Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  At least the prison was going down with him.

  Seris saw a shadow swoop, a pale face suddenly close to his. Elhan grabbed his wrist and the shock of her touch tore through him. It was as though dark lightning snaked down her arm and into his flesh, and he instinctively tried to pull away. An unbearable noise filled his head, and he found himself tearing uncontrollably at her hand, trying to loosen her grip. Every part of him screamed, and just as he felt he was going to explode into a confetti of flesh, there was a burst of something.

  Seris convulsed as a terrifying energy ripped through him. He heard the start of Elhan swearing, and the rest was drowned in an eerie wave of silence. It was as though all the noise had been shredded from the landscape, leaving a suffocating, airless thrum. Elhan swung Seris up beside her, hauling him backwards onto the sand. Retching and shaking, Seris rolled over in time to see the prison… disintegrate.

  The building wasn’t just collapsing, it was dissolving. The entire complex was liquefying into golden streams of sand, as though the cohesive forces binding the sandstone had suddenly vaporised. Where moments ago chunks of rock and iron had been tumbling into a stony chasm, there was now a gaping, spreading sinkhole. The depression pulsed outwards across the sand, draining towards the epicentre as though a plug had been pulled out from deep beneath the desert.

  The sinkhole spread, engulfing the plain where the complex had sprawled, the edge of the newly created valley stopping slowly just shy of Elhan’s feet. Seris was still gasping in horror at the destruction when he heard the sound, the faint chittering from beside him. He turned to stare at Elhan, and he finally saw what made the noise.

  In her dark eyes, deep behind the pupils, nesting in the darkness beyond—

  Her eyes were full of eyes.

  It was a long walk back, but Seris refused to be dragged or carried. He walked in silence behind Elhan, maintaining a good distance between them. A chill purple twilight swept over the desert, and countless tracks radiated from the newly created valley—a large number of them surging towards Tigrath.

  “I bet Albaran will be cranky,” said Elhan cheerfully. “Maybe they’ll send him to an even more desolate outpost. Wouldn’t it be funny if we ran into him there?”

  Seris wasn’t thinking particularly humorous thoughts. He could still feel the trace of something tingling through him, like poison in a well. His steps slowed and finally stopped. After a few beats, Elhan paused on the crest of a dune.

  “How did you do that?” Seris’s voice was still hoarse from the dust.

  “It was pretty cool,” said Elhan. “But it wasn’t me.”

  Her eyes were clear and dark now, and she held his gaze steadily. Still, Seris didn’t doubt what he’d seen—even with sand in his eyes, and his heart in his throat, he’d glimpsed something in Elhan. Something skulking behind her eyes, something intelligent, something not Elhan, but that had nonetheless stared back at him. He was fairly certain she wasn’t possessed—if anything, Elhan had the kind of personality that was more likely to possess others, and his shoes full of desert were a case in point.

  No, Seris was beginning to wonder if her curse were less like an aura around her, and more like a parasite within her. An incomprehensibly powerful parasite. And yet…

  He shuddered at the memory of the energy convulsing through him, pouring out of him. It had been like throwing up hell.

  “Did you make me do that?” said Seris.

  “I didn’t make you do anything.”

  She paused, then turned her gaze towards the lights of Tigrath glowing on the horizon.

  “If it makes you feel better, something like that was bound to happen anyway,” said Elhan.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should’ve seen what happened to the other places I stayed too long. Not to mention the people.”

  It was then that Seris realised Kaligara hadn’t been afraid of an inconvenient demise. She’d been afraid of that.

  “This happens to every place you stay?” said Seris.

  “Usually not that quickly. And usually not that…bad. I think that was you.”

  Seris shook his head slowly, his thoughts muddied and confused.

  “Sometimes they catch on fire,” said Elhan. “Sometimes they collapse. Sometimes they get attacked by badgers.”

  “The places or the people?”

  “A bit of both.”

