by JA Hutson
I don’t want to hurt them, though. Better to come quietly and try to understand what is happening.
They half-drag me back through the shadowy woods to the huts where a large crowd of the villagers is waiting. Bell and Deliah are also there, their hair sleep-mussed and expressions worried. I look for the Prophet and the weaver, and after a moment I find them as well, hovering near the back of the crowd. Ezekal looks like he’s considering running for the woods – I hadn’t been worried about this before, as I knew Deliah and I could recapture him easily, but he might have a chance to escape now if I’m imprisoned or punished for what I did.
Which was what, exactly? Kill a demon? What is going on here?
Someone shoves me in the back, sending me to my knees in front of the gathered villagers.
One of the men unleashes what must be an explanation in a torrent of words I don’t understand. He sounds outraged, and gasps rise up from the crowd as he speaks. I climb to my feet, the hollow pit in my stomach growing.
There’s a commotion from behind me, and I turn as five men with solemn faces emerge from the woods carrying the limp body of the demon, its hooks dangling down to trail in the moss. A wail goes up from the crowd like they’ve just been shown the corpse of a family member. Straining, the bearers of the dead Scythe lay it carefully on the ground and take a respectful step back. The monster’s long forked tongue lolls from its mouth, and its empty yellow eyes stare at me accusingly.
The woman who ate the ennocosia root pushes her way to the front of the grieving crowd. She stares at me with a mixture of shock and anger, and it looks in the flickering torchlight that she might have been crying.
“You killed a Guardian,” she states numbly.
“I . . . I . . . it was watching a woman bathe. I thought it was going to hurt her.”
Someone snorts. Bell, I realize. “Were you bathing with this woman, or just watching her secretly?”
Deliah takes a step closer to the sprawled body of the Scythe, her brow furrowed. “Guardian? This is a demon. We have fought and killed many like this.”
More gasps and angry whispers ripple through the villagers after the woman translates the lamias’s words. I sigh – that is probably not going to help calm this situation.
The crowd parts to reveal the wizened Keeper stumping towards us. She’s dressed in the same frayed yellow robes as earlier, and it appears the only thing keeping her upright is the gnarled black stick she’s leaning on. She halts a dozen paces away, her gaze traveling from me to the dead Shriven and then back again. Her expression is inscrutable. The rest of the villagers seem to be holding their breaths, waiting for her to speak.
Finally, she sighs and shakes her head. “Fool. Did you truly think this creature posed a threat to us? We live peacefully here by the grace of the Mother.”
I swallow hard. “Every time I’ve encountered these things it has ended in bloodshed.”
The old woman closes her eyes. She looks immensely weary. “The other Shriven will know. They all share a bond, and the death will be like a discordant string plucked deep in their souls. They will come soon.”
I finally stagger to my feet. “Then we must go now.”
The woman’s eyes flick open again and find me, her gaze so sharp my skin prickles. “Yes, run. My people want to punish you, I know, but they have no knowledge of violence. You and your companions are what their ancestors were once like, before we came to the Mother’s embrace. You cannot be saved; this world is not for you. My own brethren knew this, which is why only I remain.” She lifts her walking stick and points it, trembling, at the darkened forest. “Go. You are no longer welcome here.”
As she finishes speaking, a faint howling rises up from beyond the distant tree-tops.
13
“Oh!” Valyra cries, her arms flailing wildly as she stumbles over a root. She goes to her hands and knees, her foot still trapped, and for a moment my heart catches because I’m sure she has snapped her ankle. Trembling from exhaustion, she desperately tries to free herself, fingers scrabbling in the dirt. Another ragged ululation drifts through the trees, and it sounds the closest yet. Keeping my eyes on the forest’s tangled recesses I reach the weaver and crouch down beside her. Gripping the root I pull hard, lifting it from the ground, and she scrambles back to her feet.
“You have to run,” I tell her, but she just stares at me with hollow eyes.
