by Phil Tucker
A light was bobbing along the shoreline just ahead, pale blue and hovering over its own reflection in the water. Kethe swayed and sat. She could go no further.
The light came closer, and she saw that it was a lantern being held aloft by a young woman. There was no surprise on the woman’s face. She stepped up and spoke, but Kethe couldn’t make out her words. The blue light was emanating from a handful of insects that circled endlessly within the lantern, their abdomens glowing brightly. Kethe blinked. It was beautiful. Slowly, with a sigh, she toppled forward, and everything went dark.
Warmth seeped into her, brought her back to life. Kethe stirred and stretched. She felt soft furs beneath her, a heavy blanket above. A fire was crackling close by. She raised her hand to her temple and fluttered open her eyes. The slope of a roof was but a few feet above her, the beams carved with strange runes that beguiled the eyes.
Turning, she rose on one elbow and saw that she was inside a small cottage. A tidy fire was burning brightly in a stone fireplace, casting dancing light about the room. A brindled firecat lay before the fire asleep. The young woman was seated at a trestle table wrapping red twine around bundles of herbs. She was young but self-possessed, with a calm certainty to her movements and a maturity to her expression that made her seem as old as Kethe’s mother. Her black hair was pulled back into a thick braid, and her high cheekbones and dark liquid eyes made her beautiful. Asho, thought Kethe, would be tongue-tied around her.
“You’re awake,” said the woman, not hurrying as she finished bundling a final sheaf. Her fingers were long and clever, her voice a sensuous, shadowy purr. “I was sure you would sleep through the night. It’s not often I’m wrong.”
“Who are you?” Kethe went to sit up and realized that she was naked beneath the blanket. She clasped it to her neck hurriedly as she rose. “Where am I?”
“Such gratitude. It never fails to warm my heart.” The woman set the herbs down and leaned back. “I am your host. You are in my home.”
Kethe bit her lower lip and looked around the cottage. It was filled with all kinds of intriguing objects and was deliciously inviting, from the crimson and burgundy wall hanging with golden glyphs painted down its length to the thick furs that covered the cottage floor. A pot of something savory was bubbling over the flames, and endless jars and vials glimmered on shelves in the firelight, holding everything from live frogs to small bones to herbs and inks and more.
“Your home.” Kethe gathered herself. What had happened? She recalled a dancing blue light. Black rushing waters. A bellow chasing her through the night. She clutched tightly at her blanket. “We’re not safe. Out there. In the night. A demon. We have to run.”
“Yes, I know of what you speak.” Perversely, the woman smiled. “You need not worry about that while you are with me.”
“I don’t?” Kethe blinked. “Who are you?”
“Questions, questions, questions. But I suppose it’s natural. You may call me Mæva. But that’s not what you’re really asking, is it?”
Mæva rose gracefully to her feet. She was wearing a black leather skirt that that hid her feet, intricate patterns sewn along its hem with copper thread. A shawl of black and violet was wrapped around her waist, with a belt of worked bronze slung about her hips with numerous pouches hanging from it. Her midriff and shoulders were bare, for she wore only a wrap of similar black leather around her chest. Numerous bands and metal rings decorated her arms, and tattoos of swirling design adorned her shoulders. A leather choker was pulled tight about her neck, and the whole ensemble made her seem eldritch and fey, striking and wild.
Mæva stepped around her table to Kethe’s bed and sat on its edge. Her irises were almost completely black, inquisitive and amused and piercing. She smelled of the forest, of bark and herbs, of soil and sunlight on leaves. She smiled, but the expression seemed only to make her all the more predatory. “You wish to know not who I am, but what. Am I right?”
Kethe swallowed and fought the urge to shrink back. “You live alone. Monsters stalk the woods. You don’t seem afraid. Or mad. So, yes: what are you?”
Mæva’s smile deepened. “I am one who has grown wise to the ways of the woods. Fortunately for you, or you might be face-down in the dirt right now, staring into the mulch, your last breath dissipating in the uncaring night air.” Mæva reached out and traced the line of Kethe’s jaw, and at this Kethe did flinch. Mæva laughed coldly and walked to the pot that was bubbling on the fire. Her firecat woke and shook out its wings before turning to study Kethe. Its eyes were a disturbing, curdled yellow, without pupils or sclera. “What were you doing, incidentally? Surely not hunting that beast alone?”
