by Alec Hutson
“There,” Chelin said, indicating a narrow crack just visible between a pair of great boulders.
“How did you find this place?” Nel asked as Alyanna brought the chavenix down near the cave entrance.
Chelin wobbled as he stepped from the disc, holding a hand over his stomach. “The rangers scouted the whole area before the battle. When the queen fell, our lines broke. Men were fleeing blindly, being hunted down by the barbarians.” He swallowed, looking at Nel guiltily. “The Skein were . . . were . . .” He paused, composing himself. “They were slicing away the skin of the fallen. I saw them. Sometimes the men weren’t even dead yet. Taking trophies, I suppose. But the horror of it . . . I ran. And the only place I could think might be safe was these caves. Some of the other rangers who had found this place had the same idea.” He looked away, and Keilan saw his shame. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m a coward.”
Nel shook her head. “You fled when it was hopeless. There’s no dishonor in that.”
The ranger nodded, visibly relieved by her words. “We stayed hidden until the fighting was over and they’d made those pyres. Then we crept out looking for survivors. We found twenty or so men who had been wounded on the field and somehow escaped being burned. A few more stumbled out of the forest after the Skein host departed.”
“So how many are in the caves?” Nel asked as Chelin started walking over the rocks towards the gash in the mountain’s side.
“About fifty. Oh, and the magisters and Lady Numil.”
Fifty men. Keilan’s blood went cold thinking about how the great Dymorian army had been reduced to just fifty men. How many thousands had been slaughtered on that field? Everything the queen had striven for was in ruins. The new age of sorcery had been murdered in its infancy.
The ranger whistled as he approached the cave, and a gawky boy with a mop of unruly yellow curls leapt up from behind a rock, nocking an arrow to his ebonwood bow. He smiled when he saw Chelin, showing the gap where his two front teeth should have been.
“Found some more, did ya?” he said, lowering his bow and coming out from behind the rock. “Weren’t followed, were ya?”
Chelin shook his head and clasped the boy’s arm. “No, Fars. This here is Lady Nel, she’s a servant of Magister Vhalus. And those two are sorcerers.”
The archer scratched his face, pursing his lips as he studied Keilan and Alyanna. Then his eyes alighted on the hovering chavenix and his skepticism melted away.
“Right,” he said, the apple in his throat bobbing. “Come with me, lord an’ ladies.”
They passed through the cleft in the rock and navigated a short, twisting passage that forced Keilan to crouch and turn sideways at one particularly narrow spot. He was just starting to feel his panic rise from the stone closing around him when the tunnel suddenly opened into a much larger space. Torches had been lit among the boulders and stalagmites, illuminating groups of men clustered together. The roof of the cave was lost in the blackness, though Keilan saw dark shapes he assumed were rocks reaching down from the gloom above.
The archer pointed to a ring of torches set atop a mound in the cavern’s center. “Commander d’Venish and Magister Vhalus are up there. Best you go see them first.” Then he clapped his fist to his chest and spun about, vanishing back into the passage.
Chelin motioned for them to follow him, but Nel was already striding past. Keilan hurried to keep up with her, and they were nearly running by the time they reached the rise in the floor where the archer had said Vhelan was. Nel scrambled up the rocky slope and Keilan followed, scraping his knee bloody in his haste.
He reached the top a few moments behind Nel. Two men were discussing something in heated whispers – one was Vhelan in his red magister robes, now filthy and tattered, and the other was a young man with the imperious face of a noble. He was dressed in armor of fine make, his cuirass engraved with the twisting dragon of Dymoria, and the helmet he carried under his arm had a crimson horsehair plume. They were so intent on their argument that they did not realize Keilan and Nel had arrived.
“Hey, boss,” Nel said simply, and Vhelan wrenched himself around, his jaw falling open.
“Nel?” he whispered, as if unsure whether she was real or not.
“Who is this?” barked the young soldier, his eyes thinning in suspicion.
