by Alec Hutson
The swarm banks above us, coming around for another attack. It looks noticeably thinner – a few more passes and Amara and I will have to compete to see who can kill the last few.
The world lurches. My feet leave the ground and I’m tumbling through the air. Somehow I manage to hold on to my sword as I land on my side with jarring force, and as I struggle to stand I keep my blade at the ready in case the insects swoop down again.
What was that?
Amara is still flat on her back, dazed, her red sword lying a ways away. Valyra is on her hands and knees. I stumble towards them.
The ground buckles. Dust slides away from a great slab of stone as it is lifted into the air and shoved aside, coming so close it nearly crushes me.
A wall of gray-green flesh rushes upwards from where the floor has broken. The tendril lashes the air as if in anger, smashing against the already damaged ceiling.
It’s here. The great monster we’d glimpsed from afar.
Huge chunks of stone fall from the ceiling, raising clouds of dust when they strike the ground. I fight to stay standing as the temple convulses. At least the insects are gone; they must have wisely escaped through the shattered ceiling when this thing first emerged. I stagger as a rock bounces off my shoulder.
Any moment the tendril will bring this ruin collapsing around us. There’s no hope – what can a bug do against a maddened god? The tendril thrashes, ripping loose another piece of the ceiling. Through the billowing dust I can now see the coruscating colors of the unnatural sky.
But this bug can still sting.
I charge the rippling expanse of flesh and pierce it with my green glass sword. The blade slides in far easier than I would have imagined, and I tear as large a hole as I can, my hurt shoulder pulsing with pain. Black blood gushes forth, and I step aside just before being drenched. Some part of my mind that has remained stubbornly detached from this insanity notes that the same ichor seems to have flowed from each of the monsters I’ve fought, despite their radically different forms. I hack again and again, carving glistening chunks from the creature.
For a moment the tendril appears unhurt by the wounds I’ve opened, but then a shudder passes through it. I pull my sword out just as the monster starts to retract, its serpentine length squirming back down into the hole it emerged from.
And then it’s gone. The ground continues shaking, and I worry that it’s gathering itself for another attempt to bring the temple down upon us. I stumble over to where Valyra is crouched beside her mother, holding her.
“If there’s a Gate here, we need to go through it now!” I cry, expecting more tendrils to burst through the ground at any moment.
And then I see it. A jagged chunk of stone has pierced Amara’s stomach, impaling her to the floor. Her face is ashen and blood is trickling from the corner of her mouth, but her eyes fix on me as I sink down beside her. Valyra is sobbing, stroking her mother’s limp hand tenderly.
Amara struggles to say something, then grimaces and spits out a wad of blood. She tries again. “Talin,” she manages.
“Amara,” I say, trying to ignore for a moment that there’s some monstrous beast churning the ground beneath us.
“Take them through the Gate. Protect my people. Protect my daughter.”
I reach out and grip her arm. “I will.”
She coughs, spattering her robes with blood. “Valans . . . he thinks he is strong, but he is not. He will not lead well. That . . . burden . . . should be yours.”
I don’t know what to say. I doubt the rest of the tribe will accept me as their chieftain.
Amara manages to sit up slightly and grips my wrist fiercely. “Promise me,” she says, staring into my eyes. “Promise me you will protect Valyra.”
“I promise,” I reply, and Amara sinks back again, her face slackening in death.
Valyra wails.
There’s more people around us, those who have survived the insects and the collapsing temple. Valans rushes forward and throws himself upon his mother’s body. He clutches at her, cradling her head to his chest. Then he whirls on me.
“You!” he snarls, spitting out the word. “This is your fault! You brought the Shriven to us!”
Valans moves to lunge at me but the red-bearded man holds him back. He struggles against Kellic for a moment and then subsides, racked by sobs.
The old monk pushes through the crescent of watchers. How has he survived all this? “The Red Sword is dead,” he says, “and we must not let her sacrifice be in vain. Come quickly, the Gate awaits.” He points a trembling figure towards the opalescent arch.
This seems to wake Valans. He gently brushes closed his mother’s eyes and stands, not looking at me. He approaches her sword and picks it up, staring into its crimson blade. “The Red Sword is not dead,” he says. “I am the Red Sword now. I am your chieftain, and I will protect you.”
Valyra’s tear-streaked face turns to me. She heard what her mother said. This might cause a problem later . . . if we survive this.
Incredibly, the trembling has faded, as if the monster is moving farther and farther away. Could I have hurt it more than I thought? I glance at what little of the ceiling remains, half expecting to see the swarm of insect Shriven descending upon us again.
But it seems like we have found a moment’s peace.
The monk is hobbling towards the arch, and the rest of the tribe is following him as if in a daze. Valyra bends over her mother and kisses her on the cheek, then we rise together.
“She was strong,” I say.
“Stronger than all of us,” Valyra says, and she leans on me as we make our way over to where the old monk stands beside the curving span of white stone. He’s holding the black silver-threaded stone that I’d carried out of the wastes.
The dozen survivors take a collective indrawn breath as he slips the key into a small depression in the otherwise smooth surface of the arch.
Nothing happens.
