The Snowmelt River

by Frank P. Ryan

  Redeemer of the Olhyiu! The Oraculum of the First Power of the Holy Trídédana … Alan’s hand reached, instinctively, to the ruby triangle embedded in his brow.

  Was that what the old woman had really done to him – embedded an oraculum of power in his head? And how had word spread about him – or for that matter the killing of the Storm Wolves around the lake? He shook his head, desperate for explanations, yet aware that it just wasn’t the right time.

  ‘We have to save my friend.’

  ‘Tell me why we should save one girl when the armies of the Death Legion have taken to war. They are fanning out over all the occupied lands. Rebellion is in the air. Many villages and towns are in open insurrection. It was this rumour of the Mage Lord that led us to you. It is also the reason why so few of the Storm Wolves could be diverted to this ambush. The Shee are moving eastward from the Guhttan Mountains in such numbers as have not been seen since the fall of Ossierel, though they are too distant yet to assist us.’

  ‘Mo isn’t Olhyiu. Four of us were brought here from another world. If I’m important, then so is she.’

  The Kyra reared back in astonishment and Milish joined her in confronting Alan. But he had no time to waste in argument. ‘There’s a thin man among the Storm Wolves, armed with a twist-bladed dagger. They call him Preceptor. If we find him, maybe we’ll find Mo.’

  Milish whirled to gaze eye-to-eye with the Kyra. No words were exchanged between them but Alan glimpsed a more intense flickering in the patterns of the Kyra’s oraculum. Then, in a blur of camouflaged movement, the Kyra was gone. Milish also melted away, as if under a cloak of invisibility, into the surrounding forest. Meanwhile the remaining Shee formed a guard around him. They included the novice, Valéra, who had amber eyes and golden blonde hair fastened with a silver pin, and Muîrne, the smallest and sleekest of them, who had creamy white hair that contrasted with eyes as grey as granite. Like Ainé, Valéra conveyed the soul spirit and strength of a tigress, while in Muîrne Alan sensed a soul spirit more akin to the speed and cunning of a snow leopard.

  Under Valéra’s direction, the Shee led him through the trees. Their movements were lithely graceful for such large and weapon-encumbered women. Under their camouflage cloaks, which fell almost to the ground, they wore loose-fitting trousers of olive green cotton, tied at mid-calf over the cross-lacing of leggings, and above boots made from the same material as the cloaks. Their downy arms were tattooed with fantastic imagery of animals.

  In the gaps between the foliage, Alan saw that it was late in the day, with no more than a couple of hours of daylight left.

  They emerged onto a sandy beach upriver of where Alan had been dragged ashore, and here he saw several long canoes that had been beached in a hurry. These, he assumed, were the vessels that had carried the Shee into the battle zone. They were powerful craft, adzed from whole trunks of cedar, their prows uplifted six feet out of the water, and Y-shaped in their end sections. Sleek in design, they contained packs that Alan guessed must belong to the assistants they called Aides, but the lead canoe also contained a trunk of polished ebony, inlaid with silver, which looked so ornate it had to belong to Milish.

  Alan could find no trace of the Olhyiu boats, including the Temple Ship. He hoped that the bulk of them had escaped from the trap – and Kate too. He didn’t want to have to worry about Kate as well as Mo.

  Above the sand, a series of tracks led away into the forest. The Shee led him among the trees, away from the river and in a new direction, until they arrived at a clearing that looked as if it had served the main body of Storm Wolves as an encampment. Here, what appeared to be several dozen Shee, led by Ainé, had spread out to encircle a force of about sixty Storm Wolves, who had assumed a close-knit circular battle formation.

  Milish appeared by his side, her voice sounding weary. ‘These will prove difficult to defeat. They are the Chosen, from the fighting arenas of Ghork Mega.’

  Peering about the clearing, Alan could see no sign of Mo. Then a new chanting began. It was the Shee who were chanting now, a deep-throated battle-hymn, then, suddenly, as if goaded into fighting, the ranks of Storm Wolves appeared to dissolve, the legionaries already among the encircling Shee in a fury of hand-to-hand combat.

