by Jeff Wheeler
Hettie scowled and shook her head. “Silence, braggart!” she hissed over her shoulder.
Annon thought about the others, prowling the woods for them. “It was not your talking that woke me. Some spirits told me that Kiranrao is hunting us. They did not name him but they said a Vaettir and a group of Preachán were roaming the woods following our trail. If they draw near, I will be warned again.”
Hettie’s expression hardened. “I will help conceal where we camped tonight. There are some things we can do to throw them off.”
Annon smiled nervously. “Not that I doubt your skills, sister, but I imagine Kiranrao can afford a Finder himself. We may have to confront them. Like we did on the road to Havenrook.”
Paedrin turned to look at them. “Only after they have killed me first. Save your magic. I’m not afraid of Kiranrao.”
“You should be,” Hettie said.
“And why is that?” Paedrin challenged. “No one speaks of him in Kenatos. No one even knows his name.”
Hettie rolled over and looked at him. “Not now, Paedrin, but the Arch-Rike has offered a reward for his death so vast that even the Romani are tempted to betray him. He stole something from the Arch-Rike’s palace and got away. Very few people have been able to do such a thing or fear the Arch-Rike too much to try. Kiranrao is dangerous and he is deadly.”
“Which is why I’d prefer we stay ahead of him,” Annon said. “Does he know about the fireblood?”
“Does he know that I have it?” she asked.
“That’s not what I meant. Does he know that it exists?”
Hettie shrugged. “I am sure he keeps a vial of our blood with him at all times to ward off the Plague. Yes, I am fairly confident he knows about our race.”
Paedrin leaned forward. “What exactly is your race? You never said in the woods before we reached Havenrook.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Annon replied. “We do not know what the race is called, only that it gives us the power of the fireblood. That power grows as we age, but also becomes more uncontrollable. We were taught the words to tame it and warned never to lose control of it.”
“If anyone says those words, can it be controlled?” Paedrin asked.
Hettie shook her head. “No, it does not work like that. We say it in our minds before summoning the power. It helps us control it.”
“But we run the risk of losing control,” Annon said. “I would rather not use it at all. But if Kiranrao is hunting us, we may not have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” Paedrin said. “If I hear them coming, I will wake you.”
“If you all stop talking,” Erasmus complained, “We will all be able to sleep. I told you this journey was impossible at the beginning. We may make it there before he catches us. But not away. I hold to my prediction.”
Annon nestled down amidst his blanket. He stared at Hettie and saw her eyes gazing up at the stars.
“He is right about one thing, you know,” Annon whispered.
“Paedrin or Erasmus?”
“Paedrin.”
She rolled and looked at him, waiting for his explanation.
“You are already free.”
Her lips pursed. “We will see, Annon. We will see.”
He lay his head down, but it took a while before he fell back asleep. Hettie’s warning about Kiranrao lodged in his throat.
“When the Plague strikes, it is different every time. In one generation, the sickness caused sores around the mouth and joints. In another, it caused a red, irritating rash. Each time it leaves a telltale sign of its devastating presence. White spores. Yellow skin. Red flux. When the Plague strikes a community, it ravages it quickly, leaving the majority dead. Some try and flee the Plague, which helps it spread to other cities and kingdoms. The change in symptoms has made it very difficult to cure. One thing is certain. When the Plague strikes, the people die.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The climb into the mountains of the Cruithne taxed their strength. Annon had been raised in the woods of Wayland, full of hardwoods like oak and walnut and crisscrossed with streams and brooks and wild berries. The higher they climbed, the more the mountains transformed the surroundings. Towering pine and cedar, rocky ledges, the occasional thunder of waterfalls. The footing was difficult, upward, with the taunting of jackdaws and blue jays. The strain on his legs and breathing revealed a weakness he had not experienced before. Paedrin did not seem troubled at all; neither did Hettie. But Erasmus wheezed and needed to rest constantly.
There was no trail to guide them, but Erasmus knew the way. He would often stop at a tree, feeling the rough bark for a sign of some sort, a memory from the past. He would nod and then point the right way. He seldom spoke, but he observed the woods continually and mumbled to himself.
After two days, the tension in Annon’s mind had begun to ebb concerning their pursuers, but the peace ended abruptly with the whispers from several tree spirits clustered in a grove of pine that warned of danger behind them. Many spirits from Mirrowen traveled alongside birds, and Kiranrao’s band had been spied earlier that day, following their trail closely.
When Annon announced this to the others, he was met with grave looks from Hettie, a dubious one from Paedrin, and a curt nod from Erasmus.
“We are still another day or two away from Drosta’s lair,” Erasmus said. “They have caught up with us faster than I expected. They may overtake us before sunset if we do not hurry.”
“Why not wait for them in a place of our choosing?” Paedrin suggested, tapping his staff against his palm. “We have the high ground and the chance to surprise them.”
Erasmus shook his head. “They outnumber us and I am sure they know about what we can do. We must go faster and reach the lair before them. We have only traveled during the day so far, so we should travel all night now. That improves the odds of outdistancing them…hmmm….a little.”
“Only a little?” Annon asked.
