by Matthew Wolf
ZANE MADE HIS WAY THROUGH A series of sandstone tunnels, moving with purpose. In his hand he gripped the statue, knowing if anyone would have answers for it, it would be Father.
The Underbelly was a complicated labyrinth of tunnels and running water. On his right, he passed a wide ramp that led to the surface. Two sentries flanked the ramp—an old man and a middle-aged woman. Eyeing the knobbed clubs in their hands, which they leaned on like walking sticks, he held back a sigh. What good would those do if Darkeye and his men ever came? They would be just as suited to wielding a dead fish for all they were worth. They gave him nods as he passed.
“Shade,” the woman said in greeting.
He merely nodded in return, heading deeper into the Underbelly.
Hopefully they would never have need of those sentries. The Underbelly was massive, and they were deep and difficult to find. He passed more tunnels and empty chambers, the stone cut with odd, angular edges like leftover puzzle pieces. The gurgle of water permeated the air, echoing off the walls and befuddling the senses.
At last, he reached a huge cavern.
The Sanctuary, others called it, or the home of the Lost Ones.
Ahead, several sentries stood beside tall torches on stands set into the stone floor. They watched him warily until his figure resolved itself in the light. Their faces relaxed.
Zane almost passed them but hesitated. “What’s with the looks?”
A big man named Tiberius spoke. “Sorry. Just rumors, Shade.”
He lifted a brow, waiting.
Tiberius glanced to the man next to him nervously. Both men were taller and wider than Zane, but they looked like youths scolded by their mother. “Well, it’s silly, but Lucky said he saw something in Shadow’s Corner…”
“Something?”
“He said he saw a man cloaked in black. He said it was Darkeye.” The big man gripped his iron-studded club tighter, eyeing the shadows.
Zane growled. “You’re going to believe a ten-year-old’s lies, Tiberius? You should know better than to spread such things. You’re as bad as a fishmonger’s wife.” Tiberius looked embarrassed. “Who’s he telling?”
“Everyone,” said the big man. “Father’s trying to quell the whispers, but it’s put a darkness in everyone’s step.”
“I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Thanks,” Tiberius said, looking relieved.
Zane grunted and moved on.
The Sanctuary was little more than a gathering of low-lying tarps and bodies in a massive cavern of tan stone. It was dark now, but during the day, light from conduits to the surface illuminated the whole cavern. For now, it was simply a meadow of fires. Zane breathed in deeply, smelling stale air and food, and his stomach rumbled. He maneuvered through the bonfires, eyeing the quiet forms of sleeping men and women. Despite the time of night, many were awake.
Moving through the crowds, some reached out to him, whispering thanks for the recent shipment of food and coin he’d delivered—filched from Darkeye’s warehouses. Yet most of the faces that looked at him were newcomers. With the Patriarch opening up Farbs to outsiders, the Lost Ones’ flock had nearly tripled in size. Zane felt the pouch at his side, again courtesy of Darkeye’s Clan. It won’t last us the week, he knew, and we’ll be starving again.
Pushing dark thoughts aside, he made his way to where he knew Father would be.
The Healer’s Terrace was a rise of stone that overlooked the rest of the cavern. Zane’s eyes glanced over the injured as he passed them. There were men and women swaddled in bandages, and others sipping water and broth, being nursed back to health from malnutrition.
He saw Father immediately. He was whispering to an injured older woman, touching her on the shoulder warmly. As if sensing Zane’s presence, the man turned.
Father was tall, but he stooped as if he were perpetually ducking beneath a low-hanging doorway despite the vast ceiling above them. Zane knew it was the weight of leading the Lost Ones that weighed the man down. His face was heavily lined, showing his age. His hair was white with streaks of gray, and thick brows like white moss dropped over his hooded gaze. He wore simple white robes with bronze trim, the bottom hem dirtied a dark brown from the Sanctuary’s floor. Those dark, soulful eyes found Zane’s, filled with compassion.
“My boy,” Father said, embracing him.
“Father,” he replied, stepping back and bowing his head.
“Where is Hannah?”
“Resting,” he said. “She isn’t well. She has spark fever.”