“No, not alone.” Kethe tore her gaze away from the firecat, which was watching her with eerie self-possession, and looked around for her clothing and armor. She couldn’t spot them. “My friends and I are trying to help a farm. That—that monster—was going to attack it. It attacked us, though. Took us by surprise. In a part of the woods called the Neck?”
“Hmm,” said Mæva, nodding as she lifted the lid and stirred the food. Kethe’s mouth flooded with saliva. “Yes. A thick stand of black balsams. I know of where you speak. Which means you must have entered the river through the Gouged Eye.” She glanced over her tattooed shoulder at Kethe. “The sinkhole?”
Kethe nodded. “I jumped in. It was chasing me.”
Mæva nodded and hefted the pot off its stand, then moved it to her table, where she set it down on a square of plaited rushes. “It’s almost a mile from the Eye to where I found you.” She pulled out two wooden bowls. “I’m impressed. Before tonight I would have doubted anybody could survive what you did.”
“Yes, well.” Kethe shifted uncomfortably. “I almost didn’t. Um… where are my clothes?”
“Drying. Here.” She brought over a bowl and spoon and handed them to Kethe. The bowl was filled with vegetable soup, which smelled exquisite. “Eat.”
“Thank you.” Kethe finally felt herself again. “And thank you. For everything. For bringing me here, for… saving my life.”
Mæva sat and filled her own bowl. “How civilized. Gratitude after all. You’re welcome. Though, to be honest, I was expecting you. I’m not in the habit of saving every drowned rat I come across.”
“You were expecting me?” Kethe paused, spoon halfway to her mouth.
Mæva nodded. “Who are you, my little drowned rat? Why are you important?”
“Important? I’m not important. Not in any real way.” Kethe wanted to shovel a hot spoonful of soup into her mouth, but Mæva’s dark eyes held her trapped. “I’m Kethe Kyferin, daughter of the former Lord Kyferin, of Kyferin Castle and Mythgræfen Hold.”
For the first time Mæva looked surprised and unsure of herself. “Are you now? A Kyferin? Of direct descent?”
“Direct…? Yes. Of course.” Kethe finally ate some of the soup. It was delicious. Lumps of soft roots were mixed in with herbs and crushed nuts. Creamy and rich, it warmed her all the way down to the core and banished the last of her chill.
“Kethe Kyferin. You must have come through the Raven’s Gate two nights ago, during the full moon. And already you’re hunting demons in the Lower Wood with Hrethings. Why would a young lady of your rank do such a thing?” Mæva rested her chin on the base of her palm, eyes gleaming. “To help them, perhaps, from the goodness of your soul. Or perhaps you are short on knights who might do this hunting for you. And such a rapid descent from the Hold to Hrething speaks of need. Did you come ill-supplied from Kyferin Castle? If so, why? A hurried escape? Was the castle besieged?”
Kethe was shaken by Mæva’s astute line of reasoning. Demon? “I applaud your wit, my Lady.”
Mæva snorted. “I’m no lady. Mæva will suffice.”
“All right. But yes. We’re in dire straits up at the Hold. My father was killed in battle.” It was the first time she’d managed to say that out loud in one go. “My mother and I were banished by my uncle, who took custody of my younger brother. We were forced through
the Raven’s Gate against our will.” Why was she telling this strange woman all this? Mæva’s dark gaze seemed to compel her. “My uncle is going to send an armed force against us through the Talon in two weeks’ time, to make sure we never return. We need all the help the Hrethings can spare.”
“And the Black Shriving only two months hence. I wonder if your uncle knows what wheels he’s set in motion, sending a full-blooded Kyferin to the Hold.” Mæva smiled cruelly. “Somehow, I doubt it. Men rarely think through to the true consequences of their actions.”
“All right, enough.” Kethe reluctantly set aside her soup. “What’s going on here? Demons? Black Shriving? This all has to do with Mythgræfen Hold, doesn’t it? And my family line?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.” Mæva’s amusement was evident. “Yes, child. Demons and more. Much, much worse than what you have seen. You’ve come to a dangerous and forgotten land. Some might say inimical to people like you.”
