Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  “We fled. Three score of us. The master had old maps of the hinterlands. We sought to flee Saysh Mal, to escape into the hinter.” He made a quiet scoffing sound and shook his head.

  “A sorry state when the hinterlands offer better succor than your own settled realm.”

  “And still we wouldn’t have lived. Not without her help.”

  “Whose help?”

  Harp waved a dismissive hand, done with reliving the nightmare. “You’ll see soon enough. Best save your breath.”

  Tylar didn’t argue. He was finding it harder to match even the elder’s pace. His side throbbed, shortening his breaths, and his knee remained locked up painfully. He could barely move it.

  “How long have you been crippled up?” Sheershym asked him, nodding toward his gait.

  Tylar shook his head. Now it was his turn to prefer silence. He didn’t understand the growing ruin of his body. Why had he failed to summon the naethryn back on the balcony? Had it become permanently imprisoned? Was the cost of its release more than a single broken bone? He recalled when all this had first started, down in the cellars of Tashijan. The finger that hadn’t healed.

  What had gone awry?

  “Once we reach our main camp,” Sheershym said, “I’ll attend your injuries. See what I can do to help.”

  Tylar merely nodded.

  “We had such hope,” the master mumbled.

  Tylar glanced at him, hearing the pain.

  “When we spotted your flippercraft, we believed it marked the end of the Huntress’s reign. And if not that, then at least rescue.”

  Harp snorted. In the end, it had been Tylar’s party that had needed the rescuing.

  Sheershym pointed ahead. “Once safe, you’ll have to explain how the Godslayer ended up in Saysh Mal. I wager it wasn’t a chance visit.”

  Tylar nodded. “I’m afraid we may need more than your hospitality. Do you still have those old maps of the hinterlands?”

  The master’s brow crinkled as he looked over at Tylar. He slowly nodded. “Our camp is secure. It is madness to think to venture out there.”

  “Madness seems rampant of late across Myrillia,” Tylar mumbled darkly. He ended any further discussion by drifting back along the line, favoring his knee. He settled next to the litter bearing Brant, still borne by Krevan and Malthumalbaen.

  Dart walked on the far side. “He continues to slumber,” she reported. “Though I heard him mumbling in his sleep. I thought he was asking for my help. But then he seemed angry, mumbling about letting someone burn.”

  Tylar frowned, recalling a similar cryptic utterance. The words had stayed with him.

  HELP THEM…FREE THEM… LET THEM ALL BURN

  He also remembered Mirra screaming at him. Kill the boy…before he wakes them! What did any of it mean? What was it about Brant? He found his gaze drifting to the one thing that tied him to all this.

  The stone rested at the hollow of his throat.

  Dart noted his attention. “It is pretty-”

  Tylar glanced to her.

  Her eyes remained on the stone, then slowly shifted to him. “Do you think it’s true? That the stone came from the home of the gods.”

  Tylar realized the weight of those words to Dart, a child of these same gods. If the Huntress was correct, the stone was also a piece of her lost home, a world she’d never seen.

  Until now.

  Her gaze returned to it, her face worried yet frosted with wonder.

  Rogger broke the spell, ambling up to them, nose crinkled. “Do you smell something burning?”

  Dart gaped at the swath of ruin ahead. It cut through the jungle, a river of black rock, steaming, cracked in places to reveal its molten, fiery heart. They gathered on one bank, still green, though tributaries of burnt forest stretched outward. They had edged along one such tributary to reach this place. The firestorm, ignited by the molten flow, had burnt the jungle down to the loam, leaving stretches of forest charred to trunks, blackened spires spreading in great tracks, eerily reminiscent of the stakes back in the Grove.

  At least there were no bodies here.

  “What happened?” Tylar asked, voicing aloud the question for all.

  Harp stood beside Dart. He pointed to the south, to the headwaters of the black river. A mountain rose into the sky, far taller than the peaks across the river. Snow crowned its summit, glinting in the sun.

  “Takaminara,” Dart whispered, naming both god and mountain. She remembered Brant describing it earlier, the sleeping volcano. It slept no longer.

