The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  She stood there for a moment, her silhouette framed by the light from the room ahead, both hands clasping her knife now, her feet planted in a fighter’s stance, her whole body coiled and ready.

  Heather waited, aware that something electric was in the air. She could still feel the vibrations from her bag, the heartstone in its sounding bowl, its song growing in volume with every step. Higgs. Higgs was here, somehow.

  Frankle hung back, some part of him watching the others ahead of him, but most of his mind focused on the weld song now filling his ears.

  Daemi turned back to them, the weld blade shining in her hand. ‘There’s noth—’

  A giant black shape crashed over her, tearing her out of the doorway and sending her flying across the chamber. A single massive claw tore across her shoulder and down her right arm, leaving a hot wet trail in its wake, and Daemi almost dropped her blade as she crashed onto the packed dirt floor. She rolled clear just as the black creature thumped down on the spot where she’d landed.

  Lodan cried out, and the writhing shadows around what could have been the creature’s face turned for a brief moment. Daemi rocked up onto her feet and moved away, circling around the beast, her right arm hanging uselessly by her side, her left still holding the weld blade.

  Frankle charged into the room, right behind Lodan and Heather as they rushed through. He had no idea what he was planning to do, but the weld song was surging through his mind now, taking it down pathways he’d never been, opening possibilities. He looked at the dark chamber around him, the heat of life calling out in the shadows, brightly lit forms moving through the grey light.

  No, Frankle.

  The whisper cut through his thoughts, pulling them back from the brink. Higgs. It was Higgs’s voice.

  That path is not for you, Frankle. Come back.

  He had the strangest urge to resist, an anger at being talked down to, a fury at being a child always at the whim of others. No. It is my time now, my power.

  Heather. She needs your help. Please.

  Immediately Frankle felt the pull of the depths fade as he turned toward Heather, the grey light in the room fading out and colours washing back into his vision as the weld song echoed into silence. Heather was backed up against the door frame, eyes wide, her small satchel clasped across her front as though it could shield her from the great black creature in the centre of the chamber.

  Frankle hurried over, putting himself in front of her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Heather hissed.

  ‘I’m not sure. Let me know if you have any ideas.’

  Lodan charged the creature, both arms swinging his long sword down in a great crashing blow that clanged harmlessly off its armoured shell, his arms ringing from the impact. Like lightning two thin arms shot out from the creature, pointed claws jabbing at Lodan, sending him spinning away, only just making it clear.

  Daemi let out a cry and attacked from the other side, but the creature seemed to have eyes in the back of its head and easily deflected her attack, responding even quicker with its own, catching Daemi with a glancing blow at the top of her thigh that dented her armour and sent her staggering backward.

  ‘It’s too fast,’ Heather whispered, and Frankle could only agree, feeling helpless as he watched.

  Both Lodan and Daemi gathered themselves and advanced on the creature from opposite sides, hoping to take advantage of their numbers. It seemed to work; the creature scuttled away as they both stepped forward.

  Then the creature split, its twisting shadow now two separate forms, each a whirlwind of movement, driving both Daemi and Lodan away. They now each faced an individual opponent.

  Daemi danced backward, just twisting clear of another thrust. Some part of her mind watched herself fight, aware that her training had taken control, knowing it was only a matter of time before another blow landed and she was left exposed, her entire being focused on delaying that moment. Time seemed to slow as she watched herself, feeling her body weaken even as it urged itself ever faster, quicker than she’d ever moved before, quicker than thought itself, but still not quick enough.

  Her left arm was a blur of movement, parrying thrust after thrust from the creature, no time anymore for attack. She was losing ground, each blow coming closer than the last before her blade slapped it aside, overwhelming her.

  Suddenly, she was alone.

  It was as though a screen had dropped in front of her, cutting her off from the world. The light in the room changed, all colour drained out, each shape nothing more than a series of grey shadows against a dark background. The sound changed too; everything became muted and distant, as though she was sinking underwater, away from the surface world, away from the noise and chaos of the life up there.

  Is this what it is to die?

  Daemi looked down at the weld blade in her hand, its blade glowing blue against the grey world. ‘Wilt?’

  She fell to her knees, a sudden warmth running down her spine as the scars on her back tore open.

  Something moved in front of her, a cold shadow of twisting welds that stepped up to the creature, driving it backward with a glowing sword that seemed to dance around its defences, each cut and thrust sending a spark of light flashing against the grey shadows, driving the darkness away.

  Lodan saw Daemi fall and knew he could do nothing for her. He slashed out with a final attack, just hoping to do damage to the creature, to have it pay a price for the life it was about to take. He followed through, aware he was leaving himself hopelessly exposed, that the next moment would bring his death.

  But the blow never came. Instead he was pushed backward by an unknown force, away from the dark creature, his breath misting out in front of him as sudden piercing cold seemed to slice into the room, placing itself between him and the shadow monster.

  He fell to his knees and rolled away, turning his back on the fighting, trying to find Daemi, to make sure she was still alive. She was on the other side of the room, collapsed on to her knees, her eyes wide and blank. As he watched she pitched forward and collapsed onto her face.