“I have not changed my previous prediction, Annon, that it is nearly impossible. You see, there is a ravine with only one way in or out. We must get there and out before they catch us.”
They pushed harder into the mountains and were not overtaken at nightfall. They were grateful for a waxing moon to offer light. It was an arduous trail and punished their legs and stamina, making the hours pass slowly. The stars shifted noticeably with the passing night. Still they went higher, and the landscape began to transform once more. The trees became more sparse, the scrub more barren. Jagged clefts of rock and boulders appeared next, creating tortuous trails that wound up and back. It was painful going, but eventually dawn greeted them, revealing a new world that the night had hidden from sight.
The waterfalls were even more majestic and imposing, giant clouds of water plumes exploding from ridges and crags, disappearing into a shroud of mist deep into canyons below. As they finally exited the woods, the caps of the mountains became visible at last, higher still and jabbing into the sky like knives. Towers and parapets were grafted into the snow-capped peaks, gushing an unending billow of sooty smoke.
Annon stopped and stared at the massive structures. He could not understand, for a moment, that hands had created them. There was a wall of mountains, and each mountain had twelve to fifteen towers crowning it, each tall and crafted with crenellations and crowned with pennants. The years it must have taken to craft so many. The city seemed older than the world. Bridges connected between some of the towers, and waterfalls tumbled from the upper reaches, mixing the water spray with the soot-smoke. Due to the height, there was perpetual snow, and the contrast between the white snow and the black towers was impressive.
“I have never seen such a thing,” Annon whispered in amazement. “This is the seat of the Cruithne? This is Alkire? It is more massive than the island city.”
Paedrin stopped short, hands on his hips, and whistled softly. “It makes the temples of Seithrall seem like a child’s plaything. I never imagined such a plac
e.”
Erasmus, still wheezing, came up next to him. “The air…is thinner…up here. Harder to catch…your breath. Those fortresses have been built over centuries. Stonehollow built them.”
“Why so high?” Annon asked, staring at the distant peaks and towers. “They are above the line of trees where it is too cold and rocky to grow. Where do they get wood for their fires?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Erasmus said. “They do not use wood to burn for flame. They harvest blackrock. It burns hotter and longer. These mountains are thick with veins of it. They also harvest the waterfalls as well. They dam up the mountain lakes and use giant waterwheels to power their forges. See over there? See the dam?”
Annon did. Between two of the mountain peaks was an enormous wall, so massive it looked like the face of a cliff itself. Contained behind it was a mountain lake, so deep, blue, and rippling that it seemed a reflection of the sky. What life teemed in those waters? How cold it would be to learn the Druidecht lore of the high mountains.
Erasmus pointed to a squat mountain—one of the shortest. “Deep in the caverns, they find gems and precious stones, then shape and carve them. They sell these treasures to Kenatos. The rivers carry the goods downstream to Havenrook, and then they are boxed and loaded in barges or caravans.”
Hettie shook her head. “But Kenatos is to the west of here. Why ship them south and then back up again? It doesn’t make sense.”
Erasmus turned and gave her a mocking smile. “Because the mountains to the west, between us and Kenatos, are cursed with beings of evil. No Cruithne will travel there. Or should I say, very few will travel there.”
Paedrin frowned. “Which means that is where we are going.”
Erasmus smiled. “Correct, sheep-brains. For once.”
Annon remembered camping in the woods before reaching Havenrook and the warning he had received from the spirits. He shuddered, keeping his thoughts to himself. “How far is it?”
“We will make it there before sunset. But we need to rest a bit. We go down from here. My knees are not as young as they used to be.” He stopped and stared at the vast range of mountains, at the fortresses and haze and waterfalls. He counted them softly, muttering as he went. “Hmmm. There are fewer waterfalls than last time. Interesting.”
“What does that mean?” Hettie asked.
He smiled wisely. “Opportunity.”
After resting, they started the treacherous descent into the canyon separating them from another vast mountain. The woods engulfed them again, full of trees and startled deer, foxes, and gray wolves. The air grew colder, and the daylight was dappled by a permanent haze hanging over the mountains.
Erasmus led the way, for each path and fork needed to be studied. Without his assistance, they would have been hopelessly lost. Annon kept close to him, listening for the warnings of spirits, uneasy because of the fearful aura surrounding them. The spirits were timid here. Some barely acknowledged his presence, and that concerned him even more.
“Drosta was a Cruithne, wasn’t he?” Annon asked.
Erasmus muttered his response. “He was.”
“And he lived so distant from the others of his race?”
“Obviously he valued his privacy. He was a Paracelsus. I’m sure you knew that.”
Annon nodded. “Did the Plague take him?”
“No. I’ve heard said he was killed by a bear. Or something worse. A Finder discovered his bones searching for him. There were claw marks.”
Annon swallowed, gazing into the gloom of the trail before them.
The afternoon began to wane, but it was difficult to judge how much daylight would be left. The canyon was steep and the footing rocky and loose at times. Sometimes the trailhead was so narrow that they could only pass one at a time. Brush scraped and scratched at them. The air was fragrant with the aromas of the woods, but there was a sourness in the smell, of things decayed and dying.