  Seris was silent, but his thoughts were as obvious to Elhan as if he’d carved them on a sword and plunged it through her chest.

  “Come on,” said Elhan quietly, walking down the dune towards the lights of Tigrath. “We have to keep moving.”

  Haska stood at the rough stone basin, washing the blood from her hands. Her knuckles stung in the icy water, numbing slowly as she kept them submerged. It was almost pitch-black in the washroom, a jagged span of starlit sky visible through a crumbling window.

  It should have been cathartic, but instead she felt oddly hollow. Somehow, his pain was supposed to ease her own, but as he’d sagged silently at the end of his chain, gasping for air through a bloodied face, it had been like punching a raccoon.

  It would have helped immensely if he’d yelled things like “Just wait ’til my father gets his hands on you!” or “You’ll hang for this, wench!” She’d even prepared several withering comebacks, some of them involving sharp implements. But instead, he’d just hung there, blood spattering down his face, staring steadily at the wall. He’d given an occasional muffled groan, his expression shifting between pained desperation and glazed distraction. Towards the end, he’d finally looked at her, staring into her eyes with an expression of such—

  She had stopped then.

  Haska drew her hands from the water, shaking her stiff, sore fingers. She wiped her wet hands over her face, taking a deep breath of chill air.

  Pull yourself together, Haska told herself. Don’t let yourself be manipulated. Never forget, Haska. Never forget.

  She picked up her mask from the edge of the basin and replaced it carefully over her face. She pulled on her gauntlets and squared her shoulders. This was the only face they’d ever see.

  Haska strode from the washroom, and soldiers scuttled out of her way, falling over themselves in their rush to salute or be quickly elsewhere. She felt like kicking some incompetent minions just to wash away the queasy disquiet in her gut, but Barrat disapproved of that kind of thing.

  Haska marched down the corridor, her gaze sweeping coldly over the passing soldiers, taking rapid note of their behaviour, speed, direction, and identity. Her gaze picked out a slim figure from the scurrying traffic.

  “Brae!” snapped Haska. “Aren’t you on sentry duty in the lower southwest hall?”

  Brae froze, the slice of cheese drooping slightly in his hand.

  “Lord Haska, I…”

  Brae seemed reluctantly aware that “just stepped away for a second” was not an acceptable phrase to use. Ever.

  Haska’s eyes flicked over the busy corridor of soldiers, all of whom were suddenly rushing about their business very quietly.

  “Liadres,” said Haska, her tone disconcertingly amiable.

  A tall young man with dark, slicked hair, peacock-blue eyes, and very well-maintained armour stood to attention.

  “Lord Haska,” said Liadres.

  “Weren’t you looking for a volunteer for your ‘project’?”

  Brae’s cheese dropped to the floor with a gentle thwap.

  “Brae, be so good as to accompany Liadres,” said Haska.

  Liadres’ eyes lit up like it was Yulesday, and he ushered Brae away quickly, as though afraid Haska might suddenly change her mind. Haska ignored the hush of voices as she continued down the corridor and out through the archway. She crossed the open courtyard and headed towards the main tower, with its lichen-encrusted serpents.

  From the weathered parapets above, Amoriel and Barrat watched her march like a sullen thundercloud.

  “I expected her to be happier,” said Barrat.
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  “She got what she thought she wanted, only to realise it wasn’t nearly as good as she expected,” said Amoriel. “I’ve seen it a hundred times before. An adventurer comes to your tower and asks for a pot of gold, or eternal life, or the ability to see the future, and when you grant it, are they happy? No. They invariably run screaming into the forest, yelling, ‘I’ve been cursed! I’ve been cursed!’ And that’s when people start turning up with torches and pitchforks.”

  Amoriel shrugged, then smiled lazily at the hushed courtyard, the vine-laced stone bathed in the blush of soft torchlight.

  “It’s early days yet,” said Amoriel with the ghost of a smile. “Care to make a wager about how this all ends?”

