The Core

by Peter V. Brett

  “You were very brave, my son,” Ashia said.

  “Bave like Mama,” Kaji agreed.

  Abban had collapsed on the floor. Briar went to him, dragging him to the wall and propping him against it. “You all right?”

  Abban sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “The spy.”

  “Saved your life,” Briar reminded him.

  “What is the meaning of this?!” Hasik demanded. “Fetch the chin Gatherer. I need…”

  Ashia put her spear to the nape of his neck. “You need nothing, servant of Nie.”

  More men were pouring into the chamber. Not all were Khevat’s warriors, and many looked ready to continue the fighting and free their leader.

  But then Briar took hold of the body of the demon prince and threw its ruin beside Hasik. The men looked on in horror at the creature, the symbol of everything they had been taught from cradle to sharaj to fear and hate.

  “I am Ashia vah Ashan, Sharum’ting Ka of Krasia!” Ashia shouted. “You have been duped, warriors of Everam, but I have come with an offer of redemption. Even now, the alagai press the Damajah’s forces at Everam’s Reservoir. Many of you have friends there. Family. Ride with me there now, and your crimes will be forgiven. Remain behind, and when Sharak Ka is over the victorious armies of the Deliverer will hunt you down.”

  “If they are victorious,” Hasik sneered. “The Deliverer is dead. His son…”

  “Was murdered by you!” Khevat shouted.

  Ashia nodded. “Hasik, shame of his family, for the murder of my brother-in-law Prince Jayan, and desertion from the Deliverer’s Army, I sentence you to death.”

  Hasik had been gathering his strength. He whirled quickly, but he was not quick enough. Ashia thrust her spear, severing his spine at the neck. The eunuch’s body went limp, and he collapsed. Before anyone could move, she drew back and slashed her spear, severing his head.

  “Bring it,” she commanded, “and the demon’s head as well. Let those above see who they were following as they make their choice.”

  CHAPTER 40

  ALAMEN FAE

  334 AR

  The mimic grew legs as long as the tunnel would allow, sprinting hard from the collapsing ceiling. The stones would delay pursuit only a short time, but it would be enough for the mind to lose them in the maze of the depths.

  Yet the Heir was fast. Soaring past the worst of the collapse, he batted the last of the stones, knocking it into the mimic’s back. The drone’s armor held, but it was knocked from its feet.

  The Consort looked back. The Heir was alone, trapped on the far side of the cave-in. He had his spear and cloak, but not the hated crown. It was a rare opportunity to rid himself of the scourge of the Mind Killer.

  The Heir was unprepared as the mimic bounced off the wall and used the force of his own attack to spring back at him. As the Consort surmised, the Heir did not have the focus to sustain flight while fending off a concerted attack. He dropped back to his feet, that he might better access the repetitions that formed the basis of human combat.

  The Consort had studied sharusahk in the human drone’s mind, learning its strengths and weaknesses, and watched the Heir’s style closely.

  It was all the human could do to block the mimic’s attacks. His aura was filled with aggression, but he did not lose focus. He knew he was divided—weakened. He gave ground as the mimic pressed in, shedding his armored robe to bare the wards scarred into his flesh.

  The mimic spat the thick, sticky acid of a swamp drone at the Heir’s face. His defensive wards would have protected him, but as expected he flinched, losing a moment’s focus as the drone grew multiple limbs, each ending in a sharp, chitinous spike. The Consort Drew from those spikes, leaving them magic-dead and immune to the defensive wards.

  The Heir dodged the acid, taking a spike in the side. He rolled away from the blow, too shallow to kill, and somehow managed to block the next three attacks before the fourth pierced clean through his thigh.

  Still he fought, hacking off the next spike and drawing a mimic ward that knocked the drone hard into the tunnel wall, creating fighting space. The Heir rushed past to cut off escape, pinning the Consort between himself and the collapsed tunnel.

  His spear came alive with cutting wards as he spun it at the mimic, and this time it was the Consort desperately trying to defend. Any appendage that came near the spinning weapon was lopped off, weakening the drone and robbing the Consort of the magic stored in that flesh.

