The Riven God

by F. T. McKinstry

  Lorth recalled what Wulfgar had told him. The oborom didn’t ride. Priests wore thorns over their bodies. Given his bearing, this man could only be the Sentinel of the West, Wulfgar’s eldest brother and the king’s right hand.

  Adder stiffened as he put the same information together. “That’s—”

  “Get down. Clear your mind.” As they flattened themselves on the ground, Lorth grasped Adder’s wrist and strengthened the gauze of his cloaking spell with a curse the Destroyer herself could have heard. He slammed his thoughts down like a cluttered drawer and searched for what he had learned. Sorcery. Distortions in time. Visions in the dark, like a Web. Yet not.

  Dore held up his hand and halted his steed. Sniffing the air, he turned his head slowly in Lorth’s direction, his mind spreading out like a net made of bones. To anchor himself and Adder in the present, Lorth spoke a word that summoned the forces of manifestation. The earth under his feet, the rushing river, the wind in the trees and the fire from the torches aligned around him. The Sentinel’s gaze passed over the shield.

  Ah, but you sensed something, Lorth thought. And nothing.

  After a moment, Dore spoke to the guard, who bowed his head low and stepped away. The prince rode over the bridge without a second glance. A company of oborom armed with blades and crossbows flowed in his wake like a river of pitch.

  Lorth looked behind him as the warlocks moved into the glade. He leaned close to Adder’s ear. “They’re heading for the southern coast,” he breathed. “No scout could have reported our arrival to Tromblast so soon. These men were already mobilized.”

  “Ragnvald must have seen our arrival beforehand.” He started to rise. “We must return.”

  Lorth caught him in a steel grip and pulled him down. “We need numbers.”

  Warlocks continued to flow over the bridge. On the other side, their numbers stretched out as far as Lorth could see. From their ranks flew a thin, sinister pennon shaped like a thorn. Lorth’s instincts recoiled again as a man next to the standard-bearer halted before the same guard who had spoken to the prince. He wore dull clothes stitched with thorny branches, high boots and a leather skullcap that covered his eyes but for the sockets.

  “That’s a priest,” Lorth said. “I’m going to guess Dore left him orders to hunt down whatever caught his attention. Let’s go. Stay close.”

  Holding the elements in alignment around them, Lorth withdrew and moved away from the bridge. They kept to the trees to avoid the open air of the river’s edge. The funereal drumbeat continued to drone behind them.

  Torchlight raked through the glade as a company of warlocks broke from the lines. “They’re coming,” Lorth said, his senses burning with thorns. “Let’s get away from the river before they flank us.”

  “Looks like two or three score.”

  “Aye, not that flattering. Either they aren’t concerned enough to send a big force or they’re leaving it to the priest to deal with us. Let’s make a stand. I need to see what these priests are made of. Can you fight cloaked?”

  “Aye.”

  “Use an obfuscation spell. It’ll make it harder for them to focus on you.”

  Adder muttered something, and a strange blur spiraled out from his body, shifting the space around him. Lorth nodded with a smile. Proper or not, at least Eadred had taught his apprentice useful things.

  The oborom fanned out. Several of them unleashed their crossbows and missed, unable to see clearly through the shadows of trees and cloaking spells. Lorth and Adder ran through a clearing scattered with stumps. As they reached the shelter of the woods on the far side, Lorth slowed his pace near the looming form of an outcropping. Adder ran up to him, breathing heavily and wavering like a wraith. Lorth said, “Let’s thin these guys out.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of voices.

  Sheltering in the rocks, the two men strung their bows and got ready. Torchlight glowed in the trees on the edge of the clearing. Adder took the first shot, felling a warlock who came into view. Lorth sank an arrow into the torchbearer. The others rallied under the attack. In the back of his mind Lorth wondered where the priest was. Hiding in the dark, no doubt. Sizing them up.

  Lorth decided to get the priest’s attention. He breathed several words that bent the air with earth and fire. A tall, dark form whirled out from the unseen and moved across the edge of the clearing. A volley of arrows sang through the air, passed through the apparition and plunged into the woods. Lorth nocked another arrow and drew his bow. Then he hesitated, returning the bow to shape.

