Beneath the Vault of Stars (The Daybringer Book 1)

by Blake Goulette

  Kalas kept quiet for a while, long enough for Zhalera to repeat the question.

  “I…don’t know,” he finally answered. Maybe there is magic in the world. Maybe it’s not the myth we’ve all been taught…And maybe it’s not all benevolent…

  He thought about how the object affected his father, how his being near it seemed to drain away his life. He shuddered in disgust and said, “It’s not important, anyway. Probably better to forget it’s even there. Wouldn’t surprise me if it were buried for a reason.”

  At the front of the line, Tàran grunted his agreement.

  “Really?” said Zhalera, surprised and somewhat confused. “Wow, all right. Not what I was expecting from you. I thought you said you had to get inside the thing?”

  “I know, but maybe I was just talking nonsense. Caught up in the moment, I guess,” he deflected. In hushed tones, he continued, “And the way it made Father sick: no, I think I’m done with it. Whatever it is. Was.”

  “‘Buried?’” repeated Gandhan, thinking out loud. “I’ll be the first to admit I’m not an authority in all things geological, but I know a fair amount, and the way the sand- and mudstones were layered around the artifact? Well, I don’t think the thing was buried so much as it was already there when the canyon was formed!

  “But anyway, whatever it’s made of is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Whether it’s been hundreds or thousands of Sevens, no metal, no alloy I know could have survived such exposure in such prime condition. If we could break it apart, find a way to work it, just imagine what we could create with it! Plowshares that never rust! Swords that never lose their edge!”

  “Blacksmiths who beg for bread in the Crescent!” muttered Tàran. “After everyone has their new ‘magic’ tools that never corrode, never blunt, what’ll be left for you to do, old friend?”

  Both Kalas and Zhalera laughed at Gandhan’s sudden change in expression.

  “Maybe you’re right, my boy,” he said. “Maybe we’ll just leave that thing right where we found it.”

  3.

  In relative silence, save for bursts of somewhat forced small talk, the quartet made its way across the dimming desert until the faint lights of Lohwàlar dotted their horizon. Tonight, the usual evening breezes seemed otherwise occupied, and the unmoving air had a thick, stifling quality about it. The second sun had disappeared hours ago; now, the first sun prepared to complete its course, paving the way for the solitary moon. Kalas had always thought it strange that the first sun to rise was also the last sun to set. In school, an instructor had repeated the familiar story: the first sun battled and overcame the darkness, making it safe for the second sun to rise; after a time, the path of the celestial conflict traveled elsewhere, and the first sun gave chase, always ensuring the darkness would never touch the second sun as it followed the first through the heavens.

  As they entered town, more than a few people regarded them with curious glances: still more bore expressions of unvarnished terror.

  “What’s going on?” wondered Gandhan aloud.

  Kalas followed the townsfolks’ eyes as best he could, and it seemed to him that rather than focusing on the quartet as a whole, they were definitely most interested in him; and, to a lesser degree, his father. He spotted Rül and asked him, “What’s going on? Why is everyone looking at us like that?”

  “It’s Dzharëth!” hissed Rül as he backed away. “He’s at the Crescent, demanding you and your father come out and face him! He looks terrible, like he’s half-dead. Or worse! He’s already wounded a few men who’ve tried to help him. Couple of those soldiers, too! Kalas, I thought your father said he was dead?”

  “We thought he was,” agreed Kalas.

  “Gandhan, Zhalera,” said Tàran. “Would you please look in on Màla? Perhaps it would be best if she stayed with you for a while?”

  “Tàran?”

  “Please. And keep your hammer ready, old friend.”

  “Kalas, what’s happening?” said Zhalera, gripping his arm a little too tight.

  “I thought he was dead,” Kalas mumbled. “No, Dzharëth is dead: what’s waiting for us is that zhàrudzh that wears his skin. Zhalera, please: go with your father, protect my mother—protect yourselves!”

  “Of course,” finished Gandhan, and he and Zhalera disappeared into the shadows.

  “Boy: you have the girl’s birthday present with you?”

  “Always.”

  “Keep it close. Let’s go.”