Father shook his head with a sigh. “I’ve told that girl to be careful. What happened this time?”
Zane motioned to a nearby box. “Perhaps you should sit.”
Father lifted a bushy white brow but complied. “Tell me everything.” And Zane did. It was the second time he’d told the story, and it came easily. Again, he glossed over some of the rougher bits of violence, and this time he avoided the Devari’s sacrifice entirely. He didn’t want to think about that, for it only made his blood boil.
Father nodded all the while, and when Zane finished, he breathed a heavy sigh. “I see. I wonder who this man is…”
Zane shrugged. “The man didn’t wear the scarlet robes of a Reaver, or any stripes of rank. There’s no way of knowing.”
“No, this man does not strike me as a Reaver. You said he talked back to the man named Sithel, but then hid his nature and identity? And yet he has the spark… Did he have a name?”
“Ezrah, he called himself.”
Father’s eyes widened. “Are you certain?”
Zane nodded. “I am. Why? Who is he?”
“You, my boy, just encountered an Arbiter.”
Zane felt a chill run down his spine, and he swallowed, at a loss for words. Arbiters were legends. Men and women who had lived thousands of years due to the strength of their spark—some stories said they were not even human. “How do you know?”
“That name… It is a very old name, but as a child I heard my mother speak of the promotion of a man to the rank of Arbiter when she was just a little girl. A promotion to Arbiter is news spread throughout all of Farbs, and a great ceremony is held. This man, she described him much like you did. She said his name was Ezrah. Arbiter Fera is better known throughout Farbs, and of course, the Patriarch is an Arbiter as well. Three Arbiters, each with varying power.”
“How powerful is Ezrah?” Zane asked.
“Only the Patriarch is more powerful,” Father declared.
Zane suppressed another shiver. He had met a man—if he was just a man—who had talked to the Patriarch. A man stronger in the spark than nearly any who had ever lived. And he had questioned, even challenged the man. Well, Zane would not back down to anyone, even if he were an Arbiter. Still, as he rubbed his hands together, they were damp with sweat.
“I would be careful, my boy, and heed his words with great care. Do not steal from Darkeye, at least not for a while, and avoid this man called Sithel at all costs.”
Zane eyed the injured nearby, taking in their frail frames or sad, gaunt faces. The occasional moan of pain rose above the quiet of night and the hiss of nearby torches. Feeling anger to his bones, Zane fingered the statue’s sharp point within his pocket. At last, he shook his head. “I cannot abide by that, Father. We need more food. Before the newcomers, we barely had enough food to feed the Lost Ones. Now? Without new supplies, the Lost Ones will be starving before the end of the month.”
“It is not as bad as you say,” Father replied.
“No, it’s worse,” Zane countered. “I’ve heard the tales, Father… Bloodshed on the Aster Plains, roving bandits near the vineyards of Sevia, and strange red-sailed ships raiding the Frizzian Coast. They even say the Algasi are traveling north, being seen as far as Vaster, pilfering as they move.” Zane laid a hand upon Father’s arm. “I know the consequences too well. I choose to risk myself.”
“You risk your life for us so that others may live. Though it has been a burden upon my soul for to
o long, it has been necessary, but this time it is too dangerous, Zane. I forbid it.”
Anger and compassion swirled together in Zane’s head in a confusing mix. “You cannot stop me,” he said finally.
“I can and I will,” Father replied. “If you care for me, you will not do it.”
“Or what?”
Father’s brows drew together, and his benevolent face turned dark. “I will exile you. For your own good, but I will do it.”
Zane looked away feeling hurt, his jaw clenching reflexively.
“Come. Let us talk of such things no more. You came to me for more than just this. What else bothers you?”
With a sour taste in his mouth, Zane let the matter drop, for now. He pulled out the statue. “Do you know how to make this work?”
“Where did you get that?” Father asked, looking amazed.
“The Arbiter.”
“Did he say anything else?”
That look in Father’s eye… “Have you seen it before?” he asked.
“No, I’ve only heard of such things. This is clearly an item of the Citadel, an object of magic made by the Reavers.” Father looked up, and spoke, “When did it change?”
