They would all die. And it would be Jak’s fault. They trusted him, relied on him. They were his responsibility entirely.
I cannot save them all. Better that I drop one so that I may save two.
Jak opened his eyes, but he had not been asleep. This dream was always with him. His sense of doom finally found form. That, not Kevik, chased them, always one step behind. It was up to Jak to keep them ahead.
“The ritual is very simple,” Disciple Hobbes continued. “And most humane. The participant goes willingly. We provide a draught that renders them insensate—oblivious to pain, but not to their own generosity. They give themselves over to the flames knowing how their sacrifice shields friend and stranger alike from the corruptions of Nagnuaqua.”
Jak thought about those corruptions, knowing them all too well, for he saw them on a daily basis.
Kleo was taking her “illness” better than expected. The rash had recently spread to her arms and hands, so her friends could no longer hide its true nature. This poor girl, who had always been irrationally terrified of lizards, watched her own transformation with courage and resolve. Certainly she cried at first, but only that once. Never again.
Jak admired the determination, and from it drew inspiration.
“…this outcome is best for all.” The old man’s voice droned on soothingly. Reassuringly.
Jak smiled, nodding. Then he stood. “Thank you for this explanation, Teacher.”
He departed with a reassuring smile of his own. Now that the four refugees had made their decision, Jak felt more peace than at any time since before the wedding.
They were leaving. The followers of Tempus could burn one another until nothing remained of this place but ash. But they would not touch his friends. They could not have Kleo.
He and Kluber had made plans the previous eve. Today was the day to put those plans into motion.
The first obstacle appeared as soon as Jak returned to the others. He entered the apartment where they had lived these last tendays. Kluber and Calla were there, looking worried. Kleo was not.
“They took her already,” Kluber said.
Jak nodded. The event was happening sooner than he had anticipated, but this was not an insurmountable problem.
The magistrate’s son went to one of the ornate chairs and held it firmly while raising a foot. It creaked, bent, and snapped, and soon each of them had a makeshift club to conceal within their robes.
“Calla, we’ll meet you at the dock, aye?” Her task was to collect food and other stores for the trip ahead from the temple’s kitchen and storeroom and the distant larder. With luck, they would all reach the meeting place at the same time.
“Aye. Good luck.”
The two young men exchanged a look. “Ready for this?”
“Ready.”
Jak took a step, then stopped when Kluber put a hand to his arm. “Remember, Jak. Their words are dangerous. Don’t let them try to talk us out of this. Don’t let them talk at all.”
He nodded, knowing the truth in his friend’s warning and hoping that the threat of violence would strike their foes mute.
The two of them found Kleo in a ceremonial antechamber near the temple’s exit, about to make their way outside to the plaza. Three disciples were in the room with her. One was Hobbes, who challenged the interruption.
Odorless draught in hand, he stepped between the newcomers and their objective. “Disciple Jak, your purpose is clearly written on your face. I fear you are not here to facilitate, but to hinder. I thought we had discussed this to everyone’s—”
Jak struck him in the head with the club. Harder than he intended, desperate to silence these words that poisoned his mind. The gray eyes flashed accusingly, then the light within winked out as the body tumbled.
The other two disciples shrunk away. Kluber already had Kleo’s arm in hand. Now he looked from Jak to the man on the floor, then kneeled to put his ear to the man’s chest for a long moment. Listening.
A shake of the head. “Dead.” He stood.
Jak’s mouth was agape. “I only meant to—”
“It’s all right. Come on.”
Taking each of his companions by an arm, Kluber led the way out of the temple and into the lifeless city, then through the misty streets toward the lake.
“It’s all green now,” Jak said at last. His feet were still moving of their own accord, propelled forward by his friend’s unrelenting pull. This was good, for his mind was failing him as it sought distraction from current circumstance. From what he had done.
His eyes did not deceive him, for the fungus was indeed entirely green. And not a healthy shade, but the sickly pale hue of decaying leaves.
The influence of Tempus was on the wane, and now Yagos was ascendant. Too much time had passed since the last sacrifice.
Sacrifice. There had to be a better way, and Jak intended to find it.
Calla was waiting for them at the dock. The sight of her brought something out of Jak. An inner grief that finally needed expression. He looked away from her face, wishing to see no more of the resentment that had been residing there for as long as he could remember.
Kluber stepped onto the dinghy, followed by Kleo. Jak saw her turn to look back, reaching to him, calling out. But he remained rooted to the wooden planks of the dock, aware only of the soft lapping sounds of the water and Calla’s judgmental silence.
He raised his eyes to hers at last. She met his gaze not with scorn, but sympathy. Then she looked at Kluber.
“He killed the old man.”
She looked back at Jak then, her head cocked sideways, a new emotion joining the complex amalgam he tried so desperately to understand.
Kleo became more insistent. “Jak, come on. Come with me.”
His attention remained focused on Calla, his mind certain she would turn away. Instead, she came to him, wrapped her arms around him, and slowly pulled him along. Into the boat, his feet willing to move again. There he sat with her as the tears came, soaking into her robes. She seemed not to care, for her fingers continued to stroke his sweaty black hair. “It’s okay,” she whispered.
