Wildmane

by Todd Fahnestock

  There were three guards, though Mirolah had only seen one. For some reason, only a guard named Gort was allowed to look at her. Perhaps they were afraid she would control them.

  Her prison was stone and mortar walls on three sides. The fourth was iron bars. They were rammed into the floor and the ceiling. On the left-hand side squatted a thick wooden door. Gort stood in front of the bars, short and stout. He was only a few inches taller than Mirolah, but half again as wide with thick shoulders and a thick neck. He smiled at her, and she saw he was missing several teeth.

  She stared back at him through red-rimmed eyes. The air began to lighten between them. Something had shifted in her head, and every time she concentrated on someone, the brightness returned, began to connect them. She felt his emotions. He was slightly afraid of her, but not very. Perhaps he didn’t believe the stories of her using GodSpill, but she’d heard him talking all night long. He had no qualms about hanging her. He liked hanging people. It excited him. It didn’t matter to him what they had done, just as long as he got to see someone swing.

  “She’s a cute one,” Gort said in his gravelly voice to the other guards out of view. He watched her through the bars.

  Mirolah didn’t move, but continued to stare at the man with her knees tucked under her chin.

  “You only ever think about one thing, Gort,” one of the other guards called from down the hall. Get back in here and finish your throw.”

  “What could it hurt?” Gort argued. “She’s going to be dead in the morning. Seems a waste.”

  “You open that cell door, and the magistrate put you in the next cell over.”

  “Not if he doesn’t know,” Gort said.

  “And how’s he not going to know?” the guard called back.

  “If you don’t tell him and Keru doesn’t tell him, how will he know?”

  “By Thalius, Gort! You haven’t got two wits to rub together. I suppose the girl’s just gonna kiss you and keep her mouth shut after? Get back in here and finish your throw before I come break your head!”

  Gort frowned, but he didn’t move. She could feel his twisted lust across the bright air that connected them. She wanted to cry, but she held her tears in. It was all a nightmare, but she didn’t get to wake up from this one.

  “Gort, I’m telling you, get away from the girl—” The guard’s voice stopped abruptly. Silver light splashed across the wall behind Gort. There was a grunt and a thud. Keru shouted in shock, but was also cut off. There was another thud, a body hitting the ground.

  It all happened in less than a second. Gort lost his frustrated frown, and his eyes widened. He went for his short sword and yanked it from the leather sheath. Mirolah jumped to her feet. Was it another monster from the night, come to finish her?

  “What the hell are you?” Gort exclaimed, holding the sword pointed down the hall. Mirolah couldn’t see the guard’s antagonist, but she heard a light, quick panting.

  Silver light lit the walls again and a blur of silver streaked around Gort. The light was opaque, and it was as if Gort was being wrapped up in a snake. He swung with his sword, but the silver flash wound around and around him and his sword fell to the ground. Gort gasped, then grunted. His head snapped forward, and he staggered. He grunted again and struck the stones like a felled tree.

  The silver streak stopped, and a boy of about twelve stood before her cell. His thin body sagged against the bars, and he took great, deep breaths. His grip faltered and he slid to his knees, his lungs pumping. Long, silver hair fell forward to eclipse his pale face. He stayed that way for a long moment, recovering his breath as if he’d just run the entire length of The Arm. Mirolah said nothing, but walked a step forward.

  Her newfound vision lightened the air between them. She saw bright strings of light all around him, dancing and playing like otters.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, kneeling next to him and touching the bars between them.

  The boy looked up. His eyes were the same silver color as his hair. He blinked, swallowed, and said, “I am Stavark. Reader Orem sent me.” He crawled to Gort’s body and rummaged around until he produced the keys. He rose on shaky legs and staggered to the wooden door.

  Her gaze stayed on Gort as Stavark unlocked the door. “What did you do to them?”

  The door swung wide and Stavark stood there, regarding her with huge, silver eyes that were so large they seemed to drink her in. “I hit them,” he said.

  “But...they’re three times your size. How could you possibly knock them down like that?”

  Stavark smiled wearily. “I hit them many times. A hundred each.”

  She swallowed and stepped hesitantly out of the cell.

  The boy looked up at her. “Reader Orem waits in the forest. He wishes to talk to you. Will you come?”

  “But, my family—”

  He shook his head. “These humans will kill you. They are vakihrk.” He glanced down the hallway, then back at her. “Orem will take you away. They will not catch him.”

  She clenched her teeth. “But I don’t want to leave. This is my home!”

  He frowned. “You are syvihrk. They are vakihrk,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  Tears welled in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks. This was her fate then? Death or exile?

  “Yes,” she said. “I will go with you.”

  “He is near. Come.” The boy turned and leapt lightly over Gort’s body. She edged her way around, then followed.

  Stavark was like a squirrel. He padded across the floor noiselessly, looking left then right, then he poked his head out of the door. He looked back at her and nodded, then disappeared into the night. Mirolah emerged onto the street. There was no one awake at this hour. The torches that lined the main street were low and almost spent. She guessed it was a few hours to sunrise.