“I can’t,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”
“If you don’t, we die,” I say, and she draws in a shuddering breath. Then she turns and continues her faltering run through the trees. Deliah is up ahead, and our gazes briefly lock. The Prophet and Bell must have continued on, not knowing Valyra had fallen, but the lamias lingered to see if I would be forced to make my stand here. Deliah has taken the lead in our desperate flight from the village, while I’ve stayed behind to guard our rear and help those who struggle. During the night it was worse, with Bell and Valyra tripping several times in the darkness and Ezekal smashing his head on a low-hanging branch. I was in the lead then, the glow of my green-glass sword illuminating our way, but as a gray dawn crept into the sky I traded places with Deliah. With the daylight filtering down from above there is less chance of running into a tree, but I know that eventually exhaustion will overwhelm my companions.
And the Shriven are getting closer.
It is only a matter of time before they catch us, and Deliah must realize this as well. She should be searching for a place to make a stand, somewhere defensible where we could avoid being surrounded. A rocky hill or gorge with a narrow approach would be perfect. I have no illusions about the number of Shriven closing on us – the countless echoing shrieks suggest a vast horde – but I want to drag as many of these bastards as I can down into the abyss with me. Yet we’ve come across no such natural redoubt so far. I’m beginning to fear that we’ll have to fight among the trees, and I don’t imagine us holding out for very long if it comes to that.
Another unnatural shriek shivers the air, close enough that I briefly pause and whirl around, scanning the forest for signs of movement. Nothing. I redouble my speed, my sword in my hand, trying my best to listen for the sounds of the demons crashing through the underbrush.
Cries come from up ahead. I’ve lost sight of the others, and the thought that they’ve blundered into an ambush fills me with terror. Fearing the worst, I burst from the trees and find myself at the base of a grassy hill not unlike where we first emerged from the Gate into this world. Relief floods me as I see my companions struggling up the rise towards where a crumbled stone structure is perched. It looks more a pile of stones than a building, but there are walls to impede the Scythes, and at this point all we can really hope is to make an assault as costly as possible for our pursuers.
My legs churn the loose dirt and grass as I rush up the slope. I’m halfway up when bone-tingling screeches make me glance over my shoulder. Flashes of movement are visible among the trees, moving quickly. I turn around and put my head down, promising myself I won’t look again until I reach the top.
When I arrive at the first tumbled bit of the structure I’m gasping and my side is burning. I have to lean against the ancient stone to keep from collapsing, and I twist around so that my back is pressed against the wall and I can see what’s happening below. The fringes of the forest are seething with shadowy shapes, but none of the Shriven have ventured out into the open.
Why aren’t they surging up the hill? Are they waiting for something? A Voice to arrive, perhaps? Whatever the reason, we need to seize this respite and establish some sort of defensive perimeter.
“Deliah,” I say when I finally manage to master my breathing, tearing my eyes from the demons flitting through the trees. But she has disappeared. More crumbled walls block my view of what’s deeper within the ruins, so with some reluctance I move from where I can see what’s happening below to discover where my companions have gone. I feel like I’m turning away from an enemy poised to shove a dagger into my ba
ck, but that can’t be helped now. The coming fight is inevitable.
After a few twists and turns the ruins open up into a soaring space. Ragged holes pockmark the faded mosaic that once covered the ceiling, which is an image of a great tree with dark winged birds clustered along its branches and tiny figures dancing among its roots. Valyra, Bell and Ezekal have collapsed on the floor of dirt and shattered tile, absolutely spent. Deliah has her hands on her knees and is staring across the ruin to where an old man in threadbare gray robes is calmly ladling steaming liquid from a pot hanging over a small fire into a bowl. Whistling tunelessly, the stranger slides the bowl onto a long, rough-hewn table and reaches for another one. As he does this, he waves his hand vaguely towards the rough-carved stumps that are arrayed around the table.
“Come on, come sit. Lucky I made enough today, yes you are.”
Deliah and I share a look of confusion. Then she straightens, unlimbering her glaive as she glances back the way we’ve come.
