Well of the Damned

by K. C. May

  The path sloped gradually upward as she neared the mountain, with not a single town or village along the way to restock supplies or stay a night, though she did cross two small streams and used them to further disguise her direction. She stopped to fill the two waterskins Vandra had tied to her horse, and tore off a chunk of dried pork to eat on the way. She had to let it soften in her mouth before chewing it, but with a swallow of water, it went down easily and would give her the energy for whatever lay ahead.

  She stopped at the foot of the mountain pass, looking up, blinking against the rain that hit her face. This trail obviously hadn’t been used in many years, perhaps not since before King Arek’s time. If she’d thought it through better, she’d have taken the mule for its sure-footedness over the battle horse, but then she’d have had no food or waterskin and would have had to go to Ambryce first to get supplies. Although the horse hadn’t shown a tendency to drag its feet or stumble, even the more gradual parts of the path were steep enough to give her pause. She considered leaving the horse here to go on foot, but that would make escaping Kinshield more difficult if he chanced riding up.

  Her decision made, Cirang clicked her tongue, leaned forward over her mount’s neck and began to ascend. Some of the stones beneath the beast’s hooves shifted under its weight, causing it to stumble now and then. Cirang began to second-guess herself, but urged the horse on with gentle words and a pat whenever it paused. In the steeper or more rugged places, it surged up with its powerful rear legs, scrabbling on the rocky ground. Cirang had to practically hug its neck to keep from sliding off the back end. On a flatter part of the trail, she took a moment to dismount and tighten the girth strap before continuing on, though she kept the balls of her feet on the stirrups so she could jump free if the horse fell.

  There on the side of the mountain, she felt exposed as she looked down at the treetops below. Because she couldn’t make out the path she’d taken through the trees, perhaps her pursuers wouldn’t be able to see her either. There were plenty of turns and twists in the trail, and she wasn’t even sure she was overlooking the right place.

  The horse continued to climb while Cirang tried to ignore the growing ache in her hip and back. Several times she considered turning back and giving up this quest. At first, she thought the posture she had to maintain as the horse trudged uphill was wearing on her resolve, but after a while, a feeling of trepidation seeped into her consciousness. She began to doubt her plan. When the horse’s foot slipped on the wet path, she gripped his mane tightly, her misgivings stronger. Even if this wellspring was real, what foolishness had persuaded her that the water was magic or that she should dally with things she had no understanding of? After all, she was in this mess because of people dallying in magic they didn’t understand.

  Near the top of the mountain, the slope became more gradual, and she let the frothy horse walk at a leisurely pace. She dug the journal out of her pack and began to flip through it, shielding its pages from the rain with her cloak. She didn’t know how she would find anything in the book that would shed light on her disquiet or warn her away from the spring, as the entries bounced around from one subject to another, divulging information in anything but a logical sequence. She would have to stumble upon the words that described her apprehension, and she wasn’t sure Sevae had ever actually come to the wellspring. Everything he’d known about it, or thought he knew, was hearsay.

  Disgusted, she put the journal back and dismounted to give the horse a rest, though she continued on foot, grunting with the exertion. She paused to drink deeply from one of her two skins and fed some of it to the horse. She’d started the journey with two full waterskins and soon realized it wouldn’t be enough. Once she arrived at the top, perhaps she would drink the wellspring water herself, and then she would know first-hand — perhaps be the first person in centuries to know first-hand — what the value of the water truly was.

  The ache in her back deepened as she continued to climb, while her stomach churned. The anxiety worsened with every step, but her will was stronger than her fear. When she came to a fork in the trail, she opened the journal once again and consulted the map. To the right, the trail sloped downward, towards the Flint River, which flowed past Ambryce. To the left, it would lead her to the mountaintop and the wellspring. It was a gradual incline, but her aching back and hip made the hike that much more difficult. She climbed stiffly back into the saddle and rode the last half hour.

  When she crested the peak, the rain stopped. Behind her, the gray clouds continued to spill water onto the hapless citizens of Thendylath, while here, they parted to show her the blue sky above and the sun that instantly warmed her head and shoulders.