  Adder took a shot. One of the oborom crumpled to the ground with an arrow in his throat.

  “Hold,” Lorth said. A short distance beyond the clearing, someone spoke in a raspy voice that lit up his scar with fire. There you are. A low hum rose into the air, vibrating on the back of Lorth’s neck like a predator’s breath.

  Still holding the arrow on the string, he gestured to Adder. The two of them slipped from the rocks and crept into the woods. Lorth lifted his bow and felled a man who had been stealing up behind the outcropping. Ahead and towards the river, torches burned.

  “They’re surrounding us,” Adder said. “I’m nearly out of arrows.”

  “Aye. Let’s split up. I’ll foul their weapons.”

  The warlocks gathered into a formation, their voices rising and falling in weird disorder. Lorth and Adder moved around to confuse their whereabouts and find rifts in the dark ring as it tightened around them. The warlocks were confident, their bows lifted, the shining tips of the arrows pointed into the dark.

  Catching his breath, Lorth knelt, grew still and cleared his mind. He focused on the patterns of inanimate wood, steel and graestrip, and then muttered a nasty unraveling spell. The air surrounding the oborom’s crossbows stirred, gathered force and then flared out with intense heat and confusion. Several men nearby ceased their humming and dropped their bows with shouts as the weapons burst into flames. Others fired wild shots into the woods before doing the same.

  In the distance, Adder laughed.

  Lorth did not. Like a spark creeping along the edge of paper, smoking and blackening as it tried to catch into a flame, a counter-spell worked against him, weakening the pattern of his invocation. Lorth repeated his commands to strengthen his spell against the warlocks’ swords. It had no effect: they drew their blades and charged.

  Lorth drew his sword and met the first man who came at him easily, parrying a sloppy, two-handed slash. He disarmed him with a twist of his blade and finished it. Another came, and another. They were angry and unfocused. Wulfgar had mentioned that oborom warriors had grown soft at arms, relying on their priests to weaken their opponents. Using the Eye, Lorth could have changed the flow of this but decided against revealing any more information until he figured out how the priest had crashed his spell. It bore the same quality Lorth had felt around the king when he tried to break his visions. Something he didn’t understand.

  The warlocks came to their senses and now circled Lorth warily to avoid an attack. Adder had drawn his opponents deep into the thickening trees; now and then the clash of arms rang out. Conscious of time, Lorth felled his closest assailant with a punch and a slash to the abdomen. Then he called out.

  “Come forth, Priest!”

  On an inaudible cue, the oborom lowered their weapons and withdrew into the shadows. Lorth breathed a word that strengthened his bond with the night, bringing it alive. He settled into the beat of his heart, the rhythm of his breath. The Hunter’s Rede rose up from the primeval murk where it lived, whispering.

  I act from knowing.

  A figure stepped forth, pale, covered in thorns. Lorth spun his sword, feeling it slice through the air. He stalked back and forth before his adversary, his cloak strong and his mind extended. The warlock didn’t attempt to defend or obscure himself in any way; either his arrogance approached madness or he believed he had the advantage. His lack of response was chilling.

  Confidence escapes notice.

  With a gravelly la
ugh, the priest drew his sword.

  Trusting his instinct, Lorth unclasped his cloak and tossed it aside. His hand tingled on his sword grip. The priest raised his blade and brought it around; Lorth parried the blow. They circled each other, slashing, blocking. But the priest was not interested in testing Lorth’s guard. Beneath his movements, the warlock gathered power from the unseen. The oborom closed around, their faces hidden in the hoods of their cloaks. They had resumed their chanting.

  The priest made a keening sound that pierced the air, raising the hairs on Lorth’s flesh. On the edge of the clearing, the darkness parted into a jagged knife wound, issuing the stench of stagnant water thick with rotting flora. An invisible presence emerged. Tall and inhuman, its breath scraped in its throat. Lorth uttered a command to banish the creature from this dimension, a complex spell of roots and blood that snaked around the edges of the rift. It had no effect, as if his voice couldn’t be heard.

  A disturbance rippled the warlocks’ humming. Adder came into view, working his blade with deadly accuracy. As he saw Lorth, his face changed.

  “Run!” Lorth advised him.