The old man gasps and throws his arms up, sending the liquid arcing from the bowl he’s holding. “Mercy!” he gasps. “The soup is yours, mighty warrioress!”
“No,” I say hurriedly, holding out my hands to try and show that we’re not a threat. “You don’t understand. There are monsters behind us. They’ll be here in moments. I’m sorry, we’ve brought death to your door today.”
The old man blinks watery eyes at me, and then peers inside the recently emptied bowl in his hand. His look is one of sad regret. Then he shrugs and spoons in a fresh helping.
I sigh, striding further into the chamber. We’ve interrupted a madman’s lunch.
“Bell,” I say, taking command. “I want you behind the table with your crossbow facing the way we entered.” There are other entrances to this space, listing doorways that appear to lead into more ruins, but the way we came in seems like the most obvious approach. The scientist’s daughter nods dully at my words, and despite clearly being beyond exhausted she drags herself to her feet and moves towards the table and the old man.
“Valyra, Ezekal, I want you both with Bell, and if –”
“Lad, lad, lad,” the old man says, tutting as he shakes his head. “Sit down, have some soup.”
“There are demons outside,” I grate, glancing around to try and find somewhere the others could hide or retreat when Deliah and I are overwhelmed. I start as my eyes alight on three small shapes crouching in a corner. Children in ragged clothes, intent on some game they are playing. They haven’t even taken notice of us. My heart sinks when I see them – being responsible for what will happen to the old man is already weighing on me, but children as well? Would they have any chance if they fled now?
“Are you sure?” the old man says calmly, apparently unmoved by the fear in my tone. “Perhaps you should make certain before the soup gets cold.”
Deliah growls something under her breath and strides back through the shattered entrance. I’m too stunned to react until she’s already vanished, then I mutter a curse and follow.
“Deliah! What are you doing?” I cry as I emerge again into the sunlight. She’s standing a few paces down the slope, the butt of her glaive planted in the long grass as she scans the tree line below.
It’s empty. There is no movement that I can see, no shadowy shapes prowling in the forest’s depths. The Shriven have disappeared.
The lamias glances at me, her violet eyebrows raised. Then she shrugs and slips the glaive across her back again. “Soup sounds good,” she says, brushing past me as she re-enters the ruin.
I stand there for a while longer, staring down at the woods, trying to imagine where our pursuers have gone. Then I also turn away, sheathing my sword. It seems bad form to question miracles.
Inside, my companions have found seats around the long table. Ezekal and Valyra have already started to inhale the soup before them, apparently unconcerned about accepting food from strange old men dwelling in ruins that frighten away demons. Bell looks a bit more unsure, stirring the contents of her bowl with her spoon and then lowering her face to sniff the steam.
“Come, sit!” the old man exclaims, placing a bowl in front of Deliah as she collapses heavily on one of the stumps. The lamias dips a red finger in the thick gray liquid and sucks on it, then reaches for one of the wooden spoon in the center of the table and begins to attack the soup in ravenous hunger.
“The demons are gone,” I say as I slide into the seat next to Deliah.
The old man turns from the pot, bringing me a bowl. Its content is gray and viscous and gives off the strong aroma of mushrooms. My stomach contorts in anticipation.
“Hmm?” the old man murmurs as he fills more bowls and places them at the uninhabited end of the long table. “Demons? No such thing, lad.” He cranes his head in the direction of the three children, who are still engrossed in their game. “Boys! Lunch!”
An explosion of movement and pattering feet as the dark-haired children abandon whatever they’ve been playing with and rush towards the table. They throw themselves onto the stumps and immediately begin slurping the soup straight from the bowls.
“There are,” I say testily. “They chased us all through the night and the morning.”
The old man shrugs as he takes his own seat. “Well, as you said, they’re gone now.” He picks up his spoon and grins at me through his gray beard. “Let’s eat.”
I ignore the pleading of my belly and keep my gaze locked on the old man. “Who are you? What is this place?”
The old man’s eyes widen and he lowers his spoon, a dribble of soup trickling through his beard. “Oh! My apologies! Did I truly not introduce myself? I am Zev, and this is my home.”