  She should have been relieved, but her stomach was in knots and her hands trembled. For the first time since her death, she felt fear — the most repugnant emotion, aside from love. Was this her survival instinct warning her to abandon this notion? Her next death would be her last. There was no magic or soulcele token to save her this time. She dismounted and stretched her aching back and hip, pretending there was nothing to be concerned with, pretending she didn’t feel the urge to sprint back down the way she’d come. Denying the fear would let courage refill her heart. She realized her breathing was almost as frenzied as her heartbeat and tried to focus on the techniques the Nilmarions used to relax and calm her racing thoughts.

  Look around. What do you see?

  Trees. Harmless pines and firs. A rock in the shape of an eagle perched atop several larger boulders, overlooking the valley below.

  What do you smell?

  Nothing but the sweet scent of wildflowers.

  What do you hear?

  Only the usual sounds of buzzing insects and chirping birds in the nearby trees.

  The horse didn’t appear to be wary or distressed, only tired and hungry. It tore mouthfuls of grass and weeds and yellow wild flowers as it made its way to the edge of a pool of gray-brown mud from which nothing sprouted. Not a single blade of grass took root in that strange expanse of mud. Was that the so-called Well of the Enlightened? Time had not been kind to it.

  The horse bent its head, put its lips to the mud and slurped it up. Around its mouth, small rings formed on the surface of the mud pit as though it was merely water.

  She watched the animal expectantly, waiting to see what would happen. It lifted its head and looked at her with fathomless black eyes. Once it drank its fill, it ambled away to eat. Nothing happened. Not only was the horse not in distress, but it appeared to be refreshed from the drink.

  Cirang dropped the knapsack and her rain cloak to the ground and took another step towards it, ignoring her pounding heart.

  Don’t do this. It will kill you.

  A whimper rose in her throat. Fear, disgusting fear, squeezed her chest. She shook her head. No. Fear cannot command me. She was within a dozen feet of the mud’s edge. Determined to reach it, unwilling to let weakness control her, she took one more step.

  No, no, no!

  What kind of death awaited her here? Would something awful rise from the pit to grab her and pull her under? The memory of her last death — the claws, the pain, the awful snap of her spine — brought her to her senses.

  Her logical mind scoffed at her concerns. It was just muddy water. The horse drank it and nothing happened to him. She inched towards the water’s edge, squatted, and scooped a cupped hand into the mud. It was cool and wet, and even felt like water.

  The reflection of her own hand broke the surface, reached up, and grasped her by the wrist, but now it was the black claw of a demon. She jerked back reflexively but too late. It pulled her arm down. No, no, no! Panic rose like a flag up her spine. Unbalanced, she fell to her knees in the mud. She reached with her free arm towards the horse. “Horse, come. Come!” she shouted, desperate. It looked at her with disinterest while it munched grass.

  She fought against the force with all her strength, though it had her dominant arm. The mud was almost up to her shoulder now. She fell onto her r
ight hip, and with her left hand, she fumbled for the dagger in the sheath strapped to her right calf. Her fingers found the hilt, curled around it and whipped it free. She chopped at the mud, only dimly aware of the pain in her hand. The knife’s blade broke the mud-claw’s grip on her wrist. She pulled herself free and crawled backwards like a crab away from the pit.

  Her heart pounded as she sat in the grass and weeds, staring in horrified disbelief at the mud pit. Warmth trickled between her fingers, and she looked down to see several deep cuts in her wrist and hand. Oddly, her arm had come out completely clean, with no trace of mud on her sleeve or in the wounds. How could that be? Unless she’d imagined the whole thing, the mud should at least have soaked into her sleeve.

  With the danger gone, the pain arrived at full intensity. The fact that she’d done this to herself was almost humorous. She pulled her tunic off and used the knife to cut the sleeves off, though her hand, weakened by the stab wounds, made the task more difficult than it should have been.

  Ordinarily she’d worry whether something toxic in the mud would seep into her blood and kill her, but there was no evidence she’d ever touched the mud. Her imprints in the grass were clear, but they were a good four feet from the mud’s edge. An illusion was the only explanation. She’d never dipped her hand into it at all — unless this was the illusion. If she had been at the mud’s edge and her hand was, indeed, covered with mud, some kind of magic was making her think it was clean. Instinct warned her to wash the wound anyway, which she did using the last of her drinking water. She wrapped one torn sleeve around her hand as tightly as she could. The other she saved for later, when the blood stopped flowing.