Vhelan stumbled towards her, nearly tripping on his robes. “How?”
“We heard you needed some help,” she said, grinning.
“Oh, thank all the gods!” the magister said, wrapping Nel in his arms and crushing her tightly to him. “I thought you were lost.”
“Magister Vhalus!” grated the noble. “What are these people doing here?”
Nel pulled herself away from Vhelan and the magister turned back to the soldier, though he kept his hand on her shoulder as if he feared she would disappear. “Lord d’Venish, this is my oldest friend, Nel. And this is Keilan, an apprentice in the Scholia of our queen.” Vhelan reached out with his other hand to clasp Keilan’s arm. “How are you, my boy?” He studied Keilan for a moment. “You look different. You’ve changed – you’re no longer a child.”
The Dymorian commander stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And they just wandered into our hiding place?”
“I brought them, m’lord.” Chelin said, panting as he finally crested the mound. “I found ‘em on the ledge where the magisters . . .” He glanced at Vhelan, his voice trailing away.
“You went up there?” d’Venish said angrily, shifting his attention to the ranger. “Without asking for my permission?”
“Lady Numil, m’lord . . . she asked me to.”
“The lady has no authority here,” the noble said through gritted teeth.
“But . . . you said to afford her every respect—”
“Respect does not mean obeying her commands, soldier. She is a guest and nothing more. Remember that.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Chelin said, ducking his head and knuckling his brow as he slunk away.
Lord d’Venish gave an exasperated sigh, then turned back to the rest of them. “Fool could have led the Skein right back to us. We need to be careful before we finally leave these caves.” He studied Nel and Keilan. “So you were on the battlefield. You were following our army up from the south, then? Must have been a rather rude shock.” The commander paused, as if waiting for confirmation, and Keilan gave a quick nod. “Tell me, what does it look like out there? Any Skein still lurking about?”
“We saw some scavengers,” Keilan answered without thinking.
D’Venish’s eyes bulged and he glanced in the direction of the passage that led to the outside. “Were you followed? Did they see you?”
“No, no,” Keilan added hastily.
The commander’s face hardened, as if he didn’t fully believe this. “God’s blood. I need to tell our lookouts to be vigilant.” He pointed a finger at Vhelan. “We will continue this later, Magister, but you know my position.” Then he swept past them in a swirl of his dark cloak, his boots crunching as he descended the gravelly slope down to the cavern floor.
Vhelan waited a moment until the sound faded. “He’s not stupid or incompetent,” he finally said. “But he is under great strain.”
“He’s the highest-ranking officer who survived?” Nel asked.
Vhelan nodded slightly. “He’s the only officer who survived. Which makes him the commander of the entire Dymorian army.” Vhelan spread his arms to indicate the clumps of men huddled in the patches of light that were spread across the huge cave. “Such as it is.”
“What happened, boss?”
“Disaster,” Vhelan replied simply. “We lost.”
“How?”
Vhelan motioned for them to follow him as he started down the slope. “The Skein had a sorcerer who was the equal of the queen. But she might not have fallen if he hadn’t been allied with thes
e demonic children. They threw their strength against her as well.” There was a hitch to his words as he said this. “These children, Nel . . . they are evil made manifest. They . . . they butchered the other magisters.”
“We know them.”
Vhelan ran a hand through his hair. It looked to Keilan like the streak of silver in the black had grown larger since last he’d seen the magister. “Yes. I was there when the Crone told the queen about what you all saw in the Oracle’s temple. Before she sent you on your ridiculous quest.”
“It wasn’t ridiculous,” Keilan said quietly. “We found something.”
Vhelan glanced at him sharply, but the look in his eyes quickly faded. “Truly? What does it matter now, though? Cein d’Kara is dead. Who else can stand against the Skein sorcerer and his demons?”
“There is someone,” Nel said slowly. Keilan looked about, wondering where the sorceress had disappeared to.
