Howling Delve

by Jaleigh Johnson

  The weight was too much, even for the magic. Reluctantly, Talal let the body fall away into space. Braedrin hit the floor with a loose thud, his arms and legs caught clumsily beneath him. Talal pumped his legs, swinging up to grab the ceiling again. Blood dripped from the stalactite, and the bats began to stir.

  Talal turned, heading back toward the wall. The bats glided in a narrow circle and went for him at the same time.

  Meisha was waiting. She stroked a hand over the flame column, her eyes widening as if she awoke to a lover’s touch. Her irises became rings of fire as she envisioned the shaping, how to use the raw power within her to sculpt the spell.

  A pair of arrows—each as long as her forearm—burst from the twisting column and streaked toward Talal. The boy shrieked and ducked his head, but the flame arrows veered away from him to impale the bats. Leather wings caught fire and fell from the air. The bats’ tails whipped uselessly against the ground. Meisha watched them smolder as the light died out of her eyes.

  Blinking, she felt herself come out of the grip of the magic as Talal dropped down beside her. A ghost of the expression he’d worn earlier—as he watched Varan play with his toy—passed over his face when he looked at Meisha.

  The Harper felt a wave of regret. The boy had lived in Amn all his life, and had probably never seen or cared to see Art such as this. “Please don’t be frightened,” she said, trying to smile. “It’s not so worlds-shaking terrible as it all seems.”

  Talal squatted next to Braedrin’s body, his back to her. “Don’t they all say that?” he muttered.

  He started to say something else, but a tentacle roped him from above, jerking his head to one side.

  “Talal!” Meisha bit back the spell that instinctively jumped to mind. She followed the tentacle to the corner, between two rock outcroppings, where a mass of gray, mottled flesh writhed.

  With a gesture, Meisha cast the flame rope in the direction of the surrounding stone. The creature wailed at the brightness but did not loosen its grip on the boy.

  Braedrin’s fate, Meisha thought. A choker, by all the gods, and it had a decent grip.

  Talal’s eyes bulged as his throat disappeared under layers of spongy flesh. The choker flexed muscles that had no clear definition, trying to yank the boy off his feet, but Talal dug in, the sticky substance keeping him rooted in place.

  Looping one arm around the tentacle, Meisha prepared to cast another spell. If she could heat the thing’s flesh sufficiently, the pain would make it release the boy. She’d used the same spell to try to escape from Kall, long ago. Somehow, she didn’t believe the choker would be as tenacious as the merchant’s son.

  Her hands began to glow with the weight of the spell. Heat rose to bathe her face and she heard Talal’s choked whimpering.

  She looked to the boy, afraid she might be too late. Talal’s panic-stricken eyes met her own, and Meisha realized he was afraid of the heat. He was choking to death, but he feared her magic more.

  Meisha hesitated, then released the spell on a muttered curse. She drew a dagger from her boot. The ropey tentacle was too thick to slice in half, so she brought the steel down overhand into its soft flesh. The choker writhed, releasing its prey and scuttling back.

  Talal collapsed on the ground, clutching his throat, and bats poured from a hollow in the upper corner of the chamber.

  The light from the flame rope faltered as bats—not as large as the first two, but still impressive—filled the room. Meisha sank to her knees, her back throbbing from wielding the dagger. She felt warm moisture that was not sweat soaking through her jerkin.

  Stupid, Meisha thought. She’d reopened her wound. The bats would love her now. Talal was still on the floor, half-hidden by a cloud of dark bodies. Meisha felt the rush of air from leathery wings stir her hair and clothing. Bites stabbed her flesh, a few at first, but gradually increasing as the bats narrowed their attacks. By some luck, the choker faired no better. The bats did not discriminate in their frenzied biting, and choker screams rang out, echoing Talal’s frantic cries.

  A bat hit Meisha from behind, pinning her on her stomach to get at the source of the blood. Frantically, she rolled, but her vision was all leather and claws. Meisha stabbed with the dagger, making a slit in the creature’s wing. Slashing diagonally, she split the leather curtain in half and scrambled free.