How badly he had needed to hear that.
Kleo was crying, too. Sobbing. Jak understood how she felt, even as his own emotions came back under control, his sorrows abating. This escape—these last days, her ordeal—had been hard on them all. But soon the nightmare would be over.
He became aware of the irony that the dinghy only seated four. This escape was available to them only because Riff was gone.
He felt Calla stiffen, and reluctantly sat up at last. Shapes began to appear on the dock behind. A half-dozen followers, silently watching. He could not see their faces beneath raised hoods, but he felt their stares. Here was the judgment that he had expected from Calla.
Jak did not care. Let them judge him, for he had judged them—and found them unworthy.
Slowly the mist swallowed those shapes. Jak realized that Kluber was rowing, alone, propelling the dinghy toward the far shore.
Jak twisted, ready to offer his assistance with the oars. Only then did he truly see Kleo, and the depths of her pain. He knew not why, but he felt guilty.
They could not see, but they could sense the sacrifice.
“They burn the old man,” Kluber said.
Just ahead, the glow of the far shore began to change again, green returning to blue. The boat coasted in, grounding on the low stone with a gentle scrape.
“It should be me,” Kleo whispered. She stared back at the distant city, and Jak saw one more tear roll down her cheek. Calla went to her, but Kleo brushed her hands away. Then she stood, waiting her turn to step off the boat.
Kluber leapt out first, then held the dinghy in place. Jak straddled shore and boat, one foot on each, holding his hand out to the girls. Calla thanked him as she made the short jump. Then Kleo smiled at him warmly, scaly skin reflecting a blue that matched her eyes. Of all her features, those alone retained their beauty. She accepted his aid and jumped g
racefully onto the hard earth.
The map in the Pantheon had shown a road of some sort, leading up to a guardhouse and beyond to a wide passageway that extended for miles. Now they all saw the nature of that road, looming far above them, obscured in sections by the floating tendrils of mist—a series of switchbacks along the wall not unlike those traversed during their flight from Everdawn. A long, tiring climb up awaited the four weary derelicts. Jak, Calla, Kluber, Kleo. One-by-one, they wordlessly began.
Halfway up, they could more clearly see their destination—the top of the switchback trail, and the familiar sight of a crumbling gatehouse. Much larger than the one they had passed through before, but similar in design, with a narrow aperture framed by thick stone walls.
Upon seeing it, Jak’s last concerns disappeared, for he had worried that the portcullis would be down, blocking the way through. As ancient as these structures were, the four of them might not have been able to raise it again. Blessedly, that fear had not come true.
“Why would they need a guardhouse?” Calla asked.
Jak knew the answer. “Because they were at war.”
The others looked at him, and he told them the story of the collapse of Ra’Cheka. Some of it Calla knew already, for she had read the first legend that exposed him to this history. Since then, however, he had learned so much more.
“While the rest of the Chekican Communion revered the devil Shuberath above all others, this part of Ra’Cheka was the center-point for a splinter group who worshipped Nagnuaqua—whom we call Yagos. The temple we just escaped from was, at one time, devoted to him. Before his defeat. Before Tempus claimed the world above.
“The followers of Nagnuaqua were a minor faction for a long time, vocally accepting the dominance of Shuberath, but in reality biding their time while the Chekican armies conquered new lands, moving ever farther away. Then this city seized its opportunity to declare Nagnuaqua’s predominance, tearing Ra’Cheka in two. No one knew what defeat to the Chekiks meant better than their own kind. Determined not to suffer such horrors, they prepared for a long war and constructed defenses.
“Perhaps they would have been successful, but the hratha—our ancestors—were even more opportunistic. We used the Chekican conflict to declare and seize our independence, driving the Chekiks out and creating our own empire. Before devolving into war on ourselves, of course.”
He stopped, becoming aware that his friends were staring at him oddly. He felt a certain pride of education that he had never before known, and the strange sensation made him uncomfortable.
“Come on, let’s keep going,” he insisted.
Jak could not avoid another change occurring inside him, however. He recognized, then wondered whether it was okay to accept, this new and unusual feeling.
Hope. For they were leaving the doom further and further behind.
“Another gap,” Calla said resignedly.
Ahead of them lay another crumbled section of trail, one more obstacle thrown their way by the cruel hands of fate.
No one mentioned Riff’s name, but everyone remembered his heroics in climbing the last chasm to save them all. Risking his life for his friends, as he would later give it.
Now it was time for someone else to pick up where Riff left off, and Jak was prepared to do so.
The small blade that Kluber once gave him to scale and slice fish was still in his pocket, and he had used it many times recently for a purpose far different from its intended one. Now he did so again, drawing it out in his right hand and bringing it hard across the palm of his left, cutting deep into the flesh.
Calla jumped toward him. “Jak, what are you doing?” She pulled his arm back, but the slice was already complete.
The pain was fleeting, the exhilaration overwhelming. This was the most blood Jak had ever given at once, and he knew he would need every bit of it. He lifted his arm high, palm upraised so the liquid offering would pool there, oblivious to the trickle running down the length of his arm.