  But while there was little defense against the spear, the Heir was all but blind without the crown. The Consort shifted the drone’s armor to blend into the tunnel, melting into a sinuous shape as it flowed up the wall and onto the ceiling to regain favorable ground.

  It was too much for the Heir’s weakened vision, but he responded on instinct, guessing the plan and drawing great mimic wards at the ceiling. The drone was bashed against the stone and lost purchase, dropping to the tunnel floor.

  The Consort shifted the glands in the mimic’s throat to those of a specialized water demon, producing a thick, viscous black ink. He Drew from the liquid until it was magic-dead, and spat.

  This time the Heir did not flinch, catching the blinding ink right in the face. Shock ran through his aura, but he did not lose focus, driving his spear right through the mimic’s midsection, inches from where the Consort hid.

  The Heir was no longer trying to keep him contained. He was there to kill.

  The Consort realized how foolish, how arrogant he had been. True, the Heir was weakened, alone, but he was still the Mind Killer, and the Consort was hardly at full strength.

  He sent out a vibration, Reading the stone around them. He sensed a cavern not far below, vast and sprawling. There would be countless places to hide long enough to flay the wards from the Consort’s flesh that he might dissipate back to his place of power.

  The Heir opened his eyes and they were alive with magic, burning the ink away with a hiss. Already his wounds were closing. He sent a jolt of magic through the spear, shocking mimic and mind alike before tearing the spear free to draw back for another thrust.

  The Consort blocked the blow and pressed the attack, stabbing with magic-dead spikes and forcing the Heir to give ground.

  When there was enough space, the Consort grew a sinuous limb and siphoned magic into it to draw wards even as the other limbs attacked. With no power to waste, each ward was precisely placed to drive cracks into the stone supporting the floor.

  But before he could complete the task, the Explorer dissipated through the still-settling stone of the cave-in. It was a dangerous move. Magic moved in tides in the deep, and could sweep the unwary into the Core, from which there was no return.

  More, the between-state would have opened the Explorer up to psychic attack, if the Consort still had his powers. Mimics were effective at duplicating the skills of lesser drones, but they could not replicate the complexity of a prince’s mind.

  The Explorer took no chances, solidifying the moment he was on the far side of the collapse, the hated crown in hand.

  If the Explorer had donned the relic, it might have been the Consort’s undoing, but human weakness saved him.

  “Ahmann!” The Explorer threw the crown at the Heir even as his other hand began drawing wards to keep the demons contained.

  The Heir caught the crown, but before he could place it on his brow, the Consort drew the last ward, and the floor collapsed beneath them.

  The Consort was prepared, snapping the mimic’s arms out into wind demon wings as he elongated and streamlined the body. It caught an updraft and glided away into the cavern as his enemies fell.

  —

  Arlen tumbled amid shattered rock, wind rushing in his face as he was buffeted by the stones. He glimpsed Jardir in similar free fall while the demon soared off.

  For the second time, he risked dissipation. On the surface, ambient magic flowed across the ground in subtle whorls and eddies, like low fog. There the call of the Core was a distant thing, like th
e great horn in Tibbet’s Brook. Here it was a thunderous roar, the flows of magic like great storm-waves threatening to drown him and drag him into its depths.

  He watched the currents, finding one flowing upward and latching his will to it. He rode the draft of magic, solidifying enough to maintain cohesion and resist the call of the Core while remaining light enough to stay aloft.

  Jardir let go of the spear, picking up speed as he struggled with the crown. He managed at last to get it onto his head, and summoned the spear with a quick sketching of wards. It returned almost eagerly to his grasp, and he, too, took flight.

  Arlen scanned the air, catching sight of the mimic as it glided through the cavern. He pointed and saw Jardir change course after it. Without another word, Arlen focused his magic in a concentrated burst, hurling himself at the demon like one of Leesha’s flamework rockets.

  —

  Jardir spent magic recklessly as he raced after Alagai Ka. There was a limit to what the Crown and Spear of Kaji could store, but the past months of sacrifice were meaningless if the demon escaped, to the doom of all Ala.