  She crawled to Talal and rolled the boy onto his stomach. Slapping the bats away, she lay flush against his back. Blood from a dozen bites soaked her as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Close your eyes and don’t move,” Meisha said against his ear. Without waiting for him to comply, she chanted a spell and prayed the pain wouldn’t make her lose consciousness.

  The flame column wavered and dropped, falling into itself like a water spike in a dying fountain. Plunging straight down, the fire emptied into Meisha’s spine.

  The Harper came up with a howl, her back arching. Flames burst from her wound, her eyes, and her mouth, smothering the bats in a blanket of charnel heat. She hoped her body was enough to protect Talal from the upward blast of flame. The oily scent of burning meat filled the air as bats rained around her.

  Meisha came down on her back, gulping air that tasted foul but felt sweet on her lungs. Dizziness caused the cavern’s ceiling to waver and bend, but at least there were no more bats.

  She looked around for the choker and found it huddling out of range of the fire cloud, dangling from the stalactite where Braedrin’s body had been. Lambent eyes watched them in the flickering light from the burning corpses.

  It was weighing how much of a fight they had left to offer, Meisha thought.

  Angrily, she flung out an arm, focusing on her tingling fingertips, gathering power until … there, just enough. A tongue of flame sparked from her finger, illuminating her nail with a purple glow. She followed that glow with her eyes as she traced a circle above her head and around Talal’s shoulder, past their feet and back up, encasing them in a ring of power only Meisha could see.

  “Trothliese!” she cried, and fire sprang up where her finger had traced. The ward would last, even if she lost consciousness, but if the choker got brave and crossed the flames or dropped down on top of them, they’d be dead. Meisha hoped the fire and the deep dagger wound would be enough to convince the creature not to risk it.

  She lay back, letting the flames from the circle wash over her. Her eyes slid closed. She had no strength left.

  She awoke sometime later as if from a fever dream. Sweat poured off her skin, yet she shivered with cold. The ward fire still burned.

  “Are you spent?” asked Talal. He was sitting up, his knees drawn under his chin. He looked like a small, terrified boy.

  Meisha angled her head to look at him. She smiled crookedly. “Hardly,” she replied.

  She looked beyond the ward, but the choker was gone. Braedrin’s body lay outside the circle, nipped and chewed by the deep bats. His eyelids were gone, making the whites appear huge in his ravaged face.

  “I think I can walk. We should get out of here.” Meisha pulled her gaze away from the chilling sight, just in time to see the dwarves walk through the cavern wall.

  They came through in silent procession, armed, ringing the fire ward with their own protective circle. There were ten in total, but Meisha’s shocked gaze fastened on the leader—a dwarf in dented plate armor, holding a broken battle-axe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Howling Delve

  4 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  I remember you,” Meisha whispered, when the dwarf came to stand in front of her.

  He shifted the weapon from fist to fist, and Meisha saw, in the hollow of a hairy throat, a translucent chain, as thin as a cat’s whisker. A pendant hung from the chain, with a carved scene depicting the figure of a mountain with a hole in its center.

  Meisha had seen a similar pendant around the neck of a gold dwarf scholar, long ago. And before that, around the neck of the ghost that haunted her a
rrival at the Delve. It was the symbol of Dumathoin.

  “Keeper of secrets,” she greeted the ghost.

  “Bearer of the Harp,” he replied. He stood so close, his breath should have stirred the air, yet Meisha felt nothing.

  The spectral circle fell back to flank their leader. The dwarves’ faces held no expression. Meisha wondered whether they saw her at all. When the leader spoke again, his eyes glowed with faint, silver light. Meisha felt the words scrape against her bones.

  “Take the warning.”

  Wetting dry lips, Meisha rose to her knees, which put her roughly at eye level with the ghost. She felt Talal scuttle behind her, pressing against her back. The dwarf paid him no attention.

  “What warning?” Meisha asked. “Who are you?”

  The dwarf didn’t move or make a sound, yet suddenly Meisha clutched her head. Screams reverberated in her mind. She looked back at Talal to see if he had heard them too, but the boy kept his eyes on the ground.