  He led her down the road to the first break in the buildings. Something tall and slender emerged from the shadows, and she stifled a scream.

  “Mirolah, it’s okay,” Orem said, pushing back his cowl to reveal a human face, human skin.

  “Orem...” she gasped. “There was a monster. He came for me and...”

  “It’s over now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I swear it.”

  “It killed my...my sister. It was going to kill me.”

  He took her in his arms and she hugged him, laid her head on his chest. He smelled like leather and dust and sweat. He held her for a moment, then broke the embrace.

  “I want to hear every single thing that happened,” he said. “But we aren’t beyond the reach of Rith’s magistrate just yet. We have maybe an hour before every able-bodied person in Rith will be looking for you. We’d best be well away by then.”

  He led her down the alley, but Mirolah stopped and looked back in the direction of the main street. The low torches gave an orange glow to the packed earth she had walked over a hundred times.

  “I’m never coming back, am I?” she whispered, thinking of Casra, Locke, of all of her sisters. She would never see Lawdon and Tiffienne, who had been kinder to her than anyone in her life.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes you are. Of course you are.”

  “How can I?”

  “When you return, you’ll return in triumph,” he said.

  She had a vision of what her life should be. Working at Vaisha’s Fountain. Reading letters. Saving money. Finding a husband. Raising children. A quiet, successful life. Simple and honest and beautiful.

  That future lay in smoking ruins.

  A different future opened before her then. Mere days ago, Orem had been a danger, a destroyer of that vision she held for her life. Now he was her rescuer, and she would follow him anywhere. He was the only thing left that was safe.

  And he knew that.

  She swallowed and said, “Did you send it?”

  He was quiet for a moment as he tried to understand what she was asking. Finally, he said, “The darkling?”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “I d
idn’t send it. How could you think that?”

  “Because I don’t know you.”

  “Then know this—”

  “No,” she interrupted him. “I don’t want one of your speeches. I want the truth. You came here, and you asked me to leave with you. I refused. Then, days later, I’m forced out of my home by a monster. Then you show up with a creature from legend.” She gestured at Stavark. “And rescue me. And I have no other choice but to follow you.”

  He paused, his mouth open to say something, and then he laughed. “Gods, Mirolah. I’m just so happy you’re alive.”

  “Did you send it? Because I would rather die than go with the man who killed my sister.”

  He sobered, and he took her by the shoulders, looked her in the eyes. “I did not kill Fillen. Those darklings breed like bees to the north, all around Daylan’s Fountain. They are going to consume Amarion. This is what we are facing. Fillen is only the first of many casualties if something isn’t done. And I don’t believe she was its target. That darkling was sent to kill you. Fillen just got in the way. And they’re going to keep coming.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because of who you are. Because they can sense the GodSpill in you. Because you’re the only one who can stop them.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Everything,” he said. “Anything. When you learn what you need to know, those darklings won’t be able to touch you.”

  “What are they?

  “Lesser children of the god Dervon. Twisted versions of humans.”

  “Dervon the Dead?” she asked.

  “But his children still live.”

  “And if I go with you, can you escape the magistrate and his men?”

  “Yes,” Orem said.

  “And the darklings... Can you protect me from them?”

  He hesitated. “You can,” he said.

  “But I can’t.”

  “With knowledge, with time, you will. Stavark and I will give you that time. And until the day you are ready to face them, we will hide you.”

  She paused. “I don’t want this,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry...” he said, trying to sound sincere.

  But she didn’t believe him. He may not have sent the darkling, but this was what he wanted. And now, it was all she had.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  18

  Mirolah

  Orem was as good as his word. Mirolah didn’t see so much as a trace of the magistrate or his men during the next few days. Orem was an accomplished woodsman and seemed to be experienced at evasion. He stopped at certain places and meticulously covered their trail. In other places, they blazed through the forest without a care for stealth. He chose their path with a swift confidence.

  Just before the sun began to rise, they came upon a quiet glade where three horses were tethered. Mirolah had never ridden before, but Orem coached her through it with unfailing patience.

  For three days, he led them west at a steady pace and for three days Mirolah barely slept and barely ate. She didn’t talk at all, even though Orem tried to engage her in conversation every night. He never pushed, only offered. He seemed to understand she needed to be alone with her thoughts.

  On the third day, just as the sun was setting, they reined in at the shore of a vast ocean. The water stretched out on either side of them as far as the eye could see.

  “The Inland Ocean,” she murmured. She stretched a stiff leg over her horse and dismounted, wincing. She already had sores on the inside of her thighs and knees. A skirt was not appropriate riding attire, but she had nothing else. Orem apologized for not having thought of acquiring proper riding breeches for her, but had not expected to have to take her from Rith so abruptly.

  She stepped gingerly toward the shore, never taking her eyes off the expanse of the water. She had heard tales of the Inland Ocean, but never thought she would see it.