As they approached the bottom of the canyon, they were alerted to the sound of a waterfall, hidden in the trees ahead. The sound made Annon thirsty, and he suggested they refill their water there.
Erasmus stood and shrugged. “It cannot be that far.”
“I will go,” Annon offered. “Give me your water skins.” He collected them all and started into the thin copse of woods, angling his way toward the sound. The ground was rocky and rose slightly. He huffed a bit, trying to quicken his step to get there and back. The woods ahead were full of haze from the waterfall. It did not sound like one of the mammoth ones they had seen, but it was sizable enough to be heard. As he drew nearer, an ominous feeling nagged at his stomach.
He was not that far from his companions. They were nearby. Surely there was nothing wrong in seeking water. He continued his pace, glancing cautiously as he went. There were no signs of animal life as he went.
How strange. This deep into the canyon, there should be many.
The rush of the waterfall beckoned from ahead. The water would be so cool and refreshing. It would taste so much better than the leathery flavor he was used to. The thought of it made his mouth water. He was tired and weary. Soaking his feet in the pool would be a relief.
As he advanced, the trees began shimmering in the mist. Even the sunlight was masked by the mist. There were no shadows.
Annon stopped short, hesitating. He yearned for the rush of water, to taste it and enjoy it. Why stop when he was so near? Would he return empty-handed to the others? Was he afraid of something?
Fear.
Annon felt its presence trickle down his back. He was afraid. His palms were sweaty and not from the arduous hike down into the canyon. A tremor went through his stomach, leaving a salty taste in his mouth. A shiver.
Fear.
It was foolish and irrational to fear a waterfall. Why hesitate? It would only be a moment and the flasks would be full. Then he would return to his companions and laugh at himself for being such a fool.
For being such a fool.
Annon swallowed. Why had he not sensed the presence of any spirits since arriving in the belly of the canyon? Always before, if there was danger, they warned a Druidecht of it. He alone could hear their thoughts. And he realized that he was hearing the thoughts of a spirit. Not the frantic whispers of a tree spirit or a thrush spirit. He was hearing the luring thoughts of something even more deadly and powerful.
It was the Fear Liath itself.
It recognized his change in attitude. His wavering indecision. A wave of dread struck him like a hammer to a post, driving his feet into the ground so that he could not move. It was paralyzing fear, wave after wave of dread and anguish. He could not move, only stare at the mesmerizing mists. That was its lair, of course.
Was it not a principle for hunters to watch places frequented by their prey? Treasure hunters seeking Drosta’s lair were probably more frequent than rare. They were the Fear Liath’s prey.
Annon tried to run, but he could not move. His mind clouded with terror. The Fear Liath was hidden within the falls. It was coming for him. It would kill him.
No!
He screamed the thought at it, trying to master himself. It was an emotion. There was nothing holding him back. He could move his limbs. He could breathe. He could run.
With that decision, his legs were unlocked.
Annon turned and ran, charging through the trees and away from the misty shroud that was thickening around him. He bounded over rocks, dodged past trees, and nearly wept with shame as he scrambled away from the deadly trap.
He launched himself over a rounded boulder and a creature scuttled from beneath him, a mass of thick dark fur. His heart went through spasms of terror and he darted away from it. A bear cub? A bear? It was large. He streaked away down the hill, gasping for breath, and saw a giant sloping boulder in front of him, one that tapered to a point at least a span high.
Unable to stop himself, he ran up the sloping edge until he reached the top. He gasped and panted, sweat blinding his eyes. It was behind him, in the mist. But
somehow, it was not able to follow him that far. The mist crept down the hillside, slow as death. He could feel the presence of the Fear Liath, looming and angry at its escaped prey.
Annon shuddered, swallowing despite the parchment-like feel of his throat. He breathed in deep gulps, staring at the creeping mist. Slowly, slowly it descended. He licked his lips, staring at the unseen enemy, grateful he had managed to escape in time and horrified at how easily it had lured him away from the group.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, hunched over the peak of the rock, ready to leap down the other side if he saw anything move in the mist. He blinked once and saw a lone gray wolf, paused at the edge of the mist. The creature was staring at him, eyes silver.
He stared back at it, still drawing in each breath with relish. He recognized the spirit being.
The Wolviren padded away from the mist, weaving through the trees until it was gone.
Annon slowly detached himself from the shelter of the boulder. They did not have much time to find Drosta’s lair and escape again. But he had a feeling it was very near. The Fear Liath’s presence near it was no accident. His imagination could not fathom what type of treasure his uncle knew to be hidden there. What sort of power did it possess and why had it been hidden away for so long?
“Each race and kingdom has certain specialties. Those from Stonehollow have earned their wealth carving living rock. When you venture into their lands, you are amazed at the enormous evidences of stone carving all around. The hills are littered with giant boulders and dark evergreen trees. Some families of Stonehollow helped lay the foundation stones for the first castles of Wayland. Building the island city of Kenatos was one of their shorter projects.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin watched Annon emerge from the woods, ashen-faced and quivering. That he had seen something startling was no mistake. He looked rigid with fear.
“What is it?” Paedrin asked.