  Meisha waited for the ache between her temples to pass before looking back at the dwarf. “Was that you? What happened here? ”

  “Secrets at rest beneath the earth stay buried, or come to light, according to Dumathoin’s will,” the dwarf intoned. “We violated that law and brought the beast upon this plane. Dumathoin charges us to put it right. Take the warning to other secret keepers,” he repeated, and swung his axe point level with Meisha’s chest. Flames from her ward came up through the blade, casting an orange glow on the spectral metal. He stretched out his other hand in a fist. “Do not venture here.”

  “What did you—ahh!” Meisha’s hand flew to her chest. Coldness spread across her skin. She yanked back the fold of her jerkin where her Harper pin lay. The metal radiated a deep chill; her skin beneath the cloth was red with it. Meisha lifted the pin away from the tender flesh, but the dwarf had lowered his arm, and the cold began to fade.

  “Take the warning,” he repeated.

  Angrily, Meisha shouted, “What warning? We can’t take any warning anywhere! We’re trapped here, just like you. Unless you can show us the way out, your message won’t go ten paces without hitting a wall and splintering into silence.”

  The dwarf took a step forward. Talal whimpered, clutching at her clothes. “Stop. He’ll kill us. He killed Braedrin.”

  “No, he didn’t,” said Meisha, shaking the boy off. “The choker killed Braedrin.” She looked back at the dwarf. “Something else killed him, something else broke his axe. Is that what you want to keep hidden—the fire beast?”

  “And the magic that violates the stone,” said the dwarf.

  Meisha felt Talal stir behind her, but he kept silent. “Varan’s tinkerings?” she asked.

  “Magic builds upon magic, layer by layer, century upon century, until it is too bright and terrible to comprehend. We collected the power here, and the power brought the beast. It was not our intention, and now we must pay for our crime. We must keep him bound.”

  “That’s where Varan is getting his components,” Meisha realized. “The secret caverns are yours. All those years ago, he found one of your bolt-holes. He created an extra-dimensional pocket to get to them, and now he’s plundering the magic you left behind to make his toys.”

  “The gathering power will wake the beast. He seeks release; the walls are breaking down. Soon he will be free.”

  “We can’t subdue Varan without risking him bringing down the whole cavern system,” Meisha said. “We need help.” Take the warning. She grasped her Harper pin as an idea began to form. “Your power affected this,” she said. “Can you affect the same object, at a greater distance? Can you push your power through the earth?”

  “I can,” the dwarf said. “There will be a price.”

  Meisha didn’t like the sound of that, but she didn’t see any other way. “The closest person …” Gods, she thought, when I tell him it’s Balram, he’ll come running. He won’t know what to make of this. “It will have to travel over many miles,” she told the dwarf.

  “What are you doing?” Talal wanted to know.

  “Sending a message,” said Meisha.

  “What is it?” Kall asked.

  Kall and Dantane stood over the wizard’s worktable while Dantane sifted through the charred remnants of the magic that had killed the lute player, Dynon Chadossa.

  “Whatever the outcome, the magic’s intended effect was to create an illusion, something to make the boy appear and sound as a woman to conceal his identity,” Dantane said.

  “I spoke with his family privately this morning,” said Kall. “Lord Chadossa, as far as I could tell, appeared genuinely baffled. He was unaware his son even enjoyed music, let alone possessed a talent for bardcraft.”

  “It would appear Dynon didn’t want his father to know about his shameful hobby,” Dantane observed as he dug out one of the charred roots for closer inspection.

  “There’s no profit in bardcraft in Amn, not if you’re the son of a wealthy lumber merchant,” said Kall. “The boy must have realized his family would be subject to ridicule if word got out that he spent his nights plucking a lute instead of helping his father challenge the Bladesmiles for their stake in the lumber trade. He’d’ve done better building instruments instead of playing them.”

  “The punishment will be much worse now that he’s been killed employing a magical device—a faulty one at that.” Dantane tossed the root aside and went for another.

  “There will be no retribution from the families,” Kall said. “Chadossa has seen to that.”