“You must be from our world,” Bell says slowly, lifting her spoon and letting the gray liquid dribble back into the bowl. Like me, she hasn’t touched her soup yet. “Since you speak our tongue so flawlessly.”
Zev smiles dreamily. “What? Another world? Heavens no. I’ve lived here forever.”
“But, then –” My words trail away as the boys in unison lower their bowls, and for the first time I get a clear view of their faces. Nothing out of the ordinary . . . except for their eyes, which are golden and cat-like, with vertical slits for pupils.
One of the boys grins at me, flashing pointed teeth. Then he slides from the stump and dashes back to where he was playing. The others follow a moment later, their bowls clattering on the table, each licked clean.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. As our eyes locked there had been a glimmer of recognition in the child’s gaze. And I feel the same. As if I have been in his presence before.
It hits me then like an avalanche, and I glance at Bell. She’s frowning, as if trying to pick apart the same mystery. And she will, I’m sure, unless I distract her.
“Bell,” I say loudly, and she starts, her focus shifting to me as she’s drawn out of her head. “What do you think? How could Zev here speak your world’s tongue if he’s never left his own?”
Her brow furrows. “Perhaps . . . another traveler gave him babbleroot sometime in the past?” She shrugs. “Otherwise, I have no idea.” Whatever resolve she’d maintained against partaking of the soup seems to have finally eroded. Frowning, she dips her spoon in the broth and takes one bite, then a larger one. Inwardly, I let out a sigh of relief as her attention sharpens on the food in front of her.
Because I remember where I’ve seen those sharp-toothed, strange-eyed children. An image of them appeared in my mind as I stood in Ysala’s Necropolis in front of a Gate I’d recently opened. A cold, ghostly presence had passed through me as a creature fled the barrow it had been trapped inside for so long, and in its memories I had seen these children.
The poelthari.
14
After the meal finishes, Deliah takes her glaive and goes outside to watch for the return of the Shriven. Bell, Valyra, and Ezekal find patches of soft earth breaking through the shattered tiled floor and collapse in exhaustion – before very long their breathing deepens as
they slip into unconsciousness. I stay at the table, peppering the old man with questions as he putters about cleaning up, but he deflects them all with an addled demeanor that I am more and more coming to suspect is not an act.
Finally, I slip from my stool in frustration and go to find Deliah. She’s sitting cross-legged in the long grass just beyond the entrance to the ruins, her glaive across her knees.
“Where did they go, do you think?” I ask as I settle beside her.
The lamias glances over at me. “I do not know. Nor do I expect to ever understand. All that matters is that they are gone. If they return, I will die fighting them here. If they do not, I will push onward and likely die fighting them somewhere else. I think there is little I can do to avoid this fate.”
“You expect to die?”
She shrugs. “Yes. But I am a warrior, and when the Moon Mistress chose for me my caste she told me that I must be prepared to sacrifice everything for Vel. And I am. I always have been. If killing this . . . Mother is the only way to save my sisters, then I will do that, or die trying.”
“Then it’s true you’re not just doing this for me,” I say lightly, trying to pull her back from the dark path her thoughts are wandering down.
She smiles, and she reaches out to lace her fingers in mine. “You are my mate . . . and I do love you, Talin. Which would bring a stern rebuke from the Moon Mistress if she heard me say that. But I’m not here only because of you.”
I lean over and kiss her gently. “It actually makes me very happy to hear that.” I stand, brushing my pants clean of the clinging grass. “Are you fine here for now? I’m going inside to rest. I’ll come and take over the watch when twilight falls.”
I leave her and enter the ruined hall again. My other companions are dead to the world, and Zev has vanished. Excited gabbling rises up from where the knot of children are playing.
The poelthari. When that strange presence had touched me I had glimpsed these children, but there had been other visions as well. Unknowable creatures shaped of light and shadow, their true forms slipping through my mind as I tried to grasp them. These children might not be the poelthari, but rather something that entity encountered during its travels.