  Alan had never seen hand-to-hand fighting move with such speed. It seemed that the Shee could fight ferociously in human or animal form. He saw the flashing green of their sword blades, eerily luminescent. But the battle was far from one-sided. Ainé’s reluctance to divert her forces for one missing girl now made sense, for these Storm Wolves fought back with a maniacal passion, glad, it seemed, of this opportunity of killing Shee. Alan saw several Shee stagger and fall, the movement of the legionaries’ blades so deadly it happened in a blur. Suddenly, with the same lightning change as had begun the fighting, the surviving legionaries fell back into their common defensive formation and the Shee closed ranks to complete the encirclement.

  Alan studied the shields of the Storm Wolves. They were long and rectangular, decorated with the same symbol he had seen on the handle of the Preceptor’s dagger, a triplelooped infinity. He also noticed that the shields were curved in their transverse section, so they slotted together along their long sides to form an interlocking wall. Others carried their shields aloft, creating a defensive dome. Even from this distance, he sensed the same darkness that had recently enveloped him. The Preceptor had to be among them.

  ‘Ask the Shee if they have seen anything of a girl, Milish.’

  Word came back that several Shee had glimpsed a small bound captive among the legionaries, but that the head was covered in a sack. ‘It’s got to be Mo,’ he muttered, with a surge of hope. ‘That has to be the reason they are being so defensive. And the Preceptor is there. I can sense his presence.’

  The soldiers were performing another coordinated battle strategy, with a harsh, guttural chanting.

  A filthy looking smoke curled from the fissures between the shields and then coalesced over them, to envelop the shield-wall, as if welding them together in a power-charged unity. The calculation involved in this strange warfare, the rhythms and formalities of it, appeared important. The Shee were passing items from one woman to another. Alan glimpsed a jade-green glow, like the colour of Ainé’s oraculum. It looked as if they were charging the points of arrows and the blades of swords, using crystals that were carried by each of the women. For several minutes nothing happened other than a repeat of the ritualistic chanting. Yet the Shee were tensing as if with a tangible expectancy. Then sporadic fire, with long plumes of white smoke, broke out of the shell of shields, and with the erratic volley the Shee became a blur of movement, dodging the smoking trails.

  The smoking missiles streaked through the air, trailing a putrescent green glow. Alan remembered the green fire during the attack at the frozen lake and more recently in the attack on the river. There was that same stink coming from the burning missiles, a vile sulphurous smell.

  With a groan, one of the Shee was hit. In a final act of defiance, she hurled her sword into the glistening force of the shield wall, but it fell where it struck, incapable of penetration. Alan saw that there was something crawling over the sword. It appeared to be a living growth of some sort, a glistening contagion that proliferated as it spread, as if attempting to devour the metal it came into contact with. Even the fallen giantess was being consumed by the same living poison of the legionaries’ weapon. It invaded every organ and tissue with horrible speed and malignancy. Within minutes, he saw that the charnel-green was glowing inside the dead warrior’s eyes.

  ‘What’s happening, Milish? Why will nothing get through their shields?’

  ‘Such is the power of their malengin.’

  A malengin? Studying the shield wall he noticed its resemblance to a glassy prism, in the way it reflected light in a rainbow sheen.

  ‘Quickly, Milish – explain this malengin.’

  ‘The Tyrant uses the enslaved people of the Daemos to plunder the Wastelands and thus find the malignanc
y that exists in the dark side of nature. The Preceptor among them has the power to project it thus.’

  Even as he was considering her words, a glowing fragment hissed between him and Milish, setting fire to the tree behind them and showering them with malodorous smoke. It forced them back, coughing, their eyes watering. ‘If this continues, Milish, the Shee will be defeated.’

  ‘If they die, they will die with honour.’

  Wheeling around, he addressed Ainé directly. ‘If I can breach the malengin, can you attack through the breach while still keeping the girl alive?’ In moments, he found himself explaining his idea under the questioning gazes of both Ainé and Milish.

  Alan knelt down by the smouldering remains of the dead Shee while Milish and Ainé stood back, repulsed by the sight and charnel stench of the brightly glowing corruption that still devoured her flesh.