  There were actually a lot of people who were unhappy that night. The soldiers stationed at Tigrath prison were unhappy at having their premises destroyed. The citizens of Tigrath were frantically unhappy at the influx of escapees flooding in from the desert plains. And Sulim was unhappy that her base had been turned into a carnival of angry soldiers, desperados, and panicked plebeians.

  “I said I wanted my mercenaries back,” said Sulim. “Not anarchy.”

  “Two for the price of one,” said Elhan.

  “You didn’t just destroy a Talgaran prison. You destroyed a Talgaran prison that held all their dissidents, rebels, and enemies of state. This isn’t a prison being swallowed by the desert; this is insurrection.”

  “I guess they shouldn’t have put them all in one place,” said Elhan.

  Sulim’s eyes were grim. War was not good for business unless you were an arms dealer with a monopoly, which in itself was begging for trouble. War contracted your market, thinned out your clientele, and made the authorities paranoid. If things had been tense with the Talgaran Guard before, it was nothing compared to how hard they’d come down now.

  “We upheld our end of the deal,” said Seris, nodding towards the four battered mercenaries behind Sulim.

  Sulim’s expression suggested that she’d asked for a tusk of ivory and been brought a herd of rampaging elephants.

  “Supplies are flowing westward,” said Sulim. “Small deliveries, irregular, but constant over the past eighteen months. Food, tools, textiles, weapons. All headed towards the wild lands.”

  “You mean the free lands,” said Elhan.

  “Nothing is truly free,” said Sulim.

  “Spoken like a true mercenary,” said Seris.

  “You have your information,” said Sulim. “It’s only a matter of time before the captain pays us a visit. I recommend that you not be here when he does.”

  Seris thought that was an excellent idea as he and Elhan slipped quietly into the chaos of the city. Doors were barred and windows shuttered. Grimy figures raced through the streets, chased by the red flash of Talgaran uniforms. Scuffles broke out around them, and the crunch of fistfights mingled with the clanging of swords.

  “West,” grumbled Elhan as she leapt over several shattered crates. “I expected something a little more specific. Like ‘Valamon’s being held here, with this many guards, and this boss monster.’”

  “Kaligara suggested the prince’s abduction was linked to the dissent. Find the source of the uprising, find the prince.”

  Elhan casually grabbed a man who was trying to wrench open a shutter and slammed him into the wall. Seris stepped over the unconscious body, tossing the man’s knife into a pile of rubbish.

  “Do you think it was such a good idea to let everyone out of the prison?” asked Seris.

  “The Talgaran Guard thought it was better to let everyone die. Better that than unleashing criminals into the community. Do you believe that, Seris?”

  Killing for the common good—it was a concept he understood. In wars, in defence of your people, your family, sometimes there was little choice. But as a cleric, taking a life went against the foundations of your being. Even so, as Seris listened to the violence echoing through the streets, he wondered if there were times when such action could be justified.

  “Hey!” a hushed voice called from behind them.

  They turned to see a curly-haired man weaving deftly towards them, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

  “Parry?” said Elhan.

  “What I said before, about not being part of the rebellion. It’s true. But we were approached.”

  “By who?” said Seris.

  “Three weeks ago, two men came to see us. They knew the four of us lost family in Delmar’s Tide, that we’d heard about the forces gathering against the king. They said we should join them, help make things right.”

  The sound of clashing swords drew closer, and the glow of torchlight flickered at the far end of the alley.

  “We said ‘no’,” said Parry. “We’re mercenaries, not freedom fighters. They said, if we changed our minds, to go see Lemlock in the fens.”

  “The fens are enormous,” said Elhan. “Weren’t they more specific about where to find Lemlock?”

  “You don’t find Lemlock. Lemlock finds you.”

  Parry drew away into the shadows, already disappearing down the alley.

  “Hey, you mean all that was for free?” called Elhan.

  Parry glanced over his shoulder.

  “I didn’t join the rebellion because, really, who didn’t lose someone in the Tide?” said Parry. “But I saw what you did to the prison. Maybe you should.”