  “She saved us,” Harp said and pointed across the ruin. A bit of green forest could be seen on the far side, pinched between the western mountain ranges. “We fled toward the hinterland beyond the Divide, where the mountains fall into the lower wild lands. But the Huntress found us. She led two hundred of her best against us. Two hundred against three score. We were too young, too old, too weak. We would never make the hinter in time. Neither could we withstand such a force against us. So we kept running well into the night. First one moon rose, then the other. We helped each other as best we could, but as we reached the foot of the western mountain passes, the weakest, the oldest, the youngest began to falter on the steeper slopes. All seemed hopeless.

  “Then in the darkest part of the night, the ground began to tremor. Leaves shook, trunks cracked. And behind us, the land split open in a thunderous crack. Fiery rock surged up, brilliant in the darkness. It separated our group from the hunters, raising a river between us, impassable. The hunters were driven off with flame and clouds of brimstone. The wound in her land sent the Huntress deep into seclusion.”

  Harp stared toward the mountain. “She protected us, sheltered us.”

  “Why?” Dart asked. “It is not her realm.”

  “Takaminara might have sensed the corruption here,” Rogger said. “Probably had an eye turned in this direction. Perhaps she had witnessed enough slaughter, so lashed out as best she could to protect what was left.”

  “Or shake the Huntress back to her sensibilities,” Tylar said. “The Huntress is a god of loam. To tear her realm must have struck her like the lash of a whip, one that cut deep. No wonder she retreated into hiding, to lick her wounds.”

  Krevan overheard their conversation. “But why did Takaminara act at all? It is rare enough for a god to assault a neighboring realm. And that one, buried in her mountain, barely acknowledges the outer world as it is.”

  Harp turned from his grateful gaze upon the mountain. “Whatever her reason, she saved us. The Huntress avoids this place. Refuses to let her hunters cross. Our camp on the far side remains secure. But we don’t know how long such fear will last. Or if Takaminara will act a second time to protect us. For days afterward, her volcano rumbled, yellow steam issued from a thousand cracks. But now the mountain sleeps again.”

  Dart heard the worry in his voice.

  “And it’s safe to cross now?” Malthumalbaen asked, carrying the rear of Brant’s litter, eyeing one of the glowing cracks.

  “If you know the right path,” Harp said and started across the rock.

  Dart followed. “Where are we going?”

  Harp pointed to the two tallest spires ahead. The tips of the peaks glowed above shrouds of mists and smudgy smoke. “Our camp lies between the Anvil and the Hammer.”

  Rogger squinted. “In other words, within the Forge?”

  Harp glanced back and nodded.

  They continued in a stretched line across the frozen black river. Dart felt the heat of the rock through the soles of her boots. All around, thin vents wept steam, smelling of brimstone and staining the surrounding rock yellow, turning the cracks into festering wounds.

  Pupp kept close to her side, sensing her unease, glowing a bit brighter as if challenging the heat with his own molten form.

  On the opposite side of Brant’s litter, Rogger dropped closer to Tylar.

  “The Forge,” the thief whispered to Tylar and nodded toward Brant. “Where the boy and his father found Keor
n’s burning form. Seems we’ve just about come full circle.”

  “But where from there?” Tylar mumbled. He held his wrapped hand over his left side, favoring it. His limp had grown much worse.

  Behind them, a sharp trill of a jungle loon rose from farther out in the forest, as if calling to them, warning them.

  Ahead, Harp glanced back, eyes narrowed with suspicion. He didn’t say anything, but he increased their pace.

  Words died among them as the heat rose and noxious seeps tainted the air. Ahead, the green beach beckoned with a promise of shade and dripping canopy, but it grew too slowly.

  With no choice, they marched onward as the sun sank before them. The twin peaks of the Forge-the Anvil and the Hammer-blazed ever brighter. Dart’s eyes ached at the glare, but she could not turn away. It was their destination.

  At long last, the line of jungle swelled, and the rock under foot cooled as they left behind the deeper flows near the river’s center. They stumbled gratefully off the rock and into the welcoming embrace of shade and green leaf.