“But not yourself?” Kethe fought her frustration.
The firecat rose and leaped into Mæva’s lap, and Mæva began to stroke its neck. “Ashurina and I survive.” The firecat—Ashurina?—was staring at her with its unnatural yellow eyes. The arrogant curl of Mæva’s lips indicated she enjoyed the understatement. “But you won’t last long if you set out hunting demons at night. I’d advise you to stop with such foolishness.”
“That thing needs to be destroyed,” said Kethe, trying not to sound sullen. “Now more than ever.” She paused, and realized that she’d yet to receive a straight answer from Mæva on any of her questions. “I thank you, as I’ve said, for your help. You are clearly…” She hesitated, waving a hand as she sought the right adjective. Mæva raised an eyebrow as she waited. “Clearly a very competent lady. Would you please help me rejoin my companions?”
Mæva shook her head. “Not tonight. You wouldn’t survive the trip. You need to rest. Perhaps in the morning.”
Kethe curled her hand into a fist. “They’ll be worried about me.”
“As well they should be. But, no, I will not lead you outside, only to drag you back here again when you collapse. You were near death when I found you, girl. Only my skill as a healer has you talking and feeling remotely close to normal.”
Kethe sighed. She sensed the truth in Mæva’s words in the depths of her exhaustion—and the numerous aches and bruises and scrapes that seemed to cover her everywhere. “Fine.”
“How gracious of you, allowing me to look out for your health and wellbeing.” Mæva smiled mockingly down at Ashurina, which raised its chin to be tickled.
“Why do you exert yourself?” asked Kethe.
“Why? As I said, you drew me, as you no doubt drew the demon. I can feel it even now. You are to this world what the Gouged Eye is to the river. Which makes sense, now that I know you have Kyferin blood in your veins. I will see you home. Never you fear.”
“What do you mean, I drew the demon?” Alarm flared through her.
“Hush. I told you that you’re safe while you’re with me. Enough for now. We can talk about this in the morning.” Mæva’s voice was firm. Ashurina leaped off her lap to lie down close to the fire and close its yellow eyes. “Finish your soup and sleep. Heal. You have the rest of your life to wrestle with your true nature.”
Kethe tried to process that, and wanted to protest, but her exhaustion was making it too hard to think. She finished her soup, trying not to gulp it down. Had she thought herself ready to venture back outside? She yawned and set the bowl down on the floor. Doing so made it terribly easy to just lie down, so she sank into the furs. Mæva was watching her, but Kethe’s eyes strayed to the flames. Their light grew diffuse and vague, and as the warmth seeped into her bones anew she sank back into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tharok awoke by slow degrees, emerging from a deep and soundless sleep into the dawn sounds of the mountain pass. He opened his eyes and gazed up at the bound branches that formed the apex of the hut, at the thick tan canvas stretched over them and over which in turn the goat furs were layered. The hut smelled of Wrok, of his hide, his sweat, and Tharok wrinkled his nose in distaste. Wrok’s spirit lingered. With his body burned, he would never ascend to the Valley of the Dead, but would walk the world in misery, or rise at most to the slopes of the Dragon’s Breath.
With a growl the kragh arose, realizing as he did that he was still clutching World Breaker. He would need a scabbard, he thought as he strode out of the tent, brushing aside the hanging fur to emerge into the pale mountain sunshine.
Golden light spilled down from the far eastern peaks. The sun had just crested and was casting great rays of diluted gold into the thin wisps of cloud that streaked across the heavens in furrows. A chill was in the air and a playful wind gusted, tugging at the furs that lay over Wrok’s hut and the spirit banners that snapped from the apex of each other hut nearby. Wrok’s hut was placed on the highest ground, and from where Tharok stood he gazed out at the two dozen other large clan huts and gauged how many had left during the night. Perhaps two or three, which meant some thirty kragh or so. They would be the core that had supported Wrok, his extended family members and closest allies. No matter. The heart of the tribe was his.
