by Bruce Blake
But he’s been so different since Shyn joined us.
Khirro thought back to when he and Ghaul had eluded their pursuers, scrambling along the bottom of the drainage ditch. So long ago. Ghaul hadn’t been so angry before there was another soldier in their company.
Athryn shifted, his cloak brushing against his breeches, unnaturally loud as the darkness amplified it. They all sat with their thoughts, waiting, listening for a sign of their friends returning. Or something else.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when the sound of metal clanging against metal echoed down the tunnel. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Khirro leaped to his feet, Elyea close behind.
“Athryn, where did that come from?”
“I do not know.” The magician moved to his side, looking first down one tunnel then the other. The darkness revealed nothing.
“Shyn,” Khirro yelled. It was impossible to know if his companions were the source of the noise, but he had to assume they were and they might need help. “Ghaul! Where are you?”
Khirro’s voice reverberated down the tunnels, bouncing from wall to wall, finally swallowed up by distance. No answer came. The clash of steel ceased. Breathless minutes passed. Khirro raised the Mourning Sword, ready for anything, and was startled to see the runes glowing a deep red, reflecting swirls of crimson in Athryn’s metal mask.
There’s blood in the air.
The thought fled as the sound of footsteps echoed down the passage, growing louder. And closer.
But from which way do they come?
Shyn strode along the passage as quickly as he dared, his senses tingling. He felt feathers bristling just below the surface of his skin and struggled to keep them at bay. A falcon would be of no use in an underground tunnel.
The tunnel ran fairly straight, but even Shyn's heightened vision couldn’t penetrate far, and he didn’t want to walk into the wall-or anything else. The farther they advanced, the stronger the breeze felt on his face. He knew the others hadn’t felt it-skin used to judging wind velocity and direction based on the movement of feathers was more sensitive than the average man’s flesh. As minute as the movement of air was, he relished the feel of it against his cheek, allowed it to distract him from the knot in his belly.
“It grows stronger,” he whispered over his shoulder. Ghaul grunted.
They walked on, their footsteps disturbing silence unbroken for centuries. Shyn probed ahead with his sword, the tip occasionally scraping the wall as the tunnel veered a little left or right. The sound of leather scraping against stone followed him as Ghaul dragged his hand along the passage wall looking for side tunnels. After a few minutes, Shyn saw a little farther, his sensitive eyes detecting a change in the level of light. Hope quelled the bird beneath his skin.
“Can you see the light, Ghaul?”
“No.”
“Up ahead. It’s dim, but grows brighter.”
The wan light allowed Shyn to see several paces ahead. A wall soon loomed, ending the passageway.
“We’ve reached the end.” Shyn halted. “This is where the tunnel stops.”
He touched the wall and looked up along its surface. At the top was a slit smaller than a man’s little finger. The tiny opening-an air hole-was responsible for the light and the movement of air only Shyn felt. He couldn’t tell whether moonlight or sunlight shone through-they must be a long way underground for it to be so diffuse. The hope that had calmed him disappeared; the short hairs on the back of his neck stirred, his flesh prickled.
“This is where it ends,” Ghaul said, voice low and husky.
Ghaul's tone set Shyn's nerves screaming of danger. He gripped his sword with both hands and turned, blade held before him.
Ghaul stood waiting, sword raised. He swung it down savagely, catching Shyn half by surprise, but the tip scraped the stone ceiling showering sparks twinkling into the dark. The brief flash lit the hatred on Ghaul’s face like a torch to Shyn’s keen eyes, and the instant of pause as steel struck stone gave him time to parry the blow from his face. He countered, their swords sparking. Shyn wondered if the meager light allowed Ghaul to see him, too.
Ghaul took the offensive, raining blows at Shyn, kicking him, driving him back against the end wall. Another thrust. Shyn parried, elbow slamming the wall. Ghaul’s blade glanced off his forearm and blood filled the border guard’s gauntlet. Survival instinct took over and he began to change as he dodged another blow.
Is there enough room?
