Thera Awakening

by Steve Jackson

  "The Devastation happened." Rathe said. "There was a war among the gods, echoing the war of men. Khull-Khuum, the Shadow King, betrayed his brothers and sisters. Some fought, or tried to escape, but they weren't strong enough, and the Shadow King trapped their essences in mystic orbs. Only the goddess Thera did not waste her energy trying to flee or battle him. Instead, she worked her own magick to change his spell. So when they were trapped, the orbs that held them flew from Khull-Khuum's grip, and escaped into the heavens. And forever after..." Rathe paused, and looked Orvig in the eye, "...forever after, they now orbit the sun, remaining just outside his grasp. All of which every child knows."

  Angrily, Rathe slammed his fist on the table, sending the glass bottles and jugs dancing. "Tell me! What does it have to do with this ring and my mother? And why didn't you tell me about the ring?"

  "Aye, you have a right to be angry, maybe," Orvig said. "But I made a promise to your father..." He paused, as if unsure how to continue. "All right. As you say, the Younger Gods were bound in the orbs, all save the Shadow King. But though they have little power, these imprisoned gods are still worshipped by a few folk, who keep the ancient faith alive and hope for their return."

  "When the Gods return," Rathe quoted. "But it's just a saying. Almost no one follows the old faith any more."

  "Almost no one," agreed Orvig. "Your mother was an exception." He looked at Rathe. "She was a priestess of Thera, boy, strong in her faith, a healer and maybe more. She came here from another Keep, I think. Perhaps she sought converts. In any case, she found one: your father, Clave. Or perchance it was simply love that made him follow her way, for they soon married."

  "What happened to her?" Rathe asked quietly. He had known his mother was different, but few of his father's age would talk about her. He had always assumed she had been disliked, or simply distrusted as an outlander from another Keep. Now he wondered if it had been something more than that.

  "When you were a year and a month old, Rhea had a vision of some sort," Orvig said. "I don't know the details, only what your father told me: that she felt a calling and heeded it." He sighed. "And whatever road she took, she could not risk an infant there. She begged Clave to stay behind and rear you. But he would not leave her side. Where they journeyed, I cannot say."

  "They left me behind."

  "They did not want to take you into danger," Orvig corrected him softly. "I still recall the last words Rhea said to me: 'I ask you to keep Rathe safe until we return, and I ask this favor not just as a parent, but as priestess.' And then she gave me her ring, saying, 'He is the last of the old blood. If I fail, then his time may come.' But your father said 'Pray it does not.' " Orvig shook his head. "I knew he didn't want you following them on some wild quest before you were ready. Then Rhea kissed you, and they left Stonekeep, and vanished into the forest. I never saw them again. No doubt they died in the outlands."

  Rathe nodded. He looked at the ring, then slipped it into his pocket and left the room. Outside, the clouds were already stained red by the setting sun.

  Although he was tired and his wound was starting to ache, Rathe took the time to inspect the defenses Tam had erected. They seemed sound enough. Since the Whispering Death seemed nocturnal (they hoped) they would all spend the night in the West Tower, with the gates shut, windows barricaded and weapons at hand. One person would always be awake, and a fire would be lit at all times, with torches ready.

  Dusk came quickly. The surviving soldiers and Orvig took their meal together—more of Quin's stew—and prepared to sleep. Quin had first watch.

  "Hope those cursed mutants fear flame," said Loric. He waved a torch skeptically and shook his head.

  "Most animals do," Rathe said. He forced a grin. "Singe their wings right off."

  Loric nodded. "Maybe so."

  "Try to get some sleep."

  "Goodnight, sir," said Quin, echoed by Tam and Loric. Orvig sat on a bench in the corner. The dwarf had said he'd take the first watch with Quin. Rathe had volunteered to stand an ordinary watch, but Tam—and the others—had convinced him otherwise.

  "You're in command, boy," Orvig had said. "But you were half dead. You'll need your wits about you tomorrow, runes or no runes, when we sorry fools want to know what to do. Now sleep!"

  Rathe curled up in his blanket. There was little left of the night, and Rathe was not sure he could sleep. He knew he had to make a decision. Should they return to Stonekeep, and report the creatures—the Whispering Death? Or hunt for Jhen—and, Rathe admitted, try to find the mysterious green-eyed woman? Kel. The woman he owed his life to.