  “The way is steeper from here,” Harp warned. “But it’s not much farther. If you look to that cliff, you can see one of our watchtowers, where we can watch the burn and spy for any trespass against us.”

  Dart squinted. Half-blinded by the heat and glare, all she was able to discern atop the indicated cliff was a shroud of trees. She bit back a groan. They might not have far to go, but it was high.

  For Tylar, it was both too far and too high.

  He suddenly sank to a fallen log, half-collapsing. His black hair was slicked to his scalp with his own sweat. His face shone with exhaustion and was etched with deep lines by pain. Near the end of their fording of the black river, he had leaned heavily on the giant. His bad leg seemed to have twisted under him, bowing, turning his heel. He cradled his arm with the bandaged hand to his chest. His fingers poking from the wrapping looked as if they had already healed, but crookedly.

  Master Sheershym approached and knelt beside him. “You’ll not make it to the camp. We’ll have to cut a litter for you.”

  Tylar just hung his head. “If I rest…” he said weakly.

  Rogger joined the master. “You can sleep the year away, and you’d still not be able to climb that far.”

  Harp already had his boys cutting and weaving another litter. They did it with a practiced speed. He also waved to two boys to run ahead and alert the camp of their pending arrival.

  “This weakness,” Sheershym said. “It is more than mere tired limb. I may not be the best healer of Saysh Mal, but even I can tell that what ails you goes deeper than broken bone.”

  He took Tylar’s hand and deftly unwrapped it. The broken finger had indeed healed crooked, evident when Tylar tried to clench and pull away. But in his exhaustion, he could not break even the elderly grip of Sheershym. Worse still, the two neighboring fingers, unbroken before, had also curled into calloused knots, and it appeared his wrist had locked up as much as his knee. It was as if the damage had spread, wicking outward into healthy flesh like some poison from a wound.

  Even Tylar gaped at the sight, surprised what the wrap had hid. His other hand rubbed his knee. His leg was plainly more twisted.

  “It’s like you’re going back,” Rogger mumbled.

  “Back where?” Sheershym asked.

  Rogger shook his head.

  The master sat on his heels and glanced between Tylar and Rogger. “Silence will not serve you here. Whatever is at work had best be attended with full knowledge.” This voice took on a tone of a master at the front of his students.

  Tylar nodded. “You know my story,” he said weakly. “A broken knight, healed by Meeryn of the Summering Isles as she lay dying. How she instilled her naethryn undergod into me, curing me at the same time.”

  “Who doesn’t know that tale by now?”

  “What many don’t know is that when I loose the naethryn, my body returns to its broken form.” Tylar lifted his gnarled hand. “When the naethryn returns again to my body, so does my hale form. But now…”

  Rogger finished. “He failed to loose the naethryn with the Huntress. And his body continues to slowly break and twist again, driving him back toward his crippled form.”

  “It started slow. An unhealed break. But it spreads ever faster. I don’t know why it’s happening, nor what it portends.”

  Sheershym asked a few more questions about what was broken in the past and now. By the time he was done, Harp had a litter ready. “Let’s get you up to the camp,” the master said, standing again. “I’d like to study this puzzle in more detail. ‘It is often the smallest thread that reveals the greater pattern.’”

  “Tyrrian Balk,” Roger said.

  Sheershym glanced to him. “You’ve read the work of the Arithromatic. You must someday tell me where you performed your studies.”

  They hurriedly got Tylar stretched out and continued skyward along a steep and winding path. It looked little more than a deer track, and probably was. Switchbacks climbed the side of a promontory of rock that jutted from the peak called the Anvil.

  As they climbed, Brant had begun to revive, mumbling and attempting to sit up on his litter.

  Lorr pressed his shoulder back down. “Stay put,” the tracker ordered.

  “Where…?”

  Dart kept to his other side. She found his hand and took it. “We’re heading up into the forest. Rest now. We’ll explain more when we stop.”

  He nodded, eyes rolling slightly. His fingers found the strength to squeeze hers, an intimacy that warmed through Dart and made the path seem less steep. Then he relaxed back into slumber.

