by JA Hutson
“This place is ancient,” I murmur, pausing for a moment to examine a pyramid of trepanned skulls.
“Our ancestors protect us from the demons,” says the warrior with the bone-threaded hair. “So long as we remain in the catacombs of Caer Dun we need not fear what stalks the surface.”
“Caer Dun,” Valyra breathes softly. The weaver has been silent since we encountered the Azure tribe, watching these strangers with unease. “That name is known to me.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“A holy city. The place where the gods passed down the mysteries of the Accordance. This used to be one of the greatest wonders of my people.” Her face clouds, and I know she’s thinking of the devastation we’d seen above.
“But there are more than just ghosts here,” I say, trying to cheer her. “Your people persist.”
“Not my people,” she says quietly, watching the ash-smeared warriors near us with barely concealed revulsion. “These souls have become something else.”
I’m about to ask her what she means by that when I suddenly realize that the leader of these Azures has stopped and is standing beside a great stone door.
“Show respect, strangers, for soon you will stand before the Salvation’s Sword.”
He pounds the flat of his hand upon the stone, and a moment later it begins to grind open. The leader cuts the bindings around our wrists and gestures with his torch for us to enter. Hesitantly, I step forward.
We are standing on the threshold of a vast chamber. Elaborately carved sarcophagi line the walls, while in the middle of the room is a vast smoldering firepit. Around this pit mill more of the Azure tribe, women and children and older men. They turn to stare at us as we enter, a few of the smaller children shrieking in fear and clutching at the legs of their mothers. Across from us, beyond the firepit, tiered steps lead up to a dais where a great high-backed chair fashioned from bones perches, not all of which are human. The great skull placed atop its backrest looks to have been torn from the body of a monster, and twin scimitars of curving bone are crossed behind it, casting strange shadows on the far wall.
A corpse sits sprawled in the chair, its withered arms dangling down, its sunken features lost to darkness.
Aside from the crying of a terrified child, there is no other sound in the hall except for the soft scuffing of my boots as I slowly approach the firepit and the silent, watching crowd.
I hold my hands up to show they are empty. “Greetings,” I say loudly to them, my voice echoing.
“Speak to the Sword of Salvation, stranger!” barks the one who led us here, and I glance around in confusion. None of the watchers look like they could be chieftain of this tribe.
“Guests,” rasps a voice, and my gaze returns to the chair on top of the dais.
The corpse has sat up. Claw-like fingers grip the polished joints that serve as arm rests as it leans forward.
“Come to find Salvation, no doubt.”
I step closer, near enough to the firepit that the warmth washes over me. I smell something rank – a charnel smell, and I can see blackened bones among the mounds of ash.
I bow my head towards the wraith peering down at me. “I am Talin, once of this world. These are my companions.”
“Once of this world,” the ancient man muses. His blue eyes seem to burn in his age-etched face. “You are not of this world any longer?”
I swallow, a bit uncertain how to proceed. The tribespeople are all watching me, still as statues. “I have . . . been elsewhere.”
“Through the Gates,” the old man says without hesitation.
“Yes,” I say, ducking my head again to recognize his knowledge. “You are wise, chieftain.”
“He is the Sword of Salvation,” snarls the captain, but the old man raises his desiccated hand to quiet the warrior.
“What Charol means, stranger, is that I am not the chieftain of the Azures. The Blue Sword died long ago, spitted on the end of a Shriven tusk.”
“But you lead here?” I ask.
In response the elder shrugs slightly. “I do.” His attention suddenly shifts to my companions. “And here I see three beautiful flowers. Come, Talin, tell me of them.”
I step aside so that the Sword of Salvation can better see my companions. “This is Deliah,” I say, gesturing at the lamias. “A mighty warrior from far away.” Deliah meets the old man’s gaze brazenly. “And here is Bell, also a stranger to this world.” Bell bows slightly, surprising me.
“Your eyes,” the old man murmurs, staring at the scientist’s daughter. “They are blue. In your realm do you belong to the Azure tribe?”