  Tàran dropped his pack in the street. Kalas did the same. Side by side, at the center of a growing crowd, they turned toward the Crescent. Kalas kept a sure grip on his knife, tried to remember the power the wolf-monster had mentioned. Somewhere above them, a shape whistled through the night.

  “There you are!” cackled Dzharëth as Tàran and Kalas entered the Crescent.

  Rül’s description, Kalas thought, had been generous: if the figure was still naked, it was hard to tell, so filthy was his jaundiced skin, almost every inch wrapped in tatters of what appeared to be cloth, but Kalas knew to be strips of rotting flesh. His hair, patchy under the Cracks, had all but disappeared: what remained was a tangled, stringy mess, clumped in wads of that unnatural oily substance. And his eyes, once a faint shade of hazel, were so bloodshot the whites appeared deep red, almost black, and his greenish-brown irises flashed scarlet.

  Not too far from the animated remains of Dzharëth’s form lay a handful of wounded or unconscious bodies. One of them, a soldier, raised himself to a sitting position and clutched his head. Upon observing the creature still there, he promptly fainted. Pretended to, at least.

  “Dzharëth, these people have done nothing to you. Let them alone: your quarrel is with me,” soothed Tàran.

  “With you? Perhaps, if only because of that freak you call your son!”

  “Father?” whispered Kalas.

  “He has no idea, does he?” teased the monster. “Ha! I should have known! Oh, things make so much sense now! But still…”

  “Dzharëth—whatever your name is—please…”

  “The next time you throw a dagger at someone, old man, make sure he’s dead!”

  With a flick of his wrist, the zhàrudzh produced Tàran’s long dagger. For a moment, it glinted in the moonlight; then, in another, the weapon sailed through the space between the creature’s withered fingers and Tàran’s forehead, where it buried itself to the hilt.

  Kalas’ father hadn’t even had time to glance up: his eyes remained focused on Dzharëth as his head snapped back and carried the rest of his body with it. He toppled to the ground before Kalas could reach him.

  “FATHER!” howled Kalas as he cradled Tàran’s head.

  His body was still warm, his eyes—not afraid, but wary—still looked straight ahead. The blade had sunk so deep and with such force that there was hardly any blood, just a thin red rivulet trickling from the old man’s half-open mouth.

  “Father! Please!” demanded Kalas of Tàran’s lifeless corpse.

  Dzharëth laughed, a high, nasal sound that descended in pitch until it acquired that gravelly, guttural quality from before. Rather than breaking apart like the last time, the creature knelt, hunched, and crossed its arms as though retreating within itself; then, with an almost subvocal roar, the last vestiges of Dzharëth flew apart in oily shreds that dissolved into black breaths of sour smoke. The crowd scattered in a cacophonic blur of shouts and screams: by some “miracle,” the soldier who had “fainted” recovered and raced toward the garrison.

  The monster continued its haunting laughter, clawed its way through the frantic mob. Kalas wiped his eyes, readied his knife, and was about to stand when a pair of thin hands stayed his own.

  “Let me go!” he demanded and looked up at Tzharak.

  He tried to break the old man’s grip, but his aged sinews held remarkable strength.

  “Now is not the time!” Tzharak hissed.

  “But my father!” he wept.

  Before the old man could respond, sever
al shapes seemed to crack the heavens and streak through the sky: balls of sickly yellow-white light smacked the earth with unimaginable force, sending sheets of dirt skyward and creating immense, smoking craters. As the smoke dissipated, Kalas realized each “ball” was in fact another zhàrudzh: each one grabbed and clawed at anyone unfortunate enough to cross its path. Above, more pestilent lights raced earthward.

  4.

  “What’s all this, then?” bellowed Valderïk’s lilting voice as he cantered into the Crescent. His horse whinnied, reared, desperate to be anywhere but here, it seemed to Kalas. Behind him hid the soldier who’d disappeared at Dzharëth’s transformation, as well as most of the others from Ïsriba. Like their commander’s steed, none appreciated the situation thrust upon them. Valderïk locked eyes with the wolf that had been Dzharëth.

  “Oho! So you do exist!” he exulted even as he struggled to rein in his horse. To his men, he charged: “To arms, temme! To arms! For the glory of Ïsriba! And her majesty the Queen!”