  He glanced up from his blanket out the window, where Quin stood guard. A full moon stared back, surrounded by the autumn stars.

  He would sleep on it.

  Chapter Three

  Rathe woke to Loric's hand shaking his shoulder. "Time to get up, sir," the soldier said.

  Rathe sat up. He was well rested. His head still felt tender, but aside from that, it was the first proper night's sleep—in a bed—he'd had in nearly a week.

  The dim light of early morning was coming from the barred window of the tower. Around him the others were waking up, struggling into their tunics and boots. The tower smelled of sweat and cooking vegetables.

  "That was a rough night," Tam was saying to Quin. She glared meaningfully at Loric. ' "Least I don't snore like a kettle."

  "Not much loss," Quin grumbled. "Kept tossing and turning. I hardly got any sleep. Rune magick drawn in blood! How can we fight that?"

  How indeed? Rathe thought. But he kept silent.

  As he waited for breakfast, Rathe studied the map of Khera Vale. It had been prepared by Stonekeep's master cartographer. Tam had salvaged it from Hoth's body.

  "You have any dreams, boy?" Orvig asked. He was stirring the stew pot.

  "No," Rathe answered absently, and then realized he had dreamed. And suddenly, it came back to him. "Well, yes. I saw the broken rune again," he said softly.

  "Aye? Anything else?" Orvig asked curiously.

  "Maybe. No voices. But a feeling of... I don't know. Wanting? Incompleteness?" He looked at his finger. He was wearing his mother's ring. "That's strange," Rathe said.

  "What, dreaming of it?" Orvig shook his head. "Hardly, boy. We were talking of the rune until late. I'd be surprised if you didn't."

  "No, not the dream, the ring," Rathe said. He tugged it off, weighed it in his palm. "It's just that I had tied it around my neck. I don't remember putting it on. Oh well," he shrugged, and slipped it back on his finger. It fit well, and he liked its feel.

  Rathe turned back to the map, spreading it out on the table. Fort Thunder was clearly marked, the last outpost on a logging trail that led back south toward Stonekeep. But the same trails also led north and east, deeper into the forest, past the hill where Seth's party had fallen, to within a few miles of the savage villages of Adra and Gothmeg—barbarous names Rathe had trouble pronouncing. Rathe knew that Seth had hoped to visit them, then perhaps press on to trade for furs and hides with tribes that had never been encountered before.

  Further east and north, the map was mostly white space, but Rathe had heard the forest called Khera Vale stretched eastward, gradually giving way to broken badlands and, eventually, the foothills of the mountains called the Shadow's Teeth.

  At the moment, though, the problem was closer at hand. Rathe traced the route between Fort Thunder and Stonekeep, mentally adding miles and days. Then his finger drifted northward.

  After breakfast, Rathe rolled up the map and gathered the three soldiers and Orvig about him. "I've made a decision," he said. Eight ears pricked up.

  "I know you've all heard what Orvig found on the mutant insects—the Whispering Death. Runes. That means magick is involved." He paused to let that sink in. "The runes are drawn in blood. I think they're controlling the creatures. Making them attack our folk, but not animals—or even other races like the Dwarves."

  Except for Orvig, everyone nodded.

  "We've got a
problem," Rathe said. "Stonekeep needs to know about this, soon. Before they send anyone else into the Vale unprepared for the creatures."

  "We whipped 'em good enough once we knew what we were dealing with," said Quin belligerently.

  "That we did," said Rathe delicately. It was an exaggeration, but good for morale. "But if they're taken by surprise like Seth's party," (and us, he mentally added) "they'll be ambushed and slaughtered."

  "We have to get word back home," Tam agreed. "But what about the dwarf's sister?" She flicked a glance at Orvig. "If the bugs only eat our kind, she might still be alive."

  "It's possible," Rathe replied. "We can't be sure."

  "Gods!" said Tam. "We're not sure about anything. We've lost half the patrol and we still don't even know who sent those things after us!"

  "Maybe that girl the Watch-Second saw?" said Loric.

  "Nah," said Quin. "Why would she warn us?"