“Is there?” Vhelan asked, excitement creeping back into his voice. “Did you find that sorceress from the Oracle’s vision?”
“We did,” Nel said. “But she died. I’m speaking of Alyanna.”
“Alyanna . . .” Vhelan muttered, tapping his finger on his chin. “That name . . . I’ve heard it before. Wait.” His brow drew down as he dredged his memories. “The sorceress the queen saw in Jan’s mind . . . the one who challenged her atop Saltstone. That Alyanna?”
“That’s the one.”
Vhelan blinked, his surprise evident. “Hm. I tried to strike her down from behind when she was fighting the queen. Hopefully, she won’t remember that.”
The magister led them towards one of the larger lighted sections of the cavern. There were dozens of men here lying on furs, most with very obvious injuries: some had strips of bloodstained cloth wound around their heads or torsos, others had their limbs in makeshift splints or slings. Healthier soldiers wandered among the wounded, changing dressings or helping the men drink and eat. And a little way apart from the rest, so small and shrunken in her bed of furs she looked like a swaddled babe, was the Crone of Lyr.
“Lady Numil!” Keilan cried, rushing to her side.
The old woman turned her head towards him. Keilan’s heart fell when he saw how pale and haggard she was. Yet despite her obvious discomfort, she still managed a shaky smile.
“Keilan. How good to see you. So you’re the one they sent.”
He slowed, blinking uncertainly. “Sorry? What do you mean ‘sent’?”
She sniffed. “Well, I must be dead. Though it’s unfortunate that I’m still in pain. I’d hoped I’d leave that behind at least.”
“Dead?”
The Crone rolled her eyes. “Yes, dead. As are you, apparently. Otherwise why would I be seeing your spirit now?”
Nel appeared beside him and ducked her head in greeting. “It’s good to see you again, Lady.”
“Oh, and the thief, too.” She started to sigh, but that quickly deteriorated into a hacking cough. “I suppose my deeds were not good enough to get me into where the righteous people end up. Shame.”
“We’re not ghosts,” Keilan said slowly.
Lady Numil turned her head and spat out something green and viscous. “Hm. That’s good, I suppose.”
“Are you . . . are you all right?” Keilan ventured, and the Crone responded with a wet, rasping chuckle.
“No, I am not. Well, if I’m not dead now, it’s just a matter of time. I’m dying, Keilan. Broken bones and this damnable cold, which won’t seem to leave my lungs.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She snorted, turning back to them. “My death has been just over the horizon for quite some time. I’d have preferred to die wrapped in a soft blanket in my own bed . . .” Her words trailed away as the ranger Chelin suddenly appeared beside Keilan. “Ah. You’re back. Did you find them?”
“I did, my lady,” the ranger said, withdrawing the pair of swords from under his cloak.
Lady Numil’s jaw clenched, and she blinked quickly, as if she was fighting back a tide of emotion. “Good. Good. Thank you, Chelin.”
The ranger laid the blades beside her, and the Crone’s hand slipped from the furs to stroke the twining silver serpents of the nearest sword’s hilt.
“As I was saying, I knew my death was coming, but I still had tasks to accomplish.” She peered at Keilan, her gaze suddenly sharpening. “As did you. Did you find the sorceress?”
“We did.”
“And?”
Keilan glanced at Nel. “She’s dead. But we have a weapon now, something that can kill the demons.”
“Then it was not all in vain,” Lady Numil murmured, the intensity of her stare fading as she subsided again into her furs. Pain shivered her face, and she moaned.
Moments later a man pushed past Keilan to crouch beside her. He put a flask to her lips and tilted it back; she coughed again, a dark liquid dribbling down her chin, but then her eyes fluttered closed as her breathing deepened.
“She’ll sleep for a few hours,” the man said as he stood, stoppering the flask.
“What’s wrong with her?” Keilan asked.
“She fell and broke several ribs, and either one of them pierced her lung or she had a sickness before that’s worsened as her body weakened.” He frowned, then shook the flask. “Little we can do now except make her last days as comfortable as possible. This numbs the pain, but also addles the mind.”