  With a sharp kick to his destrier’s ribs, he thundered into the creature’s path, nearly trampling the hapless villagers in his way.

  The skydog snarled as the commander, sword raised, bore down on him. Before Valderïk could strike, his would-be quarry moved with unexpected grace and speed and wrenched the soldier’s arm from its socket. Kalas winced as the warrior tried to swing his useless limb at the place where the wolf had been less than a moment ago and dropped his sword.

  Several other rudzhegume engaged the remaining soldiers, some of whom expended valiant effort to fight: the first attempted to parry a blow and ended up with a hole where his heart once beat.

  “I surrender!” shouted another as he threw his battle-axe to the ground. Some of the others followed his example; one or two continued their well-intentioned but ineffective exertions—all for nothing: the dogs descended on them en masse. As they screamed, one tried to run, but gained only a few yards before a living shadow consumed him, a feeble hint of light extinguished by an overwhelming darkness. When every soldier had been devoured, the pack scattered, tasted the air in search of fresh prey and loped after anyone whose scent piqued its macabre interest. The people screamed, confused, their terror mere seasoning for the wolves’ feast, yet amid all the shrieking, Kalas was almost certain he could detect pained zhàrudzhme yelps and barks mingled therein.

  “Well met, fiend!” cried Valderïk, having turned his mount with his remaining hand. He released the reins and tumbled from his saddle, retrieving another, shorter sword in the process. With the flat of its blade, he smacked his horse’s flanks: freed from the commander’s sway, it bolted from the scene.

  He’s lost his mind! noted Kalas, still held by Tzharak’s grasp.

  Dzharëth cocked his head, swiveled to face the crazed warrior.

  “That’s it, demon! The first blow goes to you; now, let’s really test your mettle!”

  Valderïk advanced with measured steps, assessed the monster’s stance, the situation’s probabilities, and adjusted his approach. Dzharëth followed suit, matching the commander’s movements step for step. With feints and half-thrusts, Valderïk closed the distance, springing back with surprising lightness when the beast lashed out.

  There is more to him than bluster, Kalas had to admit.

  Finding an opening, the commander lunged, sank his short sword into the monster’s leg. Before he could pull back and strike another blow, Dzharëth twisted, shifted his weight, and ripped the blade from Valderïk’s hand. With a wet tearing noise, he wrenched it free and hurled it like a missile at the soldier’s head.

  Valderïk had anticipated the move, however, and before the weapon could impale him, he rolled, retrieved his longsword, and swung it with all his remaining might at the wolf ’s injured limb, where it sank into the bone and remained fast. Dzharëth roared with pain, fell to his knees as smoke and slime spurted from the wound.

  “His heart!” Kalas shouted: “Aim for his heart!”

  Valderïk gave no indication he’d heard the boy’s cries, but he let go of his immobile sword and pounded at the monster’s chest with his gauntleted fist. For a moment, his strikes seemed to weaken it—but only for a moment: its eyes rippled with pain—

  That’s not pain: that’s rage, Kalas realized.

  —and Dzharëth placed one huge, stinking paw against the commander’s neck and squeezed, held him and regained his feet.

  Zhi âsru tayitimu! it thought at Valderïk with such malice that both Kalas and Tzharak somehow heard its words and recoiled.

  “I’ll see you there!” laughed the commander as the wolf snapped his neck. Without ceremony, it tossed Valderïk’s lifeless body aside and turned again to Kalas.

  “Now we’ll end this prophecy nonsense once for all,” it smoldered as it stepped toward the boy.

  “No!” insisted Tzharak and released his vise-like grip on Kalas’ hands. He stood between the boy and the wolf, assumed a combative stance, and at first, Kalas thought the wizened old man actually intended to fight the beast; instead, he raised his arms in a supplicatory pose and bowed his head.

  “Your prayers are useless, dzhasturún!”

  It raised its poisoned claws, made its strike, but before it connected, that subtle whisper Kalas had heard time and again manifested as a whirling blur that proved to be zhi Ilbardhën, the soldier who’d addressed him days earlier. With a quick maneuver, Shosafin had placed his weapon between Tzharak and the wolf, and with little more than a subtle ring, the creature’s fast descending arm passed through the warrior’s extended blade. Dzharëth barked in pain as it cradled the stump where his forearm used to be.