“Shriven take you!” Valans screams, rounding on me. His copper eyes flash and his face is contorted with rage. He raises the crimson blade of his tribe and my hand finds the hilt of my own green glass sword.
“Hold!” cries the monk, and Valans hesitates.
Light is seeping down from the edges of the archway, like water spreading across a surface. It only takes a few moments for the space within the curving stone to fill completely with a shimmering golden veil.
The ground shakes.
“Through the Gate!” the monk cries, motioning for the others to enter.
No one moves, until another tremor nearly sends Kellic sprawling.
Muttering something under his breath, the monk turns from the gawping tribespeople and vanishes through the glowing doorway.
That breaks the spell. Valans is next, holding his mother’s crimson sword. Then Kellic, followed by the scarred hunter I remember from the gathering.
Valyra clutches at my arm as the tribespeople pass into the portal. “You’ll stay with us?” she says to me. “We will need you, whatever is on the other side.”
I put my hand on hers. “I made a promise to your mother.”
“The door opens.”
I whirl around. Something is clambering out of the hole the tendril has made in the floor of the temple. White flesh, a distended head. Milky fish eyes. It looks just like the Shriven that Valans had slain – what had he called it? A Voice?
“The old bargain is fulfilled. We thank you, Pilgrim.”
I try to raise my sword, but just like yesterday it’s like some invisible force has seized my body.
“Valyra,” I croak, even as the pressure builds on my throat, “run.”
But there’s no answer, nor does her hand slip from my arm. She’s also been stilled by this creature’s power.
The Voice shambles closer, no hint of urgency in its movement. It knows it has us, and its glistening lips writhe into a leer.
I strain with all my will against whatever is holding me, but it’s like I’m trying to shi
ft a mountain.
It’s less than a dozen paces from us. There’s something in its clawed hand, a serrated length of what looks like bone.
A pulse goes through me, originating from where Valyra still touches my arm, a shiver of warmth that I’d felt before as she knitted me back together. The heat from her weaving melts the clammy grip the Voice has on my body, and I can move again. Something that must be surprise twists its monstrous visage, and before it can try to grab hold of me again I lunge towards the portal, yanking Valyra with me and throwing her into the golden doorway. Her eyes widen and then she’s gone and I’m leaping after her, pulling the key free of the arch as I tumble forward.
The Voice’s power scrabbles against my limbs but I’m being carried away and the light swallows me and I’m falling –
5
The abyss embraces me.
I’m floating through something cold and black; it rushes over me like water, sliding across my skin, filling my nose and mouth.
No, I’m wrong – it is water.
I thrash, nearly dropping my sword, and twist around searching for Valyra. Behind and slightly below me is an archway that looks like the Gate I just leaped through. It glows a spectral white in the watery darkness, but there’s no sign of the golden light of the door. I can’t see anyone else.
The pressure is building in my chest, and I’m going to have to spit out what I’ve swallowed very soon. I surge upwards, kicking hard with my legs, and after a few moments of burning agony I break the surface of the water. I cough, spluttering, and take a few deep, ragged breaths.
Above me is a vast, glimmering expanse. Stars. And there’s a pair of moons, both nearly full. The larger of the pair smolders, red as a dying ember. Its partner looks more like a silver coin that’s been tossed up into the firmament. This smaller moon is much brighter, though, and I think it’s giving off the light that’s gilding the ruins around me. I’m treading water in the middle of a wide, dark pool, and up on dry land loom the bones of dead buildings, mostly broken towers and sundered arches.
With my one free arm I swim with awkward strokes across the pool. My fingers scrabble among a spray of reeds and I pull myself halfway out of the water, resting my cheek in the cold mud.
I’ve escaped that dying world. And this place feels more right, more familiar. I came from somewhere like here, with water and stars and grass.
But what about Valyra? Did she panic and sink when she came through the Gate? Very likely she wouldn’t know how to swim. Fear clutches at my heart. Is she at the bottom of this pool right now, her life slipping away?
Groaning, I slide my sword and the pouch where I’ve put the stone key among the reeds and push myself back into the water. I swim to where I think I just surfaced, and after taking a deep breath I dive down again into the darkness. There’s the arch, glowing faintly below me. I angle towards it until my hand can touch the unnatural stone. The space around the arch is slightly illuminated: I can see broken tiles encrusted with lichen, along with what might be the remnants of a grimy mosaic, and strands of some thin plant rising up from the bottom. A school of small, silvery fish vanishes into the black as I swim closer.
There’s no Valyra, or anyone else. Could she have struggled a ways from the Gate and then sank? In frustration I push off from the arch and swim for the surface again.
I dive several more times, groping through the darkness that sprawls outside of the thin circle of radiance seeping from the arch. My fingers glide over old stone, slime, and even what feels like ancient, splintered bones. But no flesh.
She’s not here.
Finally, I swim back to where I’d tossed my sword among the reeds and haul myself out of the water. The air is cool, and I shiver, but my exhaustion is bone-deep and I know that sleep will take me quickly if I let it.
Should I? What dangers are here? The ruins are silent, and the night is still. I don’t even hear any birds or animals.