  Dantane raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Amn has suddenly developed a forgiving nature when lives are threatened by horrific wizardry?”

  “The family officially reported Dynon missing as of this morning. A search is underway, but the outlook is unfavorable. The Lady Chadossa is sick with grief, or so I’m told,” Kall said, his voice flat. “The body of the lute player is being reported as an unidentified human female, as many witnesses can attest.”

  “You know it’s Chadossa’s son. Chadossa knows.”

  “Yes, but in the lord’s words, ‘sullying his family’s name with magic won’t avenge the boy’s death.’ An investigation into where he acquired such dangerous magic might, but Chadossa seemed uninterested in that suggestion,” Kall said bitterly.

  “What did he offer you in exchange for your silence on the matter?” asked Dantane.

  Kall looked away. “A substantial loan—enough to cover my remaining debts—with next to no interest attached. He was most … generous.”

  Dantane looked impressed. “Then your worries are over. You can reestablish your father’s business in a season. Many blemishes on your name will be forgotten in the wake of such a feat.”

  Kall shot the wizard a withering glance. “I will keep my silence, but I didn’t take the deal, as you knew I wouldn’t.”

  “How would I know?” countered the wizard, appearing genuinely surprised. “Any merchant family in Amn would welcome Chadossa’s offer, and if I’m not mistaken, your goal is to count yourself among their elite. I know nothing of your motives or character, nor do I care to learn. If you wish to impress someone with your nobility, seek out your lady. Oh, but I forget,” Dantane said, sneering, “She only pretends to be yours, as part of your ruse. Go to the friends who watch over you, then, if you can root them out from their hiding places.”

  Kall bristled. “You speak outside your experience, Dantane. Tread lightly where my friends are concerned.”

  “Of course, Lord Morel.” Dantane offered a mocking half-bow. “Perhaps, if you feel the need to prove something, you should avenge the boy’s death yourself. You obviously want to, since Chadossa will not. My only interest in the matter is how long you can continue to pay my salary, and since you refused Chadossa’s offer, the answer to that is clear. Fortunately for you, this”—he rustled the ashes of the lute player’s bane—“interests me greatly. Its age alone makes it worth a fortune Dynon Chadossa could not have hoped to have lying about.”

  “H
ow old?” asked Kall, setting aside his anger for the moment.

  Dantane held up the tendril he’d been examining. “I was wrong. These aren’t roots. They’re threads. The ones which remained intact after the burning are made of some type of ore. The item is not plant-based, and no wonder. I’m only estimating, but some of the components appear to be over a thousand years old.” His voice rose excitedly. “But there’s more. There are layers here, magic from multiple casters who may or may not have lived in the same century. It’s as if I’m unraveling a tapestry put together by different weavers. I’m going to attempt to identify the layers. If I can do that, I might be able to determine where the magic malfunctioned, turning the boy from a woman to a monster.” He gestured for Kall to move aside. “You’ll want to observe from a safe distance. If whatever affected Chadossa’s son tries to attack me as well …”

  Kall’s sword hissed from its scabbard. “You’ll have a quick death,” he said.

  “I was going to say I’ll need your aid to break free,” Dantane said sourly, “but I’ve just now reconsidered. Stand back.”

  Reluctantly, Kall moved to the far side of the room and stood near the window. He rested his sword point down in front of him and leaned against the wall, waiting.

  Dantane knelt on the floor, placing the remnants of the item in a prepared circle of symbols drawn in chalk lines on the floor. His fingers moved, stiffly at first, gradually gaining speed and dexterity. Steepling his thumbs, the wizard pressed the backs of his fingers tightly together in a rough imitation of one of the symbols on the floor. The corresponding mark burst into a blue radiance. The wizard continued to gesture, and each of the symbols in turn lit to join a strange, pulsating dance around the charred item.

  Kall raised a hand against the sting of the blinding light. If Dantane succeeded, he wondered, then what? Chadossa’s own family didn’t care what had caused Dynon’s demise. Why did he? Was it simply because he’d had a taste of Dynon’s life—because he’d known the father who gave nothing of himself, except his name, to his son?