“How did you know it changed?”
“My great grandfather was a famous blacksmith. Mother would tell me stories. Tales about how he worked for the Citadel when it was a place of peace. With the aid of Reavers, he created objects of power like this one. This however… I feel it is much older, likely made during the Lieon when the transporters were created.”
“What does it do exactly?” Zane asked.
“If I am correct, one can communicate over long distances with it.”
“How?”
Father shook his head. “I’m not sure. But I know that the statue reflects the mood of the owner. The Reavers of old would implant their personalities into the objects, creating a sort of miniature version of themselves. That is why I doubt this one was given to you in this position.”
“What do you mean?” Zane asked.
“You see how the figurine is holding its sword?” Father asked, gesturing to the statue. The little man had his sword raised, and his knee’s bent, as if he were walled in by imaginary foes.
“He looks in trouble, almost afraid.”
“Your friend is in danger,” Father affirmed.
“From whom?” he asked.
“I do not know, but I dread the thought, and would not want to find out myself. For any man who causes an Arbiter to fear must truly be death itself.”
Zane nodded, swallowing nervously. Father is right… Who in the seven hells of remwar could cause an Arbiter to be afraid? Even the way Ezrah had handled a dozen Reavers and the oily Sithel was effortless and without a shred of fear.
Suddenly, Zane remembered the purse at his side, which he’d stolen from Darkeye. It had nearly gotten him killed, drained Hannah, and caused all this madness. Casually, he handed it to Father. “Here, before I forget.”
“Thank you, boy. We will put it to good use.”
Again, he pressed. “It will not last us long, Father. It is not enough.”
Father merely smiled, his sage eyes crinkling. “We will make do, my boy. We always do.”
How could he be so calm, so sure? Didn’t he see what Zane saw? With a sigh, Zane moved to rise. “I need to get back to Hannah.”
“Here, take this,” Father said, handing him a small pouch from his belt, “It’s herbwort. It should reduce the fever’s bite a bit. And tell her to see me when she is feeling better, all right?”
Agreeing, Zane embraced the man one last time then left. Gripping the statue tightly, fear sunk beneath his skin as he made his way down the Healer’s Terrace and back into the heart of Sanctuary, Father’s words ringing in his head: Any man who causes an Arbiter to fear must truly be death itself…
Burning the Nexus
AS QUICKLY AS IT HAD COME, it ended. Gray looked around. Dry desert and soft sand surrounded them. Above, billowing clouds perched in a bright blue sky. The forest was just gone. As if it had been a dream… How is that possible? he wondered.
He saw a horse in the near distance. Faye’s, he figured. Besides their three nervous and confused cormacs, the land was barren for miles on end. “What just happened?” he whispered, looking to Faye who gazed into the distance. Even though the rumbling had stopped, she looked even more afraid. Gray realized it wasn’t over.
Darius breathed a sigh, unaware, but Ayva felt it too. She gripped her small, but brilliant dagger, turning in all directions.
Then, a small black dot appeared on the horizon. Gray watched. Slowly, it grew. Then faster, becoming a thin black mass stretching across like a blanket of darkness—as if night was a tangible thing. And it was coming.
Nearby, Darius choked. “That can’t be real…” the rogue whispered. “Can it?”
Gray grabbed Faye’s arm. “Can we outrun it?”
She shrugged off his hand. “Not unless you’re faster than the wind.”
The words made Gray hesitate, but at last he shook his head. “What is it? And how do we defeat it?”
“They are an evil from an ancient time…” Faye answered without turning. “They feed off of the magic of this land. But unlike other creatures, they feed and never stop. They cannot be satiated. They seek safe havens like that Node that was here, hoping to devour it and all its magical inhabitants.”
“Are you saying we can’t defeat it?” he asked.
“No. A flux of Darkwalkers cannot be stopped.”
“Well if we can’t outrun it, and we can’t defeat it, what in the blasted seven hells do we do?” Darius shouted.
Fayed smiled darkly. “Die with honor.”