  With a grunt of effort he pulled himself back to his feet and stumbled toward her. His entire body seemed locked together, his muscles frozen by the cold and exhausted by the battle. Finally he reached her and dropped beside her, shaking her by the shoulder.

  His hand came away from her shoulder stained red with blood. ‘Heather! Frankle! Help me!’

  Frankle and Heather were mesmerised by the sight of three duelling shadows dancing an impossibly fast dance, but Lodan’s desperate cry snapped them out of it. In moments they were beside him, taking position on either side of Daemi and pulling her clear of the danger.

  ‘The door!’ Heather called, and they angled toward it, fleeing the chamber. Daemi’s feet left twin trails in the packed dirt as they pulled her across the room and out into safety.

  As soon as they were clear, Lodan left Daemi in their hands and slammed the door closed. ‘Is she alive?’

  Heather tried to undo the heavy armour around Daemi’s torso. ‘She’s breathing. I don’t think she was hit.’

  ‘Then what—’ Lodan caught himself as his voice rose into panic. ‘What’s all that blood from?’

  ‘It’s her scars,’ Frankle tried to explain. ‘She has wounds from Redmondis that have never healed properly.’

  Heather finally worked the clasp of the chest piece open and the armour slid free, revealing two lines of deep scarlet running down the length of Daemi’s undershirt.

  Heather rummaged in her bag for medicine. ‘It’s okay. She’ll be okay. It looks worse than it is.’

  Lodan nodded and turned back to the door, his sword held out in front of him. Whatever had been happening in the chamber was finished now, the sounds of battle had melted back into silence.

  ‘What was that?’ he whispered. ‘What saved us?’

  As if in answer, the door swung open to reveal a large black cat sitting on its haunches and angling its head, studying them.

 
Daemi sat up suddenly with a gasp, pushing Heather out of the way. For a moment she held her blade out point first, then dropped it as she saw the cat, who hadn’t moved.

  The black cat trotted toward her, its strange silver claws glinting in the weak firelight.

  ‘Wilt.’

  45

  From the high window Captain Mont had an expansive view of the western side of the city. Stacks of buildings huddled together as if for warmth, then wide open courtyards scattered about, as though some long forgotten giant had stamped its way across the city, flattening everything in its wandering path.

  Each open area was teeming with people, and every day the high city gates opened to allow more to stream through. It couldn’t go on. Even though each day they miraculously found more space for the new arrivals, every new face meant less food and shelter for those already here. Every new face piled more pressure on to a city already reaching breaking point.

  Or perhaps it had already boiled over, and he just hadn’t been able to read the signs.

  A knock on the door snapped Captain Mont out of his reverie and he turned to see a tall, dark-haired man stride into the room. Immediately he noticed the set of the man’s shoulders, the way his eyes scanned the room quickly, the twist of a grin on his face.

  Captain Mont set his feet apart and clasped his hands behind his back. He put on his best gruff voice. ‘Lodan, I presume?’

  Over his many years as an officer, Captain Mont had learned most men found his demeanour off-putting. It put them in a mind of a parent scolding them in childhood, or a superior laying down orders for battle. It had never failed to snap them out of whatever trivial thoughts they had entered the room with and made them instantly receptive to what he had to say. Not so this man.

  Lodan strode right up to the captain and offered his hand.

  Captain Mont stared at the hand waiting for his, then back up to the man’s dark, knowing eyes. Finally he relented and a wide smile broke over his face as he clasped Lodan’s hand in a firm grip.

  ‘I see the reports I have been given on you were accurate, at least.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Oh? You’ve been holding your own investigations, have you?’

  ‘I’ve found it best to always learn beforehand something about the man I’m about to meet. Especially one in a position of authority such as yourself.’

  Captain Mont relaxed his stance and rocked back on his heels. ‘And what is it your spies have told you about me?’

  ‘Spies? Informants, please. They tell me you’re one of the few honest leaders left in the city, particularly since the recent troubles.’

  ‘Troubles. Yes, I suppose that is one word for it.’

  Captain Mont sat down behind his desk and gestured Lodan toward a seat. ‘Another report I’ve been given has described an assassin, sent here from Redmondis, one who has struck down the queen and left the king at death’s door. One who then used some sort of black magic to escape his execution and kill yet another of the queen’s advisers before disappearing seemingly into thin air.’

  ‘An “assassin” you yourself brought into the queen’s presence, so I’ve been told, Captain.’

  Captain Mont stared at Lodan, all trace of his earlier friendliness gone. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. ‘You are well informed. I hope this will not prove to be a problem.’

  Lodan held up his hands. ‘Believe me when I tell you, Captain, I hold two things of utmost importance in my business. Those who have open ears and those who keep still tongues. You never have to worry about information getting into places it shouldn’t. Besides,’ he smiled, dissolving the tension, ‘I think we both know Wilt was no assassin.’

  ‘So you do know him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you know where I might find him. I’m eager to hear his side of the story.’

  ‘That, Captain, may be more difficult.’