  Adder came nearer, spinning his blade. “I will not leave—”

  “RUN!” Something struck Lorth in the chest, knocking the breath out of him as he hit the ground. Heaving air into his lungs, he staggered up, moving his blade here and there to protect his guard. He couldn’t see or sense the nature of his adversary. With the speed of a bat, it hit him in the throat. Lorth dropped to one knee. His neck went numb, taking his voice with it; he couldn’t speak words to counter this even if he knew them.

  Adder had followed orders for once and fled, Maern knew where. Hopefully he had the wits to return and warn Wulfgar.

  The priest closed in on his guard, his sword held high for a killing blow. Lorth rolled out of the way as the blade came down. It struck the earth with crunching sound. A sloppy maneuver. Perhaps the demon couldn’t see him when he didn’t move. Worth a try. Holding his energy cloak around him, Lorth stole away into the dark, gasping for air. He found a low spot in the roots of an old tree and settled into it. The unseen creature still slathered where the priest had attacked. Fast, but not intelligent.

  The Old One knows.

  The Shade of Balance faded away, leaving the hunter with a thought. By altering this timeline without Ealiron’s awareness, Carmaenos had created a rift that Ragnvald now used to see through the Aenmos’ treecloak and cast spells that destroyed mortals’ natural connections to this dimension. For the first time, Lorth realized why Elspeth had endured the graestrip poison for so long. She was a seer. Like a cat, she was partly in the Otherworld already.

  Lorth remained still as the priest and his minion circled him. He heard the unseen creature sniffing in the dark. Knowing how it got here was useless; Lorth still had no way to fight it. Its steps didn’t touch the earth; it didn’t stir the air or the things it passed; it didn’t throw a shadow in the torchlight as the others drew near. No telling from which direction it would strike next.

  Lorth threw up his sword as the priest lunged into the brush and slashed at him. Disoriented, he jumped up and fended off a flurry of thrusts that drove him back into the open. Something struck Lorth’s sword arm, paralyzing it. Unable to grip his blade, he dropped it. Before he could grab it with his other hand, the priest attacked him again. Lorth jumped aside, his vision blurring. For a split second, he caught a glimpse of the demon, tall as a house, heavily muscled and bare to the waist. Its face looked like the bottom of a swamp.

  Lorth needed a friend in the Otherworld, now. Something not bound to codes or violations. Backing away, he turned and stumbled back out of the torchlight. He focused on his heart, in the hollows where mortals were blind.

  Ascarion! By the Old One! I summon you. He slid down on weakened knees and leaned against a tree, catching his breath. Nearby, the priest moved through the dark with deliberate care, a hunter who knew his quarry was too wounded to escape. Ascarion, Lorth repeated, sending his mind into the silence of his own presence. I know you’re here. Please help me.

  Swamp-stench filled the air, nearly gagging him. It smelled like the heart of a Tarthian jungle, where men caught things and things caught men. Lorth froze, slowing his breath, gazing at nothing. The demon’s presence settled directly in front of his face. Invisible hands closed around his head on either side; a breath passed as the demon’s icy grip tightened. Lorth closed his eyes and recalled a fond memory of Icaros holding his arms wide for an embrace. You have the eyes of the Old One! The old wizard laughed.

  The priest stepped up to the demon’s side. “I’ve kept my word,” he rasped. “A wizard. His essence is yours.”

  Ah, Lorth thought, opening his eyes. Barter. He should have remembered this: when asking for help from the Otherworld it was best to offer something in return, to keep the balance. Ascarion, he tried once more. Whatever I have to give, it is yours.

  “Take—” the priest growled. Then his breath caught.

  Icy wind blew through the forest. The ground shook and the stars fled as the night parted to a deeper night, the source of all things, an opening in the fabric of creation. An impossible emptiness loomed between the trees.

  The demon spat something unintelligible and jerked back, releasing Lorth’s head. The priest hissed like a snake. “Take him!” he commanded, his voice rising in pitch.

  Light shimmered in the Void. It beamed out into the forest, pure and white. The oborom fled. The demon screamed and whirled around, facing the priest. Then it raked something across its summoner’s thorny chest, rending it wide and splattering blood all over the ground.