After I translate, Bell seems taken aback by the question. “No, Sword of Salvation. Where I am from, eye color does not determine our loyalties.”
The old man grunts and settles back in his chair, as if disappointed. “And the last?” he asks. “Another visitor from afar?”
“No, grandfather,” the weaver says, stepping forward. “I am Valyra, of the Coppers. Perhaps the last of my people. I was the weaver of my tribe.”
Astonished murmurs ripple through the crowd, and heads turn to stare at the old man on the throne.
“A weaver,” the Sword hisses, leaning forward again. “Can it be true? We thought they had passed into legend.” He raises his withered hand and points into a knot of his people. “Balan. Go to her.”
Hesitatingly, a boy limps forward, the others around him drawing back. His right leg has been splinted crudely with leather and metal, and his eyes are wide and terrified as Valyra walks to him and lays her hand upon his upper arm. She purses her lips and a shudder goes through the crippled boy, nearly toppling him as he cries out. Only her grip on his arm keeps him from collapsing. Out of the corner of my eye I see several of the warriors who led us here step forward holding their ancient weapons, but the old man on the dais stills them with a shouted command.
“Stop!” he cries, a grin splitting his wrinkled face. “Do not trouble the weaver. She is indeed what she claims.”
Valyra lets go of the boy and he stumbles away from her, his face flushed. It is clear that the leg that was bothering him has been much improved, and an older woman rushes over to wrap him in an embrace and drag him back to the crowd.
“A weaver,” the old man muses when the gasps and whispers have quieted. “When I was a young boy I saw a weaver in our old holdfast save my mother’s life. I did not expect to ever witness such a thing again.”
Valyra wipes a hand across her pale face. The healing of the boy has taken something out of her. “I was the only weaver left in my tribe,” she says. Valyra turns slowly, taking in the ash-smeared crowd and the firepit of burned corpses. “What happened to your old hold? How did you come to dwell here?”
The old man grunts, lacing his spidery fingers. “That is indeed a tale. Once, you see, we lived in a fortress of rock carved into the southern cliffs. Hidden from the Shriven, a place of safety and strength. I was born there, and trained in the ways of the Accordance, alongside the children of the Blue Sword. It had been a generation since anyone had seen the fabled demons, and we thought that they had moved on from this husk of a world.” The old man chuckles without humor, shaking his head. “The son of the Blue Sword – Chesian, my blood brother – he wanted to explore the wastes. I went with him, on those first expeditions. We found this dead city, and during our return also a single Scythe, which we quickly dispatched. We were feted as heroes when we arrived at our hold, but I was troubled. Chesian wanted to go again, pushing farther, to find what else remained of our people’s lost glory. I counseled against this, but he did not heed my words. And so he left with the brashest and bravest of my tribe, to prove that we could emerge from our ancient redoubt and reclaim dominion over what had once been ours.” His ancient head sags, strings of long gray hair veiling his face. “But it was not Chesian who returned. The Shriven fell upon us, and they knew the hidden ways into our fortress, the tiny fissures that only the Blue Sword and his kin should know. The Azures
were slaughtered.”
“Not all!” cries one voice, and I turn to find that the warrior who led us here is staring up at the old man.
“No,” the Sword of Salvation agrees. “I led an escape. Fifty men and women of my tribe fled with me across the wastes, while a thousand perished behind us. I brought them here, and together we discovered the entrance to Salvation.” He holds up his arms to encompass the vast chamber. “Here our ancestors protect us from the prying eyes of the demons above.” The old man grates a laugh. “I see you do not believe me, weaver. But we have found our own magic here.”
He reaches down beside his throne of bone and lifts a tarnished horn, then puts it to his lips and blows a trembling note. Immediately there is a commotion at the fringes of the chamber. A pair of figures in black robes are wrestling an ancient, shrouded corpse out of one of the sarcophagi. Some of the rotted fabric has fallen away from the thing, revealing shriveled gray flesh. This person – man or woman, I can’t tell – has been dead for a long, long time.