He couldn’t control the transformation in such situations so set his jaw and concentrated on defense until the change finished. Ghaul’s next strike hit full force against his sword’s guard, tearing it from his hand. There wouldn’t be time to change.
Or anything else.
He crossed his arms in front of himself, leather and mail deflecting Ghaul’s blows for a moment, but only for a moment. The steel finally slid through leather and mail, flesh and organs, not stopping until the tip touched stone behind him. Shyn sucked air in through his teeth, burning in his pierced lung. Ghaul loomed close, the hate in his eyes glowing in the darkness.
“Why?” Shyn whispered.
“I need the farmer to carry it,” he said drawing his blade upward, slicing through more organs. “The others are nothing. You’re the only one who can stop me.”
Shyn’s mouth moved as he formed another question, but only blood bubbled from his lips. The dim light of the tiny shaft overhead began to fade, but Shyn saw the blue sky and bright sun far above, felt the wind whisk through his feathers, and smiled.
Darkness pressed around Khirro like a cloak of fear and dread spread across his shoulders, wrapped about his body. At his elbow, Elyea’s breath came short and sharp. To his left, Athryn waited at the mouth of the other tunnel, guarding against whatever might emerge. The clatter of metal striking metal died away, followed by silence. Khirro dared not call out again as he struggled to keep his hand holding the Mourning Sword from shaking.
An ache knotted Khirro’s shoulder, tension burning his muscle with the weight of the sword. He wanted to stretch his pained muscles, but was afraid any movement would give him away. If he let his guard down, that would be the moment something leaped from the darkness. The discomfort had become almost unbearable when they heard noises.
At first Khirro couldn’t distinguish the nature of the sound or where it came from, but it soon resolved into footsteps. Hard leather slapped against stone floor, moving quickly, sending echoes bouncing down the long passageways making it impossible to tell how many feet made the sound.
The noise grew louder.
Khirro’s muscles tensed further. He scanned the darkness trying to see Athryn.
Where is it coming from? In front? Behind?
The runes running up the blade of the Mourning Sword cast a mute light like the dim red embers of a dying fire. Khirro saw Elyea’s strained features painted with blood by the faint glow, her jeweled dagger in hand. She didn’t look away from the tunnel.
The echoes intensified, tangling upon one another until it seemed an army approached. At the last second, Khirro realized the sound emanated from the tunnel before him, the one down which Shyn and Ghaul had gone. He drew back his blade, the runes brightening at the prospect of blood like an animal salivating before it eats.
Ghaul must have seen the runes as he skidded to a halt out of sword’s reach. The soldier held his own blade in his hand, the steel marked by dark patches along its edge which could only be blood.
“What happened?” Khirro asked dropping his blade to his side.
Ghaul bent at the waist and gulped air in ragged breaths. Visions of monsters or undead Kanosee soldiers dogged Khirro’s thoughts as he waited for him to recover.
“We must go,” Ghaul panted, gasping more of the stale tunnel air. “Death lies down that tunnel. Shyn is lost.”
Elyea gasped. “What?”
Athryn joined them, the Mourning Sword casting swirling fire in his silvered mask.
“They surprised us,” Ghaul said finding his breath. “Came from nowhere in the dark. We fought, but they killed Shyn. I slew them, but there may be more. We can’t stay here. The other tunnel is the only way.”
The runes’ glow faded and blackness crept back in around them. Khirro reached forward tentatively, resting his hand on Ghaul’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“But we can’t leave Shyn,” Elyea protested.
“Shyn’s dead. The rest of us need not die, too.”
“But we can take him to the Necromancer. He can bring him back.”
“He cannot be raised,” Athryn intoned solemnly. “Only living blood can be resurrected. If his heart has stopped, it is too late.”
“It might not be,” Elyea said clutching Khirro’s sleeve, looking to him for support. He wanted to give it, wanted Shyn to be alive, but every nerve in him said it was too late. “We have to be sure.”
“No,” Ghaul said firmly. “There is death for all of us down that passage. We have to go. Now!”
