my canteen?"

  Tam already had her boots off. She poked Rathe's warm bedding with her toe. "If I tell you, can I use your blanket?"

  Rathe gave her his best glare. Tam relented, and reached under his blanket, produced the canteen. "You were sleeping on it," she said dryly. She lay down, yawned again. "Wake me when we're in Stonekeep. Sir." She pulled Rathe's blanket over her head.

  Rathe stationed himself by a boulder and settled down for a long watch. He was responsible for the southern half of the camp; another soldier, Dren, had the north side. A full moon peeked out from behind the thick clouds. Rathe took care not to silhouette himself against it. He wasn't sure he knew what had killed the trading party, but he didn't want to find out from an arrow in the dark.

  Something stirred. Rathe cocked his ear, listening. What was that noise? The rain had stopped some time ago, and the night air was still and wet, but dawn was an hour or more away. His eyes roved over the camp. The sleeping soldiers and Orvig were dark humps on the ground. He could barely make Dren out—that shape by the big tree, he thought. Now the only sounds were the faint snoring of one of the men—Loric, most likely—and the chirp of crickets and night birds. And there it was again. A faint slithering, very close. A snake? It didn't sound like a person.

  Was the sound coming from the bushes, behind that tree? He swallowed hard, drew his sword, and advanced. A twig snapped, and something moved. He brushed a tree branch aside...

  It was a woman. She was kneeling, semi-crouched, as if unsure whether to run or confront him. She looked about his age. She wore a short garment made of animal skins. Her wrists and ankles were encircled with copper bracelets. She raised a finger to her lips, smiled slightly, and shook her head. "Shush."

  Rathe knew he should sound the alarm. Was it a trick to draw away the sentry? He looked carefully about, ready to yell if he saw any sign of a savage horde. The girl was obviously a savage, but she didn't seem hostile—and, Rathe admitted to himself, she was strangely attractive. She had tangled, dark hair, sharp features, and large eyes, green as his own. Her skin was smooth but deeply tanned, long limbs left bare by the short garment she wore. Rathe noticed a scar running down one cheek and scratches on her arms from branches and thorns, but it enhanced rather than diminished her appeal, giving her an air of coltish beauty. A wild wood spirit, come to life.

  The girl tossed her hair away from her face and rose slowly, palms outstretched. "Greetings, Rathe," she said. Her voice was strangely accented but understandable.

  "You know my name?" he whispered back, stunned.

  Instead of answering immediately, the girl squatted down next to him. She looked him over, as if studying him—or the armor and weapons he wore. Then, as if liking what she saw, she nodded. "Aye—I saw you on the hill of the dead, by the slaughter-ground. The dwarf who lost a sister spoke your name."

  "The hill of the dead?" So someone had been watching! "Why did you come there?"

  "I don't know." She cocked her head sideways. "There's something about you ... I came to warn you."

  "Who slew them? Was it your people?"

  "My folk?" She tossed her hair angrily, stood up in one fluid motion. "You dare—" Her eyes glittered. "The foe is the Tse'Mara, boy. The whispering death is coming on bloodstained wings. They'll be here before dawn. Get your men ready."

  "The Tse'Mara—" The name meant nothing to Rathe. He also didn't like being called "boy" by someone who looked younger than him. "Who are you?"

  "I'm Kel," she said impatiently. "The Tse'Mara—" She stopped suddenly, then listened. "Someone's coming."

  Rathe glanced over his shoulder. It was Dren. When he looked back she was gone. He heard branches swishing. He could chase her, or...

  "Rathe," Dren said. He was a grizzled veteran of maybe thirty-three years. "I thought I heard voices." He took in Rathe's drawn sword, and his eyes widened.

  "You did," Rathe said. "Wake the Watch-Master. Now!"

  The camp was soon roused, the men buckling on armor and readying swords. Rathe didn't think Hoth believed the girl's story—in fact, Rathe thought, he wasn't sure Hoth believed him at all.

  "But where there's one savage, there may be more. And that means we stand to arms," Hoth had concluded.

  "If they're hostile, why alert us?" Rathe asked. "I think she was telling the truth."

  "Do you?" Hoth stood up. "Where's my sword?"

  Dren handed it to him.

  "This whispering death?" Hoth buckled on the sword, then used his helmet to splash water on his face. He coughed.

  "She claimed they attacked the caravan?"

  "Yes," Rathe replied. "And were on their way here... on bloodstained wings."

  "Huh. Birds?" sai
d Hoth doubtfully. He rubbed the helmet with his cloak, drying it. "A trick of some sort?"

  But Rathe wasn't listening. He was looking up. A faint humming noise was coming from high amid the trees.