Whatever danger is lurking here, I’m too tired to care. Quickly I burrow a nest among the reeds that I hope will hide me from anything that doesn’t pass too close, and I let the darkness rise up to carry me away.
Birdsong wakes me.
I blink against the brightness of the day, my head throbbing. Above me the sky is a wash of blue threaded by wisps of clouds. Some large bird turns gyres far overhead, perhaps hoping I never stir from my slumber. There’s the sun, that mythical celestial body. From where it is in the sky I think it must be late morning.
Cradling my head in my hands I sit up, fighting through a wave of dizziness. My damp clothes cling to me, but the day is pleasantly warm. I gaze out over the pool I’d passed into when I went through the Gate – it’s a few hundred paces across, the water smooth as glass. Here and there the remnants of ancient structures break the surface. A section of this ancient city must have flooded, as it would have been rather foolish to have the doorway to this world open into the bottom of a lake.
A metallic jangling alerts me that I’m about to have company. I press myself lower among the reeds, searching for the source of this noise. A few moments later I see movement partway around the pool, and then a man emerges from behind a collapsed building leading a pair of horses. One of the old nags is tossing its head, as if trying to disperse a swarm of biting insects, and the sound I heard was the tinkling of a line of bells attached to its halter. The man strokes the neck of the aggrieved beast and looks to be whispering something as he guides it to drink from the pool. The other horse is already gulping lustily, its tail swishing. When the recalcitrant horse finally bends its head to the water the man crouches as well and sets to filling a pair of large metal canisters.
He doesn’t look to be much of a threat. For one, he’s old – he’s slightly stooped, and the hair fringing his bald pate is gray. He has a rather impressive mustache of the same color, the ends waxed so that they curl back up towards the strange frame that perches on his nose. This thing seems to be balanced on his face by two bits of metal that reach back to his ears. Light flashes off something – glass? – suspended within this device. It’s like he’s looking through two tiny windows. And the object on his face isn’t the only strangeness: the tips of silvery instruments are poking from the tops of the many pockets sewn into his brown apron, which looks like something a craftsman might wear. They appear to be tools, not weapons.
For a moment I consider staying hidden and letting this traveler continue on. But then I realize he might have seen Valyra or any of the refugees from the other world. He’s certainly not threatening. And also I have to admit, as a pang of hunger twists my belly, I’m absolutely starving.
I slide my sword into its sheath and stand. The man doesn’t notice me, though one of the horses raises its head to glare at me from across the pond. Holding my hands out, I begin to circle around the water’s edge, making as much noise as possible so he doesn’t think I’m trying to sneak up on him. He’s remarkably oblivious. I think I could walk up right next to him and cut off his head and he wouldn’t know anyone was there until his face hit the grass.
“Hello!” I say, and he gasps, nearly toppling backwards. The horses flanking him grumble and shift, eyeing me with some suspicion.
I smile as warmly as I can. “I’m sorry to startle you. I’m a stranger here, and lost.”
The old man steadies himself and brings a hand up to the frame holding the windows over his eyes, squinting at me. He lets out a gabble of unintelligible nonsense, but from the intonation it sounds like a question.
I touch my chest with my hand. “My name is Talin.” Or, at least, that will do for now.
The man seems more curious than scared. He studies me, his gaze lingering on my muddy clothes and the sword at my side.
I hold my arms out wide. “I will not harm you,” I say, hoping my meaning is clear.
Apparently it is. He takes a few tentative steps in my direction, then pauses and strokes his mustache. I can almost hear the debate he’s having in his head. Finally he puts his open palm
over his heart and bows slightly.
“Poziminius del Alate,” he says.
Is this his name? Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. I mirror his gesture, broadening my smile slightly. “Talin.”
“Talin,” he says, his accent making it sound more like “Tayin.” Close enough.
He peers at me for a moment longer and then turns, gesturing that I should follow. I do, keeping enough distance between us that he won’t get nervous. He takes up the halters of the horses again, whispering something that sounds soothing. One of the horses regards me with placid equanimity. The other one looks like he’ll try and take my ear off if I get too close.
The man leads the horses away from the water, along a narrow, well-trodden path that wends between the white stone ruins. This must be a popular way-stop for travelers. The town or complex gives off a sense of great age – I’d say centuries, at least, from the weathering of the structures and how in places ancient trees have grown up and through the buildings, their gnarled roots reaching down to devour the stone.
Beyond the ruins is a large field and a road of gray brick wide enough for a half-dozen men to walk shoulder to shoulder. The avenue is younger than the white stone buildings, certainly, though it’s also suffering from neglect: many of the bricks are missing or have crumbled to pieces, and beside the road the grass is trampled and furrowed. There’s a brightly colored covered wagon in a clearing near the road, a thin trickle of smoke rising from the far side.
The old man beckons at me again as he approaches the wagon. He calls out something, and a moment later a woman emerges from the wagon, pushing through a green curtain emblazoned with a strange red symbol.
She sees me and surprise shivers her face. Then she reaches back inside the wagon and pulls out something that looks much like a hewbow, except it’s smaller and more intricate. She points it at me and barks something in her language, and I raise my hands to try and show her that I’m not a threat.