  Waves lapped delicately at the sandy shore, pulling back and curling, then toppling into themselves in a foamy roll that spread out on the smooth sand. Harbored against the pillars of a long, wooden walkway bobbed a small sailboat, thirty feet long. Its masts pointed at the sky, and its sails were rolled up tightly.

  Stavark and Orem dismounted and let their horses wander away to crop a nearby field of grass. Stavark went to the water and put his hand in.

  Orem came up beside Mirolah, who stared wonderingly at the ocean. “It’s...vast. Where does it all come from?”

  “Two different mountain ranges,” he said. “The Spine Mountains to the west and the Dragon Mountains far to the north.”

  “This is where the Southrock river goes, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “And the Quicksilver River, and the Dragon River.”

  “Where are those?”

  “Farther north,” he said.

  “Have you been there? To both of them?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ve been to a lot of places, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And the Inland Ocean, it’s not even as large as the True Ocean, is it?”

  “Not even close.”

  “By Thalius, how could there be more water than this?” she breathed.

  “The True Ocean is another world in itself, and not a welcome place to humans. Saraphazia does not like us in her waters.”

  Everyone knew the seven primary gods. Natra the Lifebringer, Zetu the Ancient, Oedandus the Binder, Saraphazia the Vast, Dervon the Dead, White Tuana, and Vaisha the Changer.

  “They say Saraphazia’s ocean stretches to eternity,” she said.

  “It certainly seems to. If there is something beyond it, only one man has ever seen it.”

  “Who?”

  “Wildmane came from over the ocean, from an island far away. So they say.”

  “But no one real has been across the ocean.”

  He cocked his head. “You think he wasn’t real?”

  “Well, no. A man with a god inside him? Was he?”

  He recited a line from a poem that Mirolah recognized.

  Over the hill the rider came

  The sun flashed gold on golden mane

  His sword a flame of godly wrath

  To kill the god upon his path

  “That’s from the poem Wildmane by Thedore Stok.”

  He nodded. “Do you know the whole thing?”

  “Yes. Was he real?”

  “He was,” Orem said. “Almost all of the well-known legends have a kernel of truth to them.”

  “I bet you like old legends,” she said.

  “There was a time when I did nothing but search for them. I memorized them, read every book in the royal library at Buravar, and everything that survived at the abandoned library in Clete.”

  “You’ve read every book at the libraries in two cities? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ve also listened to the village elders in every town I visited. I read and collect stories. That’s how I got the nickname ‘Reader Orem.’ I’ve read every story I could find.”

  “That’s...amazing.”

  “I’d rather be able to do what you do.” He winked. “All my life, I’ve wanted to be a threadweaver.”

  “How many old legends are there?” she asked.

  “Countless. The world was once full of heroes and threadweavers, dragons and unicorns and quicksilvers. And everyone has their favorite.”

  “Who is your favorite?”

  “I couldn’t possibly choose. There are so many.” He shrugged. “It used to be Wildmane, I suppose.”

  “But not anymore?”

  He hesitated. “I grew to love the less powerful heroes, those who prevailed by courage and wits, rather than godlike power.” He shrugged.

  “He’s my favorite,” she said. “I like the idea of someone who can live forever, fighting injustice everywhere. I wish there were really people like that.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You said he was real. Did he really killed the god Dervon?”<
br />
  “Yes.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  He was silent a moment, then said. “The poem Godslayer was as close to a history as any of those old ballads get, based on all of the research I have done.”

  “If he was immortal, wouldn’t he still be alive today?”

  “One would think so,” he said.

  She sat back, looked up at the sky, imagining Wildmane striding out of the woods right now. “All of the things he must have seen...” she murmured. “Maybe he’s out there, somewhere, just waiting for the right moment to return.”

  Orem shook his head.

  “No? But you said—”

  “Everything I know about Wildmane points to the fact that he died around the same time that the GodSpill left the lands.”

  “I never heard that story. How?”

  He shrugged. “He met his match.”

  “Zilok Morth?” Mirolah asked.

  “What do you know of Zilok Morth?” he asked.

  “He was Wildmane’s nemesis. A spirit who clung to life only to kill Wildmane.”

  “It wasn’t Zilok. Wildmane died of...” He trailed into silence.

  “Of what?”

  “Of heartbreak,” Orem said.

  They watched the water roll in for a long moment, neither speaking. She had the sense that he wasn’t telling her everything, but she couldn’t figure out why.

  Stavark walked up to Orem “We sail with the sunrise?”

  He nodded. “Take the horses to Valinda, if you would. Mirolah and I will set up camp.”

  Stavark nodded and began removing the saddlebags.

  “Valinda?” She asked.

  “She lives in a small fishing village not far from here.”

  “Pindish,” she said.

  “You know the area?”

  “We get letters from Pindish sometimes.”

  “Well, Valinda is a friend, and she’s met Stavark before. And since we cannot bring the horses with us on the boat, best to benefit a friend.” He turned to Stavark. “Also, ask her about riding breeches for Mirolah. She’ll need them.”