  He shook his head. ‘What I’m thinking is that, even if we don’t understand their weapon, maybe we can turn it against them.’

  ‘How?’

  Alan climbed back onto his feet, his eyes meeting those of the Kyra. ‘Can you find me a javelin – one with a good strong point?’

  He was handed the javelin within moments and he spent a little while examining the tip. The head was made of no substance he was familiar with. It didn’t look like iron, or copper, or bronze. It might have been some kind of amalgam of a metal and crystal – he really had no idea. He closed his eyes, focusing on the point through the oraculum.

  He felt his imagination expand, sensing an additional ingredient, a spiritual force within the point. He assumed that this was the force linked to the jade-green glow he had seen passing between the Shee earlier, a force that must have been put there by the Kyra. He didn’t need to remind himself of the urging of Granny Dew: not to question, but to see what needed to be done. He recalled the feeling he had had in the presence of the Preceptor, that had also felt like some kind of spiritual force, if one of a dark malignancy. What it all meant, he had no idea. Alan had begun to sweat with worry, and his voice was husky, knowing the risk of what he was proposing.

  ‘I’m going to see if I can help you to penetrate the wall of force around their shields.’

  In the dirt, he drew a dome, representing the shield wall. ‘Here,’ he declared, jabbing his finger at the apex, ‘is its strongest point. But if I’m right, it could also be its greatest weakness. It’s a bit like a keystone in an arch.’

  Under the horrified eyes of Milish and Ainé, he twisted the tip of the javelin in the putrefying flesh of the dead Shee. Probing it again through the vision of the oraculum, he sensed a darker spiritual force that now inhabited the head of the lance. Then he focused his mind onto the tip of the lance head, moving slowly backwards along the two backwardly separating cutting edges, infusing into it every ounce of power he possessed.

  But how could he be sure it wouldn’t harm Mo? He had to pretend to be more confident than he really was. He turned to Ainé. ‘Can you throw it so it strikes at the dead centre of the dome? Then have your Shee ready for an immediate attack.’

  A few minutes later, he watched as Ainé bent her gigantic frame, then cast the javelin. He heard the faint screeching sound as it arced through the air, striking the centre of the dome of shields. He saw it explode on impact. A stellate web of brighter green spread over the shield wall. Then the Storm Wolves began to howl. The force of the impact disrupted the shield wall and penetrated further, to the arms steadying it from within. The dome burst asunder and the legionaries pitched and tumbled, in torment and panic, over a ground that was already proliferating with that slimy green poison.

  Alan hadn’t anticipated the violence of what he had conjured up. The Storm Wolves were throwing aside their own weapons, which had been invaded by the vile green poison. If Mo was in the centre of the battle group, she was in grave danger.

  The attacking Shee darted skilfully among them, dispatching the enemy with a pitiless efficiency while searching for the captive child before the green contagion could spread to infect everybody. But all the while, the web of green was still spreading over the ground, subtly metamorphosing about its edges, as if the deadly force of the malengin was actively combining with the power Alan had infused into it. He picked his own careful way through the confusion of bodies. He saw many dead but he found no sign of the Preceptor or of Mo. The Shee were already leaving the battle zone in pursuit of the escaping soldiers, probing the encircling forest.

  Milish helped Alan to continue his search, with fresh snow matting in individual large flakes in her hair.

  ‘Over here!’ It was Ainé’s voice from some distance away, and Alan hurried towards her.

  The Preceptor was still alive.

  Without Ainé’s cry, Alan’s nostrils might have led him to him. The deathly luminescence leached into his skeletal features, causing him to shrink back for support against the bole of a great tree. Hate contorted his face as he clutched a small, bound figure, whose naked legs protruded from a filthy sack.

  Desperately, Alan probed the bound figure, attempting to make contact mind-to-mind to reassure himself it really was Mo. But the mind inside the hood was as cloaked as the body. Meanwhile, the Preceptor’s other hand pressed the black-bladed dagger against his victim’s neck. A mist of green vapour exuded from his stinking flesh, and the foul glow was in his eyes. Dark blood trickled between his gritted teeth, dribbling down onto his captive’s head as he clutched the bundle even more savagely against his chest. All the while those hate-filled eyes stared deeply into Alan’s own, as if daring him to come and rescue her. The Preceptor’s voice was rasping, his throat already partly consumed by the spreading plague.