  And the Whispering Death swarmed down from the sky.

  Hoth died without even a scream. Rathe only had time for a quick impression—black body, glittering armor, a flurry of wings—and then Hoth was on the ground, the thing on his back, snapping at his neck with huge glittering jaws. A splash of blood, and Hoth's head rolled on the ground.

  The soldiers flailed at them, swords slashing in the air. Another of the things swept down. Rathe saw spikes lash out. A man—Rathe thought it was Warren—went down, clutching at an eye socket. One of them flew at Rathe. He dodged and it passed overhead. A woman behind him was slower—Rathe heard her death scream. The thing buzzed overhead, blood spattering down.

  Whispering death.

  "Form a circle!" Rathe shouted. "Pull together. Raise your shields!"

  Rathe's voice steadied them. The soldiers clumped together, forming an iron tortoise. Orvig was with them, his short sword out. Not everyone had a shield—Tam, Orvig and another trooper hadn't had time to snatch theirs. Rathe ordered them into the center.

  They were just in time. Three men hadn't made it. The things flew among them, hurling themselves at the interlocked shields, battering with spiked claws.

  Rathe had no more time for orders. He was fighting for his life. The creatures looked like giant spiked insects, armored in glistening black chitin. His sword glanced off a carapace, clipped off a waving antenna. The thing facing him hissed in pain and backed off. Another took its place, mandibles snapping. Rathe counted at least a dozen of the monsters. He sliced with his sword, and the thing ducked under the blow. Next to him Dren stepped forward, shouting inarticulately, bringing his blade down hard on its head. The carapace cracked, splattering them both with steaming black ichor.

  One landed on top of the shield wall. Rathe gave a yell and pushed it off—they didn't weigh that much!—and it fell to the ground, off balance. He overturned it with a savage kick, then stabbed down, his blade cutting through the intricate red pattern that marked its underside. The thing jerked and died. Rathe grinned wolfishly. Even death could die!

  But the battle still hung by a thread. Next to him, Dren screamed hideously. His sword arm had been caught by the huge black pincers. Dren staggered back, blood pumping from the stump of his wrist. A gap opened in the shield wall. The creature moved in.

  Shieldless, Tam stepped forward, lunging for its chest. Her blade sank deep—and stuck. It jerked back, tearing it from her grasp. Without sword or shield, Tam was defenseless. Rathe whirled and brought his shield edge smashing down on the thing's neck. There was a snap and the mutant clattered to the ground, limbs sprawling. But he had neglected the foe in front of him. A heavy weight crashed into him and a spiked claw smashed into his face. A sharp pain, a taste of blood. And everything went dark.

  Rathe walked through a huge echoing space, as dark as death. At first he thought he floated in the night, but the slippery floor was solid under him, and he realized it was night-black stone. The stars were lamps, glittering above a dais or—was it an altar? He was in a vast columned hall. And someone was calling his name. A woman's voice, a woman's scent. Familiar. His mother?

  The voice turned to laughter in his mind, not mocking, but gentle. A woman. His lover? His daughter?

  "Everything," said the woman. "And yet, nothing. Can you see it? Are you strong enough, keen enough?"

  There was a pattern etched in the glass floor—fine lines that caught the light of the lamps, that glittered, gleaming dully. With a start, he realized that he was following it. He looked, and saw that at the end was a doorway. An arch.

  The lines flared up. They formed a shape. A word? No, more than that. A complex design. A symbol. A rune. Strange, intricate. And somehow, like the female voice, familiar.

  Rathe realized he had to follow the shape on the floor, the rune, to the door at the end... but he was so tired.

  "You are dying, Rathe. You must live. Muster your strength. Follow the path. Open the door."

  Rathe struggled forward, toward the door. He lifted one leg, then the other. He felt so tired.

  "Can you help?" he asked the voice.

  "Only if you reach me," she said. "I am bound Outside." And there was a note of sadness that tore at Rathe's heart. "You must help yourself, Rathe... and then help me, if you survive."

  "Who are you?"

  "I am the one who hid herself," said the voice. She sounded tired, desperate. "Rathe, I must trick him. Run!"

  Then the room began to shake. Rathe looked about, widely. The great columns began to sway. Rocks were falling from the ceiling.

  Rathe ran, instinctively following the pattern of the rune. A chunk of ceiling cracked and fell, missing him by a few feet. He slipped and nearly fell as the floor shook, but kept his balance.

  Rathe ran, and the door seemed to get no closer. A lamp swayed and shattered. Fire splashed the hall. The lamps went out.