“Keilan!”
They glanced up as Alyanna suddenly strode from the blackness beyond the torchlight. “There’s something we must discuss.”
He was Jan, the bard. Again.
For a long time he had been lost, wandering in a shattered labyrinth. His old reflections had stalked beside him, obscuring his sense of what was true and what was false. Jerrym d’Beln, exiled noble in the court of Vis. Jannil of the Narrows, mercenary captain of the Singing Men. Janus Balensorn, wandering minstrel turned crofter on the land of Ser Willes len Maliksorn. They were facets of himself, and each had lived and loved fiercely, until the barriers inside him had eventually flaked away and the compulsion to seek out Alyanna had driven him back to her. Then she would rebuild what had been broken, but with different material and technique, so he would have a new path to walk for a time.
The attack by the demons in the old throne room had broken him. The ghosts of his past selves had risen again, dragging him down into a realm of mist and mirrors. He hadn’t been able to remember who he truly was; or, more precisely, the fragments that had been him in each of his incarnations had tried to convince him that they were what was real, and that the story of Jan duth Verala was in truth merely another fiction spun by the Weaver of lies.
It was sorcery that had brought him back to himself. Like a bright light flaring in darkness, the surge of magic had torn away the clotting shadows and shown him the truth.
And that had nearly broken him again.
He huddled in an empty room illuminated by pale light trickling down from narrow windows. There was something wrong with his vision – he could only see out of one eye. A flap of leather covered the other, but he hesitated before pushing his fingers beneath it. He knew what he would find.
Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings. He felt like he was moving, the space swaying and shuddering slightly, though he did not hear the rumble of turning wheels. The room was empty, the wooden floor covered with mounded straw like he was some sort of animal. Cold iron encircled his ankle, connected by a chain to the wall.
There was something around his neck, too—Jan’s finger drifted to his throat and found metal. A collar. He reached for his sorcery but it squirmed through his fingers like smoke.
So he had been captured. Was it the Kalyuni, still upset over Kashkana? Or had the fallowmancers finally discovered that he had been the one who stole their damn starlings?
He shook his head. No. Those t
houghts were from a different Jan. Before the cataclysms. Before Alyanna.
His more recent memories slowly seeped back into his consciousness. He remembered his wife dying in his arms, her cheeks stained red by the Weeping. Then his journey across the white plains to the city of Menekar, chasing demons and finding a sorceress instead. The Mire. The Crimson Queen. The flood of his old self returning, then him awakening imprisoned within the ruins of Ravenroost. The Shan girl. Abandoning her and his promise so he could return to Nes Vaneth and what he knew awaited him beneath the Bhalavan.
It was then that his mind shied away from what had happened. Jan ground his teeth and pressed on, demanding to be shown how he had ended up here, a prisoner wrapped in filthy furs. In the throne room, he had found the child – his child? – gone, hacked from the ice. Then another sorcerer had appeared: the shaman of the new Skein king. His power had been overwhelming. Lask, that was his name. The shaman had removed the collar Cein d’Kara had put on him, then shown his sorcery was the greater by humbling Jan like he was a child that needed to be taught a lesson.
What had come after that was difficult to remember. There were brief glimpses of iron bars and cold stone, filtered through snatches of terrible pain and the numbing, dreamlike fog through which he had been drifting.
The room in which he huddled lurched sickeningly, and he bit down on his tongue. He was clearly still a prisoner of the Skein. Where was he, though? Not in Nes Vaneth. They were bringing him somewhere. But where? And why? His thoughts turned to Cho Lin, and he felt a pang of guilt and sorrow. He could only imagine what horrors the barbarians must have inflicted upon such a beautiful girl. If only she hadn’t followed him into the Frostlands. If only he had honored his oath and gone with her to Menekar. Though in the end, they had found exactly what she had been seeking.