  ‘Witches obsequium! Chance has favoured you today but it will not long save you. Stand back! The merest prick of my blade and the insect-spawn dies in torment.’

  Alan spoke grimly, urgently. ‘Let her go and we’ll end your suffering.’

  The thin man cackled again. ‘Decide then which death is dearer to you? Is it to be this brat’s, or would you exchange your life for it?’

  ‘No, Mage Lord!’ Ainé laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Beware the scheming nature of this creature. Though weakened, he retains malice beyond your comprehension.’

  Alan wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t expose Mo to danger. But no more did he expect that the Preceptor would hold back until he died from his wounds, even though the spreading malignancy burned more fiercely by the moment in his tormented flesh. If only he could delay the dagger for seconds longer … ‘How do I know you’ll release the girl if I volunteer to take her place?’

  ‘I have no concern to reassure you!’ He paused, as if to savour the mere contemplation of it. ‘I am the instrument of my master’s will. For such an honour, I would sacrifice an infinite number of brats such as this.’

  Alan used the triangle to probe the Preceptor’s state of mind. Here he discovered no resemblance to the human envy and malice of Kawkaw. This was a mind perverted to darkness. And the brooding malevolence was not entirely spent. It attacked him back, still strong enough mind-to-mind to gain a fleeting hold over his will. Alan’s limbs were stiffening again in that creeping paralysis. He knew that the dagger was extending towards his own throat. Waves of shock reeled through his mind. But even as the dagger lunged forward, he registered a furious movement at his side.

  Faster it seemed than thought itself, he felt his body being pushed aside, and in that twinkling of time his mind was released.

  ‘No!’ Alan’s shout was a second too late.

  In that distracted moment, the Preceptor, with blade extended, was pulled violently backwards, his body rising up off the ground, pressed tight against the tree. Still the knuckles enclosing the black-bladed dagger were white with tension. The cackling voice still hissed with loathing.

  ‘Infidel!’

  Powerful arms encircled the Preceptor from behind. It was the golden-haired noviciate, Valéra, her arms long enough to encircle the entire bole of the tree and
crush the throat of the Preceptor against the wood.

  Alan had already grabbed Mo from the Preceptor’s arm, pulling her back towards him, tearing at the sack that covered her head. But when he ripped it off he found it wasn’t Mo at all. It wasn’t even a girl, but some other sacrificial innocent, an Olhyiu boy, perhaps one of those who had been lost overboard in the rapids, and who now sagged, barely conscious, in Alan’s arms.

  Ainé had to stop him rushing at the creature. He could only watch with fury as a final sneer came over the marbled decay in the Preceptor’s face, the eyes aglow with the green death, the poisoned blood dribbling between his bared teeth.

  ‘Valéra!’

  Protecting Alan had distracted the Kyra’s attention, but now a cry rang from her lips. It was too late. Even as Valéra crushed the Preceptor’s throat, the dagger was thrust backwards, burying its sinuous blade to the hilt in the young Shee’s abdomen.

  Mo’s Secret

  At times her mind wandered so that Mo could almost convince herself that it was just a nightmare, but then a sudden cramping pain in her feet wrenched her back to the terrifying reality of darkness and fear.

  I’m buried alive in a pit in the ground.

  She had screamed out Alan’s name, again and again, searching for the communication mind-to-mind of the triangle in his brow, but he hadn’t answered.

  Alan was not going to come and rescue her.

  The realisation that he would not be coming provoked such a giddy wave of panic she had to cast her mind wide again, to call out, hoping he would hear her and come for her. But there was no sign that he heard her, no answer except the pounding of her heartbeat. It must be night above the ground but she couldn’t really tell because down here it was pitch dark all the time. The last thing she remembered was the thin man’s face leering cruelly down at her from the small opening above her head before the soldiers had dragged a slab of stone over the pit, followed by noises that told her they were covering the stone with debris and snow, hiding her away so that nobody in the world would ever find her.