Tharok lowered his body into a crouch and wrapped his broad arms around his shins, gazing meditatively down as the camp came to life. A change of leadership might be afoot, but life proceeded anon. Life in the mountains was harsh, and there could be no respite from the duties of the tribe. The night would have been spent in festivity and finding mates. The darkest and largest kragh males would have fought and found willing females, then rutted for hours. Now, with the new warlord in place and the festival over, the males would spend the day recovering, eating the remains of the feast, enjoying the affection of the females while it lasted. Tomorrow they would form into their clans again and depart, to spend another three months ranging around the settlement before returning for the next mating feast.
High overhead he saw a small hawk hovering, stationary in the great sky, a speck of darkness against the unfathomable blue. He watched it until it folded its wings and plummeted down from the sky to disappear from view into a higher valley, focused on its prey. Musing, he scratched at his jaw. Normally a chieftain surrounded himself with brothers, uncles, grandsons, his clan serving as his enforcers and eyes and ears in the tribe. But he was alone, unprecedented for a chieftain, and would be without the traditional core unit with which he could administer his orders. He would need to recruit others to positions of trust quickly before he became too isolated and his position was thus endangered through lack of close support.
Rocking back onto his heels, enjoying the sensation of the sun on his still-bare skin, Tharok half-closed his eyes so that prisms of multicolored light played across his eyelashed view. His lies about Ogri’s prophecies had struck a chord within his chest. For too long the highland kragh had been fragmented, fractious, at each other’s throats and at the beck and call of the more numerous and wealthy lowland tribes. For too long they had served as the shock troops of the Tragon and Orlokor, taking herd animals and metal weapons in exchange for their blood and loyalty. The age of preying on and raiding each other had to end, along with the traditions of slavery and stealing wives, and the endless internecine fighting. Only then would the kragh as a whole rise to greatness once more.
He already had control of the Red River Tribe, a confederacy of some twelve clans that would follow him as long as his rule was of benefit to their fortunes. Twelve clans, perhaps fifty warriors in all. Not enough to do more than raid the other tribes, to engage in skirmishes and midnight thefts. He would need to swell their numbers before he could think of forcing the other chieftains to follow him, to fall in line. The traditional roles would have to be shattered, the expected way of life changed.
A figure was trudging up the slight slope toward him, hunched and twisted. Tharok watched him come, and did not move or stand but rather stayed silent with his eyes half-lidded as Toad presented him
self, breathing hard.
“Tharok-krya, you have awakened.” When Tharok refused to comment on that obvious remark, Toad continued, “I served Wrok well and faithfully for many years, and would serve you just the same. I hope I don’t need to remind you that it was my storytelling that gave you the opportunity to rise to your current rank.” Tharok turned slowly to fix Toad with one eye, and the small kragh stumbled back. “I mean, I’m sure you would have risen to this position by yourself. I am proud of the help I gave, is all, and would give more if you would have it.”
“Food,” grunted Tharok. “Clothing. And send kragh to open this hut and let the wind blow Wrok’s spirit away.”
“Yes, straight away,” said Toad, grinning and moving back quickly, bobbing his head. “As you command!”
He turned and rushed down the shallow slope, then moved into one of the large tents. Good. For now, Toad would serve.
Over the next hour Wrok’s hut was taken apart, the furs pulled free and the tarp removed from the branches so that only the framework stood, open to the sun and the air, allowing the wind to usher Wrok free of his belongings and to dance perhaps around the Dragon’s Tear. Toad brought Tharok rough mountain clothing, new boots, and a heavy coat to guard against the cold, all of it of fine quality, donated by the Illkor clan, who were clearly currying favor.
Dressed, he descended to the great fire, where he dined on cold lamb and small, withered apples, eating heartily for the first time in days. It was important to eat meat. Too much time spent eating vegetables or fasting would lighten his skin. Other kragh gave him wide berth, watching him surreptitiously as they went about their business, and for now he was content to allow the distance. He was closely connected to none of them, and the distance and silence would serve to build his reputation more than chattering in a familiar manner ever could.
Tharok looked up as a figure approached, moving with confidence and lethal fluidity, the sleeve of his coat tied off just below the shoulder. The weapons master lowered himself onto a log across from Tharok. His sharp, black eyes studied the new chieftain, his harsh, drawn face revealing nothing of his thoughts. Tharok studied him in turn, chewing slowly on the last of the lamb, and then threw the great bare bone into the cinders of the fire and wiped his hand on his thigh.