  Rathe ran, and the sound of breaking glass was all around him. Ahead of him a crack was forming in the heaving floor, in front of the bright doorway. He ran, and the crack began to enlarge, splitting the rune in two. The gap widened in front of Rathe. He leaped...

  Chapter Two

  "Rathe."

  Someone was calling his name. A woman's voice. But it wasn't her voice. "Rathe!"

  Everything was shaking. But he had escaped. Followed the rune...

  No. He was being shaken. His eyes opened. "Rathe, can you hear me?"

  "I'm awake," he said. Rathe realized he was lying on a wooden bed. Tam was shaking him. Light was shining through a barred window, illuminating her face. He smiled at her, glad to see she was unhurt, although she looked tired and worried.

  "You're all right!" Tam said. "I thought you'd lie there till the gods returned!" She matched his smile and some of the worry lines vanished, but her eyes had a haunted look that Rathe had never seen there before.

  "How long was I out? An hour?" Rathe said hoarsely. He coughed. His throat was dry.

  "A day and a night," Tam said. "This is the fourth hour after noon." She looked away. "We thought we'd lost you."

  That long? Rathe thought. He looked around the room. Rough timber walls. A simple bed. A small window. A pair of candles on a low table. Where was this?

  "We're back in Fort Thunder," Tam said. "The west guard tower."

  Rathe realized he had spoken aloud. Fort Thunder was a small wooden stockade, one of many built to protect loggers during Stonekeep's seasonal forays into the Vale of Khera. The huge logging expeditions wouldn't be here until the fall equinox—a month away. Until then, they were the fort's sole occupants.

  He wanted to ask Tam what was going on, but he felt dizzy and lightheaded. His throat felt like a desert. "Water," Rathe croaked.

  "Right away." She left.

  A day and a night? Rathe tried to bring himself up to date. The last thing he remembered was a spiked claw slamming into his head. And then he'd been elsewhere—and something had happened. A dream?

  The woman's voice in his mind. The great rune, burning and broken in the huge temple hall.

  Temple? Why did he think that? But it fit, somehow.

  Rathe touched his head. A cloth bandage was wrapped around it. It felt tender.

  Fort Thunder. Hoth's patrol had been garrisoning the outpost when Orvig had arrived with orders to search for the missing Seth party. Memories flooded back. The battle. Whispering Death. Hoth's death. The others. He had taken command, but so many had been hurt or killed. How many had made it? At least Tam was still there. Rathe felt a sudden swell of affection for her. Had she died... If they been anything but officer and soldier, Rathe felt they could have shared a deeper relationship. As it was, he valued her comradeship—and tried not to think of might-have-beens.

  There was a tap on the door and Rathe brought his thoughts back
down to earth. It was Tam, her helmet filled with water.

  "From the well," she explained. She eyed him. "You look better."

  "Ah." He propped himself up and drank it gratefully, then splashed some over his face. "That feels good."

  "You look better," Tam agreed. "Welcome back to the living."

  "Thank you," Rathe said. Then he asked the question that was on his mind. "Who did we lose, Tam? I saw Hoth fall, and Warren."

  Tam looked grim. "They got Kaja too," she replied. "She never even had time to draw her sword."

  "What about Orvig?"

  Tam shook her head. "The fates loved Orvig that day. He was caught in the open at first, but none of the creatures touched him." She shrugged. "Maybe they don't like the taste of dwarf."

  Orvig was alive! "Who else? Did Dren make it?"

  "No." Tam sighed. "He bled to death. We lost Calvert. Nam too. It was only a flesh wound, but the poison..."

  Rathe shook his head. So many dead. "Poison?"

  "On their spikes." Tam took a deep breath, sat down on the bed beside him. Rathe realized she was exhausted. "That's how we almost lost you. Some got into your wound."

  Nam. Calvert. Dren. They'd all fallen after he took command. Maybe he should have done something else, some plan that would have saved them. Only five of them were left. Tam, Loric, Quin, Orvig, and himself. "So few left..."

  Tam gripped Rathe's shoulder. "They struck so fast. Hoth first. Kaja and Warren never knew what hit them. After Hoth went down, I thought we were dead—I couldn't even find my shield, they were everywhere. But you took command, got us into the shield wall. Until then, I didn't think we'd make it." Tam pulled him around to face her. "You saved us, Rathe," she finished.

  Rathe shook his head. "It was the girl," he told Tam. "She said her name was Kel. She warned us." If there had only been himself and Dren awake, we wouldn't have made it, Rathe realized. They owed her their lives. But who was she?

  "Dren mentioned her, before he died," Tam said. She sounded curious. "Said a savage woman warned you?"