They stood in silence, each invisible with their thoughts and emotions before Ghaul pushed past, moving to the left tunnel. Athryn’s cloak stirred as he followed. Elyea’s ragged breath stayed at Khirro’s side. He reached his arm around her shoulders, careful not to stick himself on her dagger, and guided her toward the opening. At first her legs were stubborn, her feet dragging against the floor, but she soon followed, moving down the tunnel away from one unknown danger toward another, their companion left behind.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It would have taken hours to climb to the cavern’s ceiling, half a day to reach the far end. A cobalt glow emanated from everything; it lit the entire area leaving no corner or crevice in darkness. They’d seen the light seeping down the tunnel and hurried forward, anxious for their journey’s end, but they found no Necromancer-not here, not yet.
The cavern was empty except for stalactites hanging from the high ceiling, large enough they’d impale a man if they fell. Many became stalagmites halfway to the floor, joining top to bottom. Water dripped lazily from most of them, plopping into shallow puddles that trickled away to nowhere.
They stood at the entrance, awed and disappointed. The torpid blue light reflected in Athryn’s mirrored mask, changing it from silver to azure, the same color as his eyes.
“Where now?”
The dried blood on the edge of the sword Ghaul still grasped looked gray in the cavern’s glow and Khirro cringed as he posed the all-too-familiar question. Khirro opened his mouth to answer the same way he did every time the question was asked, but Athryn spoke first.
“We should rest. We are tired and it will be easy to keep watch here.” The magician’s tone was solemn. Ghaul grunted in response.
They kept the wall at their backs as they entered the cavern and picked their way through scree, fallen stalactites and puddles glowing a luminescent blue more dazzling than the rest of the cavern. Ghaul called a halt when they found a spot partially hidden by a boulder.
“I’ll take first watch,” Khirro volunteered and received no argument from the others.
Ghaul cast his pack on the ground, cleared an area of loose pebbles and stones, and lay down with his back to them, sword within easy reach at his side. Athryn removed his metal mask, stored it in his pack, and pulled on his black sleeping mask.
“We have no more food,” he said pulling the cloth over his scarred face.
Khirro nodded. “At least there’s water here.”
His belly growled a complaint as he spoke. Water wouldn’t be enough for long. In the darkness of the tunnel, shrouded in fear and danger as they fled first the dragon, then whatever killed Shyn, he hadn’t noticed the hunger burning deep in his belly. Now, in the light and the open, it twisted his gut, wringing aches and groans from it.
Elyea sat on a smooth-topped rock watching Athryn make himself a place to rest, then she looked at Khirro. He smiled half-heartedly; her lip twitched like she wanted to return the same but failed. Kneeling beside her, Khirro touched her arm lightly.
“Get some sleep. You’ll feel better.”
She nodded and looked to where Ghaul lay. Khirro leaned in and kissed her cheek, suddenly aware of the rough texture of his stubbled face, but she didn’t react disagreeably. Instead, the failed smile finally broke on her lips, though her eyes remained sad and wary. He left her clearing a spot for sleep and went to the other side of the boulder, away from his companions, where he’d have a clear view of the cavern.
Khirro sat with his back against the rock, the Mourning Sword laid bare across his thighs. The expansive cavern filled his vision. He’d never have guessed a cave this size existed. The craggy floor ran level from end to distant end, broken only by the scattered fragments of ceiling and wall fallen upon it untold years or centuries ago. To his right, water droplets plummeted from high overhead, ending their journey of hundreds of feet with a plunk in a shallow puddle. Khirro went to it, skirting rocks the size of a man’s head, and knelt beside the pool, watched the rivulet of liquid snake away to disappear in a crack in the floor. The water took on the glow of the cavern, intensifying it to the brightest blue in a world of blue.
Or perhaps it is the water which lights the cavern.