  "Right," said Rathe. "You're right, Tam, Quin. There's too much Stonekeep needs to find out. That's why we'll split up. Tam, you'll take Loric and Quin, and carry word back home. Orvig and I will scout the forest, see if Hoth was right and if the savage tribes are on the move..."

  "Wait a minute," said Tam. She leaned over the table. "You're going into the forest alone? We should go with you."

  There was a chorus of muted agreement from the other two men. But Rathe shook his head.

  "Getting word of the creatures back to Stonekeep is just as important as finding answers. As Tam said, we've two duties. To find out what killed Hoth and the others. But also, to warn the Keep." He unrolled the map, motioned Tam over. "Here we are." His finger stabbed Fort Thunder. "And there's Stonekeep. It's a two-day journey south, but if you move fast and light you might be able to make it in a day and a half. I'll take Orvig and strike northeast, toward the villages here. We'll see if we can find any connection between the savages and the killer mutants."

  "Orvig's no soldier," Tam said. "I am. I should go with you."

  Rathe shook his head. "You're next in command after me. I need you in charge. Orvig may not be a warrior, but he knows the forests," and Rathe smiled grimly, "and if he tastes bad to the bugs, I won't be taking him into any more danger than you'll face." He rose to his feet. "No more questions. We march in an hour."

  They made their preparations and divided the supplies they could carry, Rathe making sure each of them had three javelins and a torch besides their normal kit. Afterwards, Rathe took Tam aside.

  "I'm depending on you to get through," Rathe told her. "Those things may still be out there. Keep a fire at night, just in case. They found us easily enough in the dark last time."

  "You just take care of yourself," said Tam. "I'll manage Loric and Quin." She stared out into the forest depths. "I'm going home. You're going deeper into the Vale."

  "We'll be careful," Rathe said. "I might even be able to link up with you in a day or so, if we don't find anything. But if I don't make it back in time, try to convince the council not to do anything rash."

  "Huh. I'm no speaker."

  "Just tell them what happened," Rathe said. "You'll do fine."

  "I still don't like it," Tam said. "Be careful, Rathe."

  "You too," said Rathe. "See you in Stonekeep."

  They clasped hands, and then Tam turned away. "In Stonekeep," she said. "Loric, Quin—let's move out."

  Rathe and Orvig set out to the northeast, following the trail. The mud had dried out, making walking easier, and the weather remained good, neither warm nor cool. The forest didn't seem especially dangerous in the morning light, but each of them kept a wary eye on the sky. So far, the Whispering Death had struck twice at night, but what did that prove?

  Morning was fading to afternoon when they reached the grassy knoll where the creatures had attacked them. Orvig had told him that the bodies of Hoth and the other soldiers lay in a single shallow grave, marked only by a small standing stone with their names scratched on it. Rathe decided not to visit it; there was nothing there for him.

  "Aye," Orvig agreed. "We've dug too many graves lately." He shrugged. Their mood was grim, and they spoke little. Although neither would speak of it, each feared the coming of night.

  They circled the battlefield, and pressed on, but only half a mile away, Rathe stopped. "Oh, gods," he said slowly. "Take a look at this."

  "Tracks?" said Orvig. His voice was eager: he was glad to be looking for Jhen.

  "Not tracks," Rathe said.

  Orvig stepped forward over a fallen log, and brushed a hanging spiderweb out of his face. He peered down where Rathe was pointing. It was a empty snakeskin, dry, white and harmless—but the snake that had shed it would have been easily twenty feet long.

  Rathe examined the skin. It seemed fairly fresh—at least, it did not fall apart at his touch. The pattern was complex, huge diamonds alternating with stripes. He had never seen anything like it. Each man looked at each other.

  "Giant snakes," Orvig finally said. "Fine, boy. Oh, fine." He shook his head, as if it was Rathe's fault. They moved on, but this time, they watched the underbrush as well as the sky.

  A few minutes down the trail, Rathe had an irresistible thought. He turned, grinning, and clapped a grumbling Orvig on the shoulder.

  "Maybe they eat giant insects," he said cheerfully.