  After several more turns, views opened and revealed how high they’d already climbed. The black river stretched below, winding back to the great mountain to the south. On the far side, the spread of green forest filled the lower valleys. But much remained hidden behind mists, including the Huntress’s castillion.

  Then the views vanished again under heavy canopy. A few shouts reached them from ahead. One last push, and they topped the rise and found a small glade where a crude camp had been set up. It was nothing more than sprawls of tented canvas across low limbs and netted hammocks hanging higher. Children and elders gathered, though some hung close to the forest edge, looking ready to bolt-especially when Malthumalbaen trudged into view. One of the youngest began to cry and buried his face in the skirt of an older woman leaning on a cane.

  “He won’t eat you,” the woman promised.

  “Dral might have,” the giant mumbled under his breath as he passed. “’Course after that climb, I’m not about to be that particular either.”

  Harp guided them forward and found a corner for them to rest and catch their wind. Water was brought in leather flasks. It tasted sour, but to Dart it was still the sweetest wine.

  Tylar settled to the forest floor.

  Sheershym appeared with a book tucked under one arm. “I would like to sketch a map of your injuries. Where they are now, where they were before. See what pattern, if any, might reveal itself.”

  Tylar groaned and shifted up into a seated position. “I feel stronger already.”

  “Because your arse was hauled up here,” Rogger said. “That’s why.”

  “And rest will not straighten a crooked bone.” Sheershym added. He waved Tylar back down. “First I’d like to inspect the mark Meeryn placed upon you. It is through there that the naethryn enters and leaves this world. Yes?”

  Tylar grimaced, but that was the extent of his further objections. With Rogger’s help, he slipped his shadowcloak over his shoulders, then unhooked the shirt beneath. It had been soaked through with his sweat.

  Rogger accepted the garment as Tylar shed it. The thief pinched it up with a sour expression. “If Delia saw this waste of humour, she’d burn you with her tongue for days.” He wrung out the garment, squeezing the sweat into a small fire ringed by stones. It sizzled and popped, destroying any residual Grace.

  Bare-chested, Tylar leaned back to th
e litter, plainly exerted by even this small effort. Still, a bit of color had filled his cheeks again after the rest.

  Sheershym leaned to study the black palm print centered on Tylar’s chest, the mark of Meeryn. He reached a hand toward it. “May I?”

  Tylar had his eyes closed and waved a few fingers of his good hand. “Do what you must.”

  Sheershym traced the black edges with a finger, then tested the flesh within the mark.

  Dart winced as she stood to the side, arms crossed over her chest. It was the first time she had seen Tylar’s hidden mark since back in Chrismferry. It made her uneasy to look upon it. It looked to her like a well of dark water shaped like a palm. She feared the master’s hand would pass into Tylar’s chest.

  But his fingers only discovered skin over bone.

  “I don’t feel anything amiss,” he said, straightening. “Let’s check the rest of your injuries. For the knee, we’ll need those leggings off.”

  The master waved to Dart and Calla. “Perhaps a bit of modesty is in order.”

  Calla shrugged and wandered a few steps away to where someone had spitted a rabbit over a flame. Dart also began to turn away, when a flash of light caught her eye.

  She turned back to Tylar. He had raised to one elbow and was tugging free the loop of his sword belt. “Wait,” she said and stepped closer.

  Tylar lifted his face toward her.

  Dart leaned closer to the mark on his chest, bending at the waist. “I-I thought I saw something…”

  Tylar glanced down at himself, his brow crinkling.

  The well of dark water that was his mark swirled ever so slightly as she stared closely. She had noted the same back in Chrismferry, as if something had crested just under the surface, stirring the waters.

  His naethryn.

  But that was not what had drawn her eye.

  Sheershym sighed with impatience. “I assure you, lass. Nothing is amiss.”

  Rogger warded him back. “Best let her look. She’s got eyes a mite sharper than ours. Sees things others miss.” He said this last with a wink in her direction.

  Dart kept her focus on the mark, only a hand’s breadth from Tylar’s chest. She waited. Maybe she was mistaken-