Darius swallowed. Ayva closed her eyes, uttering a prayer. The darkness was getting closer. Faye gripped her sword and dagger tighter, watching the dark host grow with each passing second.
“No, this can’t be it…” Gray voiced. Think, Gray! He yelled, forcing his mind to work. What would Kail do?
The ground shuddered with their approach, his teeth chattering.
Abandon us, Kirin voiced calmly.
And it hit him. Fear and uncertainty pounded in his veins as he decided. “I have an idea…” he said loudly. “Everyone gather close.”
Darius’ eyes widened. “Dice, are you thinking what I think you’re thinking? And why didn’t I think of that earlier?”
“What are you running on about?” Faye asked sharply.
“I will attempt to move us,” he proclaimed.
Ayva touched his arm fearfully. “All of us? Is it possible?”
“How on earth…” mumbled Faye curiously.
Beyond, the dark swarm was beginning to resolve itself—Gray saw individual black beasts and he thought he could see wings and claws. “Quick!” he shouted, motioning the others to his side. Ayva grabbed his arm. Darius grabbed the reins of the three scared cormacs—Gray was glad they were Elvin steeds, for horses would have run long ago. The rogue’s fingers dug into Gray’s shoulder.
Gray delved into his mind, finding the nexus. It pulsed, a beacon of light and wind. But it was not nearly as strong as he’d hoped. He tried not to think about his rising dread and how the ground heaved. He pulled upon his power, remembering the threads Kail had woven upon the Gate in order to shift. It was not easy, like trying to dredge up the memories of a dream long forgotten, but, slowly, it came. One thread wove on top of another, until the complex tapestry formed a whole. He opened his eyes and terror filled him.
Wind swirled around him, rising higher and higher.
But beyond, the dark mass was nearly upon them. Distance was tough to tell, closer and farther were often arbitrary in this land, but he estimated less than sixty breaths away.
Faye eyed him, and he read her eyes. Fear and mistrust, and a burning curiosity… Clearly she feared him and the power of wind, and he knew she feared little. He extended the ki, and touched Faye’s body with it. He ran into a wall as dense as steel. Emotion
s. They flooded him—strength, certainty, uncertainty, chaos, hate, anger, fear and, finally, sorrow. So many emotions, he thought. His eyes snapped open, and he made his decision. Gray reached out his hand, white eddies flowing over his arm.
“Gray? No! What are you doing?” Darius shouted. “She’s evil!”
Faye looked at him, confused. Her pretty face held an innocence he had not seen before. An innocence like Vera’s? Kirin asked. He silenced Kirin. “Why?” she asked.
“Call it mercy, or call it empathy.”
“Are you a fool? I just tried to kill you and steal your friend for ransom.”
His hand extended further, wind curling around it.
She backed away, closer to the dark horde. “No, I don’t trust you.”
“You have no choice,” he said calmly, voice cutting through the din.
The darkness was getting closer.
“Leave her, Gray,” Darius yelled. “Let’s go, they are getting closer!”
Ayva grabbed his arm, eyes burning. “She’s not worth it, Gray.”
The ground rumbled louder and louder. The black line was a tidal wave, rushing towards them.
He looked to Ayva. “Did I not already tell you about empathy?”
“And would she have done the same for you?” Ayva asked, voice trembling from the sound of the rising rumble that rolled like thunder.
“Tell me the truth or abandon me now!” Faye yelled. “Why?”
Using threads of wind, Gray’s voice cut through the noise like a dagger. “The truth is simple. I have questions and you have answers. That’s all. I will call a peace for now if you promise to answer them. Your reward is your life.”
She gritted her teeth. “Peace then.” She made the word sound like a foul curse.
He gripped her leather-clad forearm, pulling her close. Faye whistled and her horse galloped to them. “Hold on tight,” he yelled. Plugging their steed’s ears and shielding their eyes with wind to keep them calm, he pulled upon the nexus and his power. The dark tide neared. So close. More power, a voice yelled. He felt it rip at him, pulling at his bones and deeper, sucking the life from his very core, and he poured everything he had into the threads. Still, it was not enough. It’s not going to work. Fear and panic flashed inside him, and sweat popped from his pores.