  After a few more miles of hard marching, they found a likely campsite near a rocky outcropping that Rathe hoped would be defensible, and began gathering deadwood for a fire. That night, they took turns standing watch. But despite Rathe's fears, nothing more lethal than mosquitoes assailed them, nor did he remember any more strange dreams. They broke camp early the next day.

  Soon they passed the hill where the Seth party had fallen, and by midafternoon had penetrated deep into the forest, where the cedar and juniper trees grew thick, almost obscuring the faint trail. Hoth's map was now nearly useless: Rathe had little idea how far they had traveled. They had long since left Stonekeep's logging trails: now they followed other tracks, made, they guessed, by deer, or possibly by savages themselves. It was late in the day, and only faint shafts of sunlight pierced the wooded canopy.

  Rathe's legs were beginning to ache. He thought of calling a halt and looking for a campsite, when he noticed that the trees seemed to thin ahead. Motioning Orvig forward, he brushed aside a tree branch—and found himself on the edge of a wide clearing. In the midst of it was a cluster of rude huts, surrounded by vegetable plots. There were fenced pens for pigs or fowl, and a well in the center of the village. And yet....

  "There's no one here," Rathe decided. "Not even animals."

  He didn't like the look of this deserted, silent village. With a start, he realized it reminded him of the hill where they had found Seth's party. There was no smell of death, but something felt wrong, very wrong. "Is this Adra or Goff... Goth... Goth-meg?"

  "I think Adra, lad," said Orvig. He grimaced. "I'd expected to see smoke from their cook fires some time ago." He shook his head. "To speak truth, I'd been a bit worried we'd gotten lost and missed the place. But it's where it should be."

  "Let's look around." Rathe loosened his sword. "But cautiously. There may still be someone here."

  They walked slowly into the village—if you could call two dozen huts a village, Rathe thought—but no one challenged them. The only signs of life were a few dragonflies that buzzed lazily about, sunning themselves on fence posts. Adra's huts were of wattle and daub construction. To Rathe, used to the solidity of Stonekeep and the sturdy wood frontier forts, they seemed disturbingly fragile. Many of the buildings and fences were in poor repair, but whether the gaps and debris were from neglect, bad weather or deliberate vandalism neither could tell.

  Rathe tugged at the door-blanket of the nearest hut. Nothing happened. He pulled the blanket aside and entered, ducking to pass through the low doorway. Inside, it smelled faintly of dung and charcoal. The floor was packed earth, with a firepit near the back. The only furniture was a wooden bench. On it stood two pottery jars. A th
ird lay on the ground, broken into a dozen pieces. Kernels were scattered about it. Corn?

  Rathe turned to survey the room—then jumped, as he saw staring eyes looking into his own. He stepped backward, bringing his weapon up, as the dwarf watched from outside in alarm. Then he laughed, seeing that the threatening faces were just painted wood.

  "Only masks," he said, reaching above the doorframe to remove one.

  "Masks?" Stepping hastily into the hut, Orvig slapped his hand away. Rathe drew back obediently, looking his puzzlement.

  "Don't touch," the dwarf said grimly. He looked up, wincing as his neck popped. "These are spirit-masks."

  "What do they do?"

  "Jhen spoke of them once. The savages carve them when someone dies, leave them over the door for a month to keep the ghosts away. Touching one is bad luck, they say." He tugged his beard. "Three deaths in one house. Within a month. Not good at all."

  The pair left the hut and entered its neighbor. Inside they found no signs of life or recent occupancy. But four spirit masks hung above the entrance.

  The third hut they checked was the same.

  "I don't like it," Rathe said, almost whispering. "Is everyone here dead?"

  "Maybe so," said Orvig. "But if so, who made the masks?" He glanced at the position of the sun. "I think we should split up. If it's all the same to you, boy, I'd rather not be here by nightfall."

  Rathe nodded. "You take the east end," he said. "I'll take the west. Be careful!"

  Rathe moved from hut to hut, opening the blanket that covered each door, peering inside, sometimes entering. But in each, the story was the same. No sign of life, but no sign of death. Nothing at all, save the silent masks.

  Orvig was getting frustrated. He'd searched a half-dozen huts, and the story was the same: Nothing. Oh, he'd found spirit masks a-plenty, broken pottery, ashes from fire pits, a broken hatchet. He wondered if Rathe had found anything.