  Captain Mont looked down at his desk, at the piles of reports stacked haphazardly across it. None of which contained good news. ‘Nothing is ever that easy in Sontair.’

  ‘What I can do for you, Captain, is offer my services. And that of the men and women who serve under me.’

  ‘Oh yes, the “Fingers”. And why would I want your help?’

  ‘Because you and I both know this city is on the edge. Even more so now with no guidance from the top. To speak clearly, the king hasn’t been able to form a coherent thought in months, and without the queen those less worthy than you are scrabbling for power. It is up to less … ambitious men such as ourselves to do what needs doing.’

  ‘And what is it that needs doing?’

  ‘That is what I came here to talk about.’

  Lodan reached into his shirt and pulled out a roll of parchment, standing as he did so. Without a second thought he swept half the papers off the desk and rolled it open, displaying a large and highly detailed map of Sontair.

  Captain Mont stood and joined him on the other side of the table, then both men leaned over the map and began to plan.

  The cold wind rushed past Petron’s open chamber, whistling as it tumbled down the cliff face that formed one wall of Redmondis to create a hollow, mournful piping. Petron stood at the opening, watching the trees far below him move with the wind, feeling it at the tips of his fingers when he reached into the sky.

  In the distance he could see birds being buffeted around by the high winds, enjoying themselves in the wash. He smiled, watching them twist in the air, sharing their exhilaration.

  ‘Sir?’

  Petron turned toward the voice and stepped away from the edge. The guard was standing just inside the door to his chamber, his body rigid at attention.

  ‘Yes? Oh, relax, won’t you?’

  The guard shifted himself to an ‘at ease’ position, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

  Petron sighed to himself. It was probably the most relaxed he could expect.

  ‘Sir, the Battlemaster reports that the final allocation of weld blades has been distributed. All Redmondis guards can now carry the blades with pride.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Petron nodded, his eyes moving down to the long silver blade hanging from the guard’s hip. ‘And how do you find it? The weld blade?’

  The guard seemed taken aback by the direct question, but fumbled out an answer. ‘I’ve never seen a weapon to match it, sir.’

  Petron nodded again, stepping back over to his desk and the scattered papers that covered its surface. ‘Any more reports I should know about? Or has this wind cut off all communications with the outside world?’

  As if in response, a stronger gust blew past, raising the constant piping to a higher, more urgent pitch. The guard waited for it to pass before replying.

  ‘We’ve had no reports from Sontair, though the messenger birds were expected last night. I can speak to the masters in the rookery if you wish.’

  Petron frowned and waved the idea away. ‘No matter. I’m sure this wind will pass by nightfall.’

  The guard saluted again and marched out of the room, and Petron turned back to the opening. He hadn’t felt the pull this strongly in weeks, months perhaps. Since before Cortis. The call of the open sky.

  One more thing he took away from you. One more thing his master will pay for.

  The thought brought him back to the present, to the immediate duties of Redmondis. He bent down to the papers on his desk, sorting idly through them to ensure everything was in order. He knew it was. With the last allocation of weld blades distributed, there was nothing left to do but continue to train, to make sure they were ready, and to wait. Wait for word from Daemi and the others.

  In the last few weeks, Petron had spent more time with the students and guards of Redmondis, encouraging them simply by his presence to push themselves, to focus harder on their training. He kept his eyes open and his mouth shut, and it seemed to be working. The wielders and crafters were working hand in hand now, some even moving into each other’s quarters to expunge the s
eparation of skills that had built up in the Sisters’ time. The guards too were getting more involved, lending their physical attributes to whatever task had been set. The lines between crafter and wielder and guard were blurring, just as Petron had hoped they would.

  But would they be ready? Would they be willing to follow him when the time came to lead them out from within these walls?

  He tossed the papers back on the desk and scowled at his own thoughts. You’re an old, impatient man, Petron. Give them time. You know you can trust them.

  A heavy wingbeat at the opening behind him announced his visitor moments before the giant eagle landed, its claws scratching into the hard rock floor. Petron turned and smiled, reaching for the container of scrap meat he kept hidden underneath his desk.

  ‘And how do the winds treat you this day, Stax?’

  The eagle stared back at him silently, its eyes locked on the bucket.

  ‘No news yet from our other companions?’

  Petron tossed a morsel toward the eagle and it snapped the meat easily out of the air, swallowing it in one great gulp.

  ‘I’ve felt something change down there too. Do you think we can thank Nurtle and Jared for that? Are they even now taking root? Or will they one day come visiting along with you?’

  He flipped another hunk of meat into the air and watched the eagle snatch it. ‘Tell me, Stax. Do you ever miss these human intrigues?’

  As if in answer the giant eagle opened its wings and buffeted a gust of wind Petron’s way, pushing his thin hair back from his face. The next moment it had leaped out and was disappearing into the open sky.

  Petron dropped the bucket of scraps under his desk with a sigh and stepped toward the opening, forcing his thoughts away from the concerns of Redmondis. He placed the toes of his boots right on the edge of the wall, closed his eyes and leaned out, just touching the cold wind that shot past the window.