  SEVEN

  It didn’t take long for Seris and Elhan to slip through the gates of Tigrath out into the open desert. The Talgaran Guard had their hands full with a city of rampaging escapees, and Elhan warmed herself with visions of Albaran standing amidst the bedlam, shaking his fist and cursing, “I’ll get you next time!”

  She found such familiar thoughts comforting, particularly since the other thoughts she’d been having lately were far more unsettling. It had happened again—the strange sensation of whirling between worlds, being stretched unbearably thin between two points and suddenly snapping like a frayed rope.

  She’d grabbed Seris, seen the desert collapse beneath him. And then the world had exploded into white.

  She’d found herself standing in a large courtyard, the columns and archways wound with delicately thorned flowers. And it was raining sand. Golden grains shimmered down in a glittering waterfall, and around her, people strolled in long, fine coats and dresses, the sand running down their parasols like ripples of light. She could feel it, fine and warm against her skin, covering the ground like a newly created beach. The soft hiss of sand filled the sunny silence, and she’d never felt such warmth and peace.

  Then the world had imploded, the prison vaporised, and Seris had stared at her like she’d just bitten off his fingers and was offering him one. She’d checked, and she hadn’t. She felt particularly resentful, since she was fairly certain the whole prison turning into sand thing wasn’t her fault, for once. The feeling that had shivered through her as the complex slurped in on itself was similar to the strange sensation she’d experienced when Seris had “healed” her hand.

  Elhan hadn’t wanted to say anything, since Seris thought she was amoral and ungrateful as it was, but her hand had scarred. She’d been punched, stabbed, sliced, lacerated, gored, burned—repeatedly—and once had a whole handful of hair pulled out, and she’d always healed perfectly, eventually. But this time…

  Elhan glanced surreptitiously at her palm again. A streak of smooth skin, the colour of pink coral, ran from the base of her index finger to her wrist. Even now, it tingled uncomfortably when she touched it, like tender new skin. She’d been willing to believe that he just wasn’t a very good cleric, but after Horizon’s Gate, after Tigrath, it was hard to ignore the possibility that something about Seris, or his goddess, didn’t agree with Elhan. Possibly in principle. She was reasonably sure he hadn’t meant to harm her, but then again, she’d learned her lessons well and hard when it came to people.

  “Hey, Seris.”

  Seris appeared to be trying to walk and nap at the same time.

 
; “Can you guys hurt people with your sorcery?” said Elhan.

  “It’s not sorcery,” mumbled Seris. “It’s the will of Eliantora. And we can do offensive spells, but we try not to.”

  “Offensive like bawdy blessings?”

  “We don’t like to talk about it. And not like destroying prisons. That’s definitely more your style.”

  “It just seems suspicious that you don’t want to talk about it. I’ve told you all about my curse, but you won’t talk about your…will of Eliantora.”

  Seris continued shuffling through the sand, drawing his robes close to keep out the biting cold.

  “There’s not much to discuss. We follow Eliantora’s guidance, we devote our lives to her, and in exchange, she offers us her aid in healing people. But there’s always a trade. And Eliantora wouldn’t give you the power to blow something up. If you tried, she’d probably abandon you.”

  “You always talk about her as though she were here, watching you and taking notes.”

  “In a way, she is here. It’s like closing your eyes and feeling someone beside you.”

  “Sounds creepy.” Elhan glanced around the vast, empty desert.

  “It’s comforting.”

  Seris seemed to visibly relax, as though calmed by the thought of his eccentric guardian. They marched along the dunes in silence for a while.

  “Were you coming back for me?” said Seris. “In the prison…”

  Elhan didn’t turn around, the sand glittering cold in an endless rippling landscape.

  “If you die on this quest, you know what they’ll say. I mean, you could choke on a bun, but what they’ll say is that I ripped out your intestines and wore them like a necklace while burning down villages.”