“What are they doing?” Deliah whispers as the robed men carry the corpse towards the firepit in the middle of the chamber, the crowd parting for them as they pass. A chant has started, low and droning in a language I don’t know. It reaches a crescendo of sorts as the men heave the corpse onto the smoldering fire. As soon as the shrouded form strikes the tangle of blackened limbs and mounds of ash a pillar of blue flame surges upwards. I raise my hands to protect my face, expecting a wash of heat, but instead coldness like a gust of frozen wind washes over me. When I look again the corpse has already half-crumbled away, merging with the rest of the remains filling the firepit.
“By the dead gods,” Valyra murmurs as the crowd pushes forward to scoop up handfuls of the ash, continuing their droning chant. They smear it thickly on their bodies, raising their grey-smeared palms to the old man watching avidly from his throne.
“There’s power here,” Valyra says. She looks dizzy.
“You see?” the old man crows, perched again on the edge of his chair. “The spirits armor us against the demons. They cannot hurt us, or see us. We have found here, beneath the corpse of this city, our Salvation.”
“Power, and more than a little madness,” Bell whispers to me, and I can hear her revulsion. The Azure tribespeople are almost frantic in their application of the ash, kneading it onto each other’s flesh with abandon.
“But there is a power we lack,” the old man says. He grips his bone armrests, and with some effort lifts himself to his feet. I can see his trembling from here.
“The old power,” he continues, staring at Valyra. “The power of weaving and raveling, of creation and destruction. Long have I wished one of our own would be born with the ancient gifts.” He raises his age-spotted hands to the soaring ceiling. “And our ancestors have answered! They have brought a weaver to us!”
A roar goes up from the seething crowd. They stop covering each other with the ash and join their Sword in holding up their darkened arms.
“Well, this is working out just how we hoped,” Deliah says, seeming to infer what the old man is saying. I glance over to see her expression, trying to tell if that was sarcasm or not.
I know Valyra’s opinion of the matter. She looks horrified at what’s transpiring in this place, and I can’t blame her.
I sidle over to Valyra as the roars continue. The old man seems to be feeding off his people’s excitement, his bent back straightening and the trembling in his limbs melting away. “What should we do?"
“This is a nightmare,” she whispers, clutching at my arm desperately. “Please, Talin. I cannot stay here.”
I put my hand over hers. “You don’t have to,” I assure her, although I’m worried about how Valyra and Bell will take this. We have found a place for Valyra, against all the odds. Would it be fair to keep dragging them deeper into this dead and dangerous land?
The hoarse bellowing of the crowd subsides. “Sword of Salvation,” I shout into the silence. “We are pleased that your people still survive, and we hope that someday you will be able to reclaim your world from the Shriven. But we cannot tarry too long. If you could share some water and food with us before we depart, we would be grateful.”
Every face turns up to where the old man still stands, his arms now crossed. His smile is rueful as he slowly shakes his head. “No, no, no. The ancestors have brought you to Salvation, and here you must remain.”
I sense Valyra stirring beside me. “We cannot, Sword.”
“You will,” the old man says simply, as if there could be no other possible response. “The weaver will stay and use her power to strengthen the Azures. Perhaps when she bears our children they will be blue-eyed and wield the same gifts.”
At this, a gasp comes from Valyra. I start casting about for the warrior who holds my green-glass sword, as re-acquiring my weapon will be the first step in carving a path out of here, but I can’t find him.
“And you,” the old man says, pointing a gnarled finger at me. “You the ancestors brought here as well.” These words are delivered in a vicious snarl, raw with anger and hate. “On you we will take our vengeance for what the Silvers did so long ago.”
“I did not –”
The crowd surges forward. Hands slippery with ash reach for us, a wave of gray-smeared bodies. I lash out, my fist shattering a jaw, but there are too many and I’m dragged to the ground. The smell of death is overwhelming, and the suffocating weight carries me into the darkness.