  Above the Crescent, borne upon the music of ethereal instruments, twisted forks of green-white light tore apart the darkness and arced across the sky, scenting the air with an acrid tang and stabbing at the shadows.

  “No! No!” mumbled Dzharëth, his eyes raised. Somewhere close by, a blast of verdant power snaked its way toward the ground: one of the skydogs howled in fear as the earth erupted in a bloom of cleansing energy. Thunder pealed, and Kalas sensed vibrations in the air, a tangible hum that shivered all around and through him.

  “Go! Hwer!” Tzharak yelled at the boy and nodded his thanks to his savior. “Màla!”

  “Mother!” remembered Kalas. He looked at Dzharëth. At Shosafin.

  Covered with dust and cuts and scrapes from what must have been prior encounters—the source of those yelps, perhaps?—the soldier panted but maintained his composure. He spared two glances: one for the wolf, another for Kalas.

  “Hwer, sà!” he insisted as he readied for the creature’s next attack.

  Kalas nodded and obeyed, the clash of steel and the screams of townsfolk echoing in his wake.

  5.

  He raced through Lohwàlar’s empty streets, wrestling with bouts of tears and fits of rage and praying Gandhan and Zhalera had reached Màla before the skydogs: if they were after him, as “Dzharëth” suggested…

  That freak you call your son!

  Kalas refused to follow that line of thought, redoubled his speed until he reached the open door to his house.

  “Mother?!” he shouted. “Mother?!”

  “Kalas!” answered Zhalera from the great room. He sighed, relieved, and only then recognized the now-familiar reek, mixed with the odor of burning flesh.

  “Zhalera!” he began as he rushed toward the sound of her voice. “Where’s my mother? Where’s your—”

  “Kalas, I’m so sorry,” sobbed Zhalera as she held Màla to her breast. Beside her lay an immense sword stained with black. It looked familiar, but Kalas’ thoughts were elsewhere.

  All around them, fresh blood and viscous black filth spattered the walls. Kalas looked down and saw Gandhan’s hammer, chipped and caked with matted fur; just beyond, he saw Gandhan himself, torn open and spilled onto the floor, his once-powerful, outstretched arm a wreck of shredded muscle, the lacerated remnants of his face a mask of rage. Beside his corpse smoldered what could
only be the empty hide of one of the zhàrudzhme, as if something had vaporized its bones and innards.

  Zhalera, seated in a spreading pool of Màla’s blood, comforted the injured woman as best she could. Kalas’ mother breathed in shallow gasps, each labored breath a punctuated surrender toward her end.

  “Kalas,” she wheezed, beckoned to him, but he was already there.

  “I’m here, Mother,” he said, choking back tears and squeezing her hand.

  “Kalas, there’s so much we should have told you, so much you need to know! Tàran and I thought we’d have more time, but the wolves…Your father: he’s dead, too, isn’t he?”

  Kalas nodded through tears he could no longer keep at bay. Màla coughed, spat blood.

  “Before I follow him, I have to tell you: In our youth, your father and I couldn’t conceive; our Sevens came and went without such a blessing. We’d given up hope, accepted it as best we could, until one day, a stranger appeared—I mean appeared: one moment your father and I were alone; the next, a man who hadn’t been there just…was.

  “‘Ilëntharasme!’ he said, ‘Behold, your son!’ There was light—such bright, white light!—and in his previously empty arms he held—you. He handed you to us—oh! how your father cried! He told us about a prophecy from ‘before the world was cracked;’ he told us you had a destiny, how one day you would—”

  “‘Prophecy?’ Mother, we need to get a cleric—the poison in their claws—”

  She coughed again, cried out this time.

  “There’s no time! And there’s so much more to tell, my son—and you are my son!—The stranger instructed us not to reveal your secret until the appointed time: your second Seven. That music you hear: the stranger told us about The Song, that on the day it rived your mind, you would begin to understand your place, your purpose in the coming storm.”