  But the Par’chin was with him now, and the crown was back on his brow. He’d kept his wits when the abyss broke loose and now Everam stood with them again.

  Miles sped by as they pursued, slowly closing the gap until the demon was nearly in range of the crown. Aware of the gain, the mimic furled its wings and fell like a stone into a deep canyon, momentarily dropping out of sight.

  The Par’chin dove after it as Jardir arced into the canyon, putting on speed instead of letting gravity do the work. The Par’chin was floating in midair, turning desperately to search for the father of demons. The ambient magic was thick this far below the surface, and Jardir knew the demon could hide in it like a Watcher in the shadows.

  But while Alagai Ka might hide from the Par’chin, he could not escape Jardir’s crownsight. Jardir pretended not to notice it cowering against the canyon wall, the mimic’s body perfectly blended with the stone. He turned his head, giving the creature a moment’s hope before he spun, bashing mimic and mind against the wall with wards of forbidding.

  Stunned, the demon was slow to react as Jardir rushed in close, throwing the crown’s bubble around it at last. The Par’chin tackled the demon in midair, more than willing to grapple as mind and mimic wards flared on his skin. They fell into the canyon, battering and bashing at each other.

  Jardir followed them down, drawing in the bubble. The demon had little room to maneuver when they hit the ground. The Par’chin broke the clinch and rolled back, bleeding from deep punctures from magic-dead spikes the demon had grown.

  But the wounds of his ajin’pal were already closing as he and Jardir stalked in. The weakened mimic was no match for them together. The Par’chin caught a spike-tipped tentacle and tore it clean off the demon’s body. Jardir blocked stabbing spikes and spun the spear to slice a deep cut of meat from its back.

  Ichor splattered them both, but it only made them stronger. Jardir lost track of time as they fought, slowly wearing down the foe.

  At last, the mimic grew too weak to sustain a transition, locked in a crippled form. Then it lost cohesion entirely, sloughing away to coat the floor in a reeking ooze, revealing the mind within.

  Jardir charged, spear leading, but then the demon did something unexpected. It knelt in the Krasian fashion, hands on the ground, eyes lowered.

  “Enough,” it rasped, voice harsh and cutting. “I surrender.”

  “Since when can you talk?!” The Par’chin gaped, pulling up short even as Jardir checked his attack.

  The demon gave an almost human shrug. “When I dissipated in your tower but failed to escape, I re-formed with a throat and tongue that could form your primitive grunting sounds.”

  Jardir lifted his spear. “So Shanjat…”

  Another shrug. “Was a useful drone.”

  Rage gathered in Jardir’s spirit and he Drew magic to power the killing wards still tattooed on the demon’s flesh.

  “Would you have done differently, child of Kavri?” the demon asked. “When has your kind ever shown mercy toward mine?”

  Jardir shook his head. Do not let Alagai Ka speak, the Evejah taught, for he is the Father of Lies whose silver tongue can convince men night is day and friend is foe.

  But the Par’chin stepped forward. “Plan ent changed, Ahmann. Still need him, we want to see this through.”

  “Perhaps,” Jardir said, “but is that truly what we want, Par’chin?”

  “Ay?” the greenlander asked.

  “He is the Father of Lies, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “He has deceived us at every turn, never as helpless as he seemed. He hollowed Shanjat like a melon rind, killed Shanvah…”

  The Par’chin shook his head. “Shanvah ent dead. Renna’s with her.”

  “And where are they, Par’chin?” Jardir asked. “Where are we, for that matter? We have come a long way from the tunnel where this began.”

  His doubt was mirrored in the Par’chin’s aura as he stared back the way they came. “Might be able to trace our path across the currents…”

  “And if we can?” Jardir demanded. “Slowly hunt our way back over a hundred miles away from our goal?”

  The Par’chin frowned. “All the more reason we keep the demon alive.”

  “I can still take you to the mind court,” the demon said. “It is close. The drone and your females will only slow you now.”

  There was no lie in the demon’s aura. Jardir found he could read it better now that the demon did its own speaking instead of projecting through Shanjat.

  “He will try to escape again,” Jardir said.