9
I awaken to blackness, my face pressed against cold stone. My head is pounding and my bones ache as if I’ve been squeezed in a giant’s fist. I moan, feebly exploring my surroundings with my hands: the ground is made up of ancient, cracked tiles inlaid with some design, scattered with ancient bones that feel human.
I hear a shifting in the dark, and then soft hands are touching me. “Talin?”
It’s Bell. She sounds unhurt, to my relief.
“Are you all right?” I ask, trying to sit. She realizes what I’m doing and helps pull me up.
“I’m fine,” she replies. “I didn’t fight back. Deliah, though . . . ”
My heart seizes as her words trail away. “Where is she? What happened?”
“She’s here,” Bell says quietly, finding my hand and guiding it to touch a smooth arm partially covered by chitinous vambraces. It doesn’t move at all, but at least the flesh is warm.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s her head. They cracked her skull, I think. Her hair is matted with blood and she hasn’t stirred at all since we were dumped in here.”
Fear claws at me. Please, by all the dead gods, let Deliah be all right. She healed remarkably fast after having her arm broken by the temple guardians in Ysala, recovering in weeks when it should have taken months. But how serious is this head wound? Panic is rising in me, making my insides twist.
“Valyra. She can heal her. Where is she?”
My eyes must be adjusting to the darkness, as I can vaguely see Bell’s shrug. “Not here. If I understand the old man correctly, she would be welcomed into their tribe. Congratulations, Talin, we succeeded.”
I ignore her bitter tone. “She doesn’t want to be here. She’s a prisoner, same as us.”
“Well, presumably she’s not dying in a dark cell without food or water.”
“Deliah won’t die,” I say forcefully.
“I hope not,” Bell whispers.
Silence settles between us as we each retreat to our own thoughts. I stroke the lamias’s limp hand, willing it to twitch. She remains motionless, though her pulse is strong. I wouldn’t expect anything less from Deliah – she would not be one to slip away quietly into the dark.
Time passes, and perhaps I doze for a while before a distant sound draws me back.
“Did you hear that?” Bell says from the darkness, and from the thickness in her voice she also must have just awakened.
“Yes. Food?” My stomach twists as I say this – it has been at l
east a day since I last ate anything.
Bell’s silhouette shudders. “Ugh. I can’t imagine what horrors these troglodytes eat.”
That is a good point. In the confused frenzy after the corpse was consigned to the flames, I thought I’d seen some of the Azure tribespeople scooping the ashes of the dead into their mouths. Surely I must be mistaken.
Footsteps are approaching, though whoever it is does not carry a torch. There’s a solid crunch that sounds like someone kicking the wall, and then a muffled cry of pain. I know that voice.
“Valyra!” I hiss, and then the footsteps swell louder. “Here! We’re here!”
“Talin!” the weaver says, and I can hear her fumbling nearby in the darkness. “Are you all right?”
“Deliah is hurt,” I say, crawling closer to the noise. Thick bars of cold iron block my way, but there’s enough of a gap between them that I can reach my arm through. My fingers snag cloth as someone passes close by, and then Valyra is crouched beside me, her hand squeezing mine.
“Where is she?” asks the weaver.
“I’ll bring her to you,” I tell her, then disentangle our fingers.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” Bell tells Valyra as I gently drag the lamias closer to the bars, trying my best not to jostle her.
“And yours as well,” Valyra replies to the scientist’s daughter.
With a grunt I gently pull the lamias within an arm span of the bars.
“Where . . . ah, here,” says Valyra, and moment later I feel Deliah’s skin growing warm. “She’s close to death,” the weaver murmurs. “But I can bring her back.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. At the same time, the lamias gasps, a shudder going through her. She tries to sit up, and I strain to keep her down.
“Hold, Deliah,” I say soothingly. “You’re with friends.”
She hand clutches at me with startling strength. “Talin,” she says huskily. “I feel . . . wonderful.”
“I remember that feeling,” Bell says, her disembodied voice floating out of the darkness.