  A shining warrior strode from the light, his golden hair shining and his eyes black as a pit. He issued a command in a lost tongue. Slavering and retching with terror, the demon solidified and knelt before him. In one graceful motion the god drew a sword and struck, taking the creature’s head clean off. It hit the ground with a thud, followed by the crash of its body to the earth.

  Blood dripping from his blade, Ascarion turned and reached out his hand. Lorth took it and let the entity draw him to his feet. His pounding heart skipped a beat. The strength and feeling returned to his limbs, and his vision cleared.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The war god tilted his head into a nod, sheathed his blade and returned to the Void. As the sun vanished into the night, his voice entered Lorth’s mind. I will collect soon, Hunter.

  Ascarion’s Price

  Light drizzle blanketed the rugged shore between Tromblast Keep and the Howling Estuary. It was late, nearing high tide. In the trees above the surf, Aelfric huddled in a makeshift shelter, waiting for the first breath of pre-dawn. He had slept a little, but his nerves kept him on edge. Each time he drifted off, a presence entered his mind and spoke in a language he didn’t understand. It shone with the power of the sun.

  Hemlock’s attentions hadn’t only healed Aelfric’s body of its wounds but also given him curious sensitivity. Aside from the voice in his mind, he felt things in the natural surroundings: the presence of beasts, the whispers of trees to the overcast skies, anger in the earth and sea. Ravens followed him around as they did wolves. And he had developed a rough ability to see in the dark.

  He also had a constant sensation of being watched. Two days ago, as he fished in the tide, a company of oborom came to the Howling Estuary. They found the dead hermit’s shack above the river and burned it to the ground, driving Aelfric back into the wilds and forcing his plans. His skin itched beneath the drab clothes and black cloak he had stripped from one of the warlocks who helped to destroy his new home. The man had separated from his companions to relieve himself, unaware that he would become prey to a renegade spy on a mission to murder the king.

  Aelfric yawned. He was hungry. He gazed at the sea splashing and hissing as it devoured the strand. The sun-god presence hung over it, not parting the darkness, but increasing it. Concentrating on the void, Aelfric didn’t realize he was looking at a boat coming in
on the tide until its hull grated on the rocks. With his heightened senses, Aelfric heard a man say, “Quickly. We’re running out of time.” Men jumped into the surf, taking packs and throwing them into the rocks above the waterline. Two men stayed on the oars. When the others had unloaded, they shoved the craft out and around. The oarsmen returned to the surf, heaving against the tide.

  “I would that we’d taken this more seriously,” said another.

  “The sea is strange under a dark moon,” returned the first. “What you saw could’ve been anything. Fear not.”

  “I am in doubt, Master.”

  The first man didn’t reply. He picked up something from the sand and spoke a strange word. Fire erupted from the end of a long, broken branch, which he wedged into the rocks. He wore a black cloak with a strange pattern on the back. The others wore blood red. A glimmer of hope touched Aelfric’s heart. Raptors. Keepers of the Eye. Hemlock had hinted at this, but said little else about it.

  The dark-cloaked man moved onshore to help the others bring up their things and gather wood. They moved with great urgency, spoke little and didn’t appear to care that a fire would bring attention their way. Their anxiety was not that of warriors landing on a foreign shore. Another longboat arrived; then another. After unloading, the oarsmen returned to the darkness as if their lives depended on it.

  When men began to emerge from the water itself, dragging their bodies onto the rocks, Aelfric’s heart turned cold. They were swimming? Either a tough lot or a desperate one. Their companions rushed to help them, bringing them to the fire and helping them into dry clothes.

  Out of time, the wizard had said. Aelfric lifted his gaze to the watery horizon. A large shape, a different shade in the drizzle, hung some distance offshore. A shipwreck?

  The leader stepped up on a large boulder and faced the forest of Stoneval hugging the strand. Aelfric flattened himself and grew still. His head bowed as if in concentration, the wizard raised his hands, upward and outward. Aelfric’s nerves tingled as a gossamer web swept through him. The wizard lowered his arms and gave a command. He pointed roughly southeast, moved his hand slowly south, and nodded. Raptors drew their swords and moved up into the trees, fanning out.