  “Of course I will,” the demon agreed. “As would you, in my position. But I will guide you to the hive.”

  “And into traps along the way,” Jardir said.

  “The mind court is not without defenses,” Alagai Ka said. “Whether you can survive them is, as you say, inevera.”

  Jardir raised a finger, sending power into the demon’s tattoos until it shrieked and writhed. “Do not speak that word, slave of Nie.”

  He let go of the power and the demon looked up at him with its massive black eyes. “I am no one’s slave.”

  —

  “What will your jiwah do when we do not return?” Jardir asked as they marched through the canyon and into deeper tunnels beyond.

  Arlen’s thumb ran across the wards of his wedding ring. “Don’t know. She’ll be mad as spit, half with worry and half at me. Like to think she’ll take Shanvah and head back to the surface, but…Ren’s stubborn.”

  Jardir laughed. “Something you have in common.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Arlen snapped. “Ent your baby in harm’s way.”

  “Do not condescend to me, Par’chin,” Jardir growled. “I have already lost my eldest son to Sharak Ka, and you fought alongside my eldest daughter in the Hollow. Is your sacrifice greater than mine?”

  “Jayan and Amanvah are grown,” Arlen said, a lump forming in his throat. “Made their own choices in life. My son…”

  Jardir reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “A father’s fear for his children does not fade when they grow, Par’chin.”

  Arlen nodded. “Ay, reckon that’s so. Din’t mean…”

  Jardir squeezed his shoulder. “Of course, Par’chin.”

  “Your sentiment is pathetic,” Alagai Ka rasped as he matched their pace on his spindly legs. “It will be your undoing.”

  The words were meant to cut, but Arlen found they had no edge. “Seen your kind fight. When I killed one, its brothers didn’t lift a claw to help. Rather die for sentiment than live in a world without it.”

  The ambient magic grew stronger as they marched, until Arlen felt he was swimming in it. His tattoos formed a constant Draw that suffused him with power. Jardir, too, shone with magic. Only the demon was dim. It kept a tight hold on its power, lest the wards on its flesh activate.

  Arlen spent the power freely, tracing wards
in the air as they walked—silence, confusion, unsight—masking their passage to the many demons whose paths they crossed.

  The glow of their auras was not the only light. Arlen began noticing that he could see, however dimly, in natural sight. The walls were glowing softly green. On closer inspection, he found lichen clinging to the damp rock, alive with magic and emitting the faint light.

  As the light grew brighter, the air lost the stink of demons but quickly became something altogether worse.

  “Gah!” Arlen said. “What’s that corespawned awful smell?”

  “We have entered the larder,” the mind demon said.

  “Alamen fae,” Jardir whispered, remembering Kavrivah’s letter. The phrase meant “those below Everam’s sight.” “Kaji’s warriors, taken prisoner five millennia ago.”

  “How many generations is that? Two hundred?” Arlen shook his head. “After just a year living on a greatward, Hollowers who didn’t even fight were stronger than regular folk. What does five millennia this close to the Core do to people?”

  “You will soon see,” the demon teased. “We’ve wandered too close to the warren of one of their rut tribes. They’ve surrounded us.”

  “Could’ve warned us,” Arlen muttered.

  “You knew this was coming,” the demon said. “It is your own fault if you did not prepare.”

  “You ent worried you’ll get ripped in the crossfire?” Arlen asked.

  “The stock know the futility of resisting my kind,” the demon said. “But we seldom intervene in their dealings with other stock. You, they will kill and eat.”

  “They eat their own?” Jardir asked, just as an arrow whistled through the air and caught Arlen in the shoulder.

  “Corespawn it!” Arlen cried, wrenching the bolt free. The shaft was some tough, fibrous plant, tipped with obsidian, sharp as a razor.

  Stooped creatures materialized out of the stones around them, walking as much on four limbs as two. In the rocks above, others leapt and climbed like monkeys. Their teeth and nails were thick and sharp. They were naked and filthy save for a few pouches and straps of leather, some carrying crude bows of bone and gut, others with obsidian-tipped spears and clubs.