He lay the Mourning Sword aside and pulled his gauntlet from his right hand. The air cooled his sweaty palm as he tossed the glove to the ground beside his weapon. He stretched his hand open and held it over the puddle to catch the next drop like a child awaiting a snowflake. A droplet fell, missed his hand, and sent tiny waves across the puddle’s surface reminding him of the lake. He shuddered and adjusted his position.
The next drop spattered in the center of his palm, its coolness refreshing his warm skin. Another drop splashed on his hand, then another. The shallow bowl of his palm filled with water, glowing and shimmering against his pink flesh. Its wetness awakened him to the dryness in his throat, hidden from him like his hunger and by his hunger. He brought his hand to his lips and sucked the fluid greedily onto his tongue.
It tasted fresh and clean, with a vague flavor Khirro couldn’t place, not earthy or dirty like so much of the water he’d consumed in the past months. Sipping it didn’t slake his thirst but made him more aware of it. He bent forward and put his lips into the puddle, slurped it like a man in a desert come upon an oasis. Drops rained on the back of his neck, slipped under his tunic, cooled his hot flesh.
Khirro sucked and slurped, drank his fill until the hungry growl in his belly stopped. He pulled away from the puddle and leaned back, eyes closed. His belly felt full yet his throat and tongue remained unquenched. He dipped his hand into the water, splashed it across his face and rubbed his stubbly cheeks and chin. Breathing deeply through his nose, he opened his eyes.
An angry red glow had replaced the luminescent blue light. It flickered around him, licking the walls like flames burning without heat. Khirro raised an eyebrow, ignoring the fear poking its way into his belly.
A trick, that’s all.
His sword and gauntlet were gone. He searched the ground and noted differences from what he’d seen before: no rocks or debris scattered around him, the floor rippled and sloped, no longer smooth and flat. The cavern had shrunk until the walls and ceiling were close enough he could stretch out and touch them.
Khirro stood, knees quivering. As he straightened, the ground heaved. He pitched forward, chest slamming into the hard ground, and he lay there, nose inches from the floor, waiting to see if the earth would quake again. Under him, he saw the floor was no longer made of stone, but was translucent. Trough it, he saw a wooden stair winding away into darkness.
The fear successfully quelled a moment before bubbled through, tingling his arms and fingers, clenching his groin and halting his breath. He rolled onto his back observing every detail. The light flickered red, orange and yellow as though he lay in the midst of a fire without flames or heat. He turned his gaze to the walls, squinting, straining to see. Shapes showed through it,
ghosts in red.
Trees covered in snow?
Khirro jumped to his feet, knees bent and arms extended to keep his balance should the earth revolt against his movement. A shape above and to his left caught his attention and he turned his head to see. Hanging there, appearing suspended in mid-air, a giant ruby expanded and contracted rhythmically. He reached for it, stretching his arm, wiggling his fingers only inches from it.
The ground shifted again sending Khirro skittering backward. On the other side of the translucent wall, a figure appeared. He squinted and moved toward it, forgetting caution. The man wore armor and a helm, an unmarked shield strapped to one arm, a blade in the other hand. A black blade.
Recognition dawned. The color, the man’s position. Khirro understood where he was.
A gust of wind swirled about his limbs, pushed him against the wall. The reek of brimstone filled his nose and twisted his windpipe into a knot. The figure before him hid behind the shield as a column of flame engulfed him. Khirro glanced up at the underside of the dragon’s neck and chin, fire shooting from its mouth and nostrils. Somehow, he was inside the beast, watching his own battle from the dragon’s belly.
The flame ceased, leaving shield and sword glowing red. He watched himself rush forward, swinging the Mourning Sword at the dragon, connecting against its chest. The creature roared-an earsplitting sound to a man inside it. He clamped his hands over his ears, still watching as the dragon’s head shot out, lightning quick, its jaws closing around the other Khirro’s head.
Khirro gasped in surprise and horror as the beast drew upward, pulling his other self’s feet from the ground kicking and struggling before the head came off and the body fell convulsing to the muddy ground. Blood spouted from the severed neck, its color made invisible through the red chest of the dragon. Khirro stumbled backward in shock.