A few mumbled invocations—reminiscent of Lukas’ last moments—and then Jak kneeled, turning his hand over and pressing it to the hard rock beneath them. More entreaties, and then an answering hum passed from stone to body. Blood seeped into rock like water through sand. Kron listened, accepted the sacrifice, and replied.
The ledge thundered beneath their feet. Small stones and loose dirt crumbled away from the side, threatening to become a terrifying landslide. Calla and Kluber jumped away from the edge, fearful of their precarious footing as the earth shifted.
Slowly the stone trail expanded forward. Ledge and cavern wall each yielded material to fill the gap, the movement annunciated by a low protesting rumble from deep within the earth.
A few harrowing moments later, the ledge was wholly restored. The transformation ended as abruptly as it began.
Still on his knees, Jak attempted to get up. He could not, the effort forcing him instead to collapse onto his face and chest. Twisting his neck so he could breath, he felt the stone slice open his cheek. A few seconds before, it had been a miraculous ally; now it was once again a malevolent enemy.
Then the others lifted him, helped him rediscover his balance, and gave his legs strength and support. He found that he could just barely put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, keeping his arm around Calla’s shoulders as she bore his weight.
Ahead, at last, lay the gatehouse. Beyond it, a way out of this cavern where they had lost a friend, and hope for an escape from hell. The others would have to blaze the trail, for he could not so much as think.
One thing worked against them. Thankful though they were that the portcullis was not closed, its lever on this side meant that they could not drop it behind them. They would not be able to block off pursuit.
They would simply need to keep moving, at a time when they all desperately needed rest. Jak most of all.
Perhaps the anxiety was for naught. Would the followers of Tempus even chase them? There was no indication of that, so far. But then there had been only a single boat. Any pursuers would have to take the long way around the lake, presuming such a path even existed.
Still leaning on Calla, Jak passed through the portal. Kluber was already ahead, raising a torch high to illuminate the wide-open tunnel stretching far into the distance.
Calla needed some relief from his weight, that much was obvious. Jak asked her to lean him against the wall. Catching his own breath, he looked back. Kleo had not come through. She still stood on the other side, making no move to join them. Looking at him, her hand on the lever.
Even when the demons attacked Everdawn, he had not known such panic. “Nay!” he yelled.
He pushed himself away from the wall, took one step toward Kleo, and immediately fell to the ground. The cut on his cheek split open wider, and he spoke into the earth. “Kleo, nay.”
But she had already pulled the lever. He heard the loud mechanical noises even before he managed to twist his head to see the bars drop.
He stared at her through blurry eyes. She smiled. In this light, he could not see the scales. She looked as lovely as he had ever seen. “Be well, Jak.” Then she was gone.
Not like this. There was still a chance, he believed.
Jak tried to push himself up. “The knife,” he gasped. He felt hands on his shoulders. Calla, comforting him. Kluber, restraining him.
“My knife…” His voice was raspy, almost unrecognizable.
Why were they not helping him?
“Jak, you can’t,” Calla said. “You’ll kill yourself trying.”
I don’t care.
“It was her decision,” Kluber said. “No one is happy about it, but we have to accept it. Come on.”
“I can’t move,” Jak replied. I won’t move. I’ll die here, or they’ll come for me.
He felt hands lifting him up, as though he were a child. Kluber, taking charge at last, now that Jak did not want him to.
“You’ve carried us this far. We’ll carry you awhile.”
“Close your eyes, Jak,” Calla compelled. “Go to sleep.”
He did close his eyes, but sleep did not come. Instead, his mind raged, the thoughts tumbling wildly until he reined them all in with a single resolution.
There would be no more sacrifices; he would not allow it. Or rather, no one else would sacrifice—only Jak. And only until he discovered a different way.
These gods—these devils—used humanity as pieces in their game. He would make them pay. This child would use them as they used others.
Pitiful, ignorant Housethrall Jak would become their servant. He would learn from them. He would accept their power, only to turn it against them. He was now at war with the devils, and he would destroy them all.
Chapter Eleven
Neublusten
CAPTAIN REIKMANN stated the obvious. “If the snow continues much longer, the Loresters must necessarily withdraw.” His voice sounded optimistic, almost triumphant.
Nico was not nearly so sanguine. “We don’t want them to withdraw.”
“You should…that is to say, I would have expected you to be pleased. It would mean the end of the siege. The city would hail you as a hero.”
“Even more than they already do,” General Handersonn chimed in.
What is it with these generals and their incessant need for glory? The higher the rank, it seemed, the greater this restless desire for attention, recognition, and respect.
“That’s irrelevant,” Nico said. “Let us say they pull back now. What happens in the spring?”
“There are benefits of a withdrawal. It gives my troops more time to train.”
Nico was surprised by this turn of events, having expected the brash Handersonn to advocate the more aggressive strategy. “Haven’t you told me they’re ready?”
“Certainly they are,” the red-nosed man replied immediately. A bit too defensively. “But a little more time never hurts,” he added in a quieter tone.
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