  Ripples formed in the center of the mud pit, and then bubbles rose to the surface. Her instinct told her to run, and she was no fool. If the demon Ritol were to come out of the mud, she would be only seconds away from her final death.

  She pulled the now-sleeveless tunic back on, snatched up her cloak and knapsack and mounted. Forget the damned wellspring, if it even existed. Crigoth Sevae must have been mad to think this mud pit would benefit anyone. It was nothing more than a legend born from a rumor or fairy tale.

  Relief replaced anxiety the more distance she put between herself and the mud, although she let the gelding step carefully down the trail at its own pace.

  She felt embarrassingly silly as much for chasing after such a ludicrous story as stabbing herself in the hand to escape a killer mud pit. So the journal and the ravings of its author had turned out to be useless.

  But Kinshield didn’t know that. He still wanted the book.

  Because Cirang had killed Vandra for it and attacked the king, she would pay dearly if Kinshield ever caught up with her. He’d likely slay her on the spot and to hell with ceremony or making a public example of her. Perhaps if she made quickly for Lavene, she could secure passage on a ship before he or his guards found her. In fact, if she hid the journal in Ambryce and left him a message directing him to its location, he might pause his pursuit long enough to get the book. Daia would go with him, leaving only Brawna to search for Cirang, and Brawna would be no trouble for a battler as skilled as she was. Yes, she decided. It was a good plan. Perhaps she’d return to Nilmaria for a time. With an understanding of its people and terrain, she would do just fine, even as an unwarded foreign woman.

  When she arrived at the fork in the trail, she tugged the rein and continued on towards the river, contemplating what she might write in the note and where she would leave it so that when Kinshield entered the city, he would be directed to it. Perhaps she would simply hand it to one of the lordover’s men-at-arms. They wouldn’t know her and would have no reason to apprehend her. The only outstanding question was: where to hide the journal so no one would happen upon it before Kinshield found it.

  The horse slipped. She lurched forward. Caught by surprise, she grappled for a fistful of mane to stay in the saddle. The animal went to its knees and scrabbled for purchase. She flipped over its head and onto the rocky slope. Pain shot through her back, and she cried out. Beneath her, the rocks shifted, and she began to slide down the steepest part of the slope. Above her, the horse screamed. Cirang grasped at everything she could reach as she slid downhill on her belly. Rocks and debris scraped her skin, but the only thought in her mind was hope the horse wouldn’t land on her. An ominous crack split the air, followed by a deep rumble she felt down to her bones. Before she realized what was happening, dirt and rocks began to fall towards her. The ground beneath her dropped. She fell faster. Although the rocks and sticks beat against her body and face, there was no pain. She quit trying to grapple for a handhold and instead crossed her forearms over her chest and rolled sideways, hoping she would eventually roll clear of the mountain coming down on top of her.

  And then the world went black.

  Chapter 29

  Something heavy pressed on her, crushing her chest so tightly she could hardly take a breath. In the darkness, she saw small knife-points of light. Rocks and dirt ground her down from above as if they could make her one of them. She tried to move her hand, but it was trapped too. She found she could tilt her face just enough to put her mouth closer to the slit of daylight and suck in air. Everything hurt. Even if the horse was still alive, which was doubtful, she didn’t think she’d be able to get into the saddle.

  The fingers on her left hand were free, and she wiggled them and pushed against the rocks above her hand. Soon she found she could turn her hand palm up, and she strained against the weight keeping her arm immobile. She heard the rocks shift and tumble away, and then her arm was free. The first thing she did was grope for the rocks over her head and face to push them away. The weight rolled off and the light and air and rain came flooding into her face and mouth, though her chest was being held so tightly she couldn’t take the breath she needed.

  Crushing her torso was a huge rock, much too big to grasp and fling aside. It was smooth, without hand holds to grab. Her only chance to get it off was to use its own weight to do the work. She reached underneath her left side to grab smaller rocks and push them away. Little by little, the weight of the boulder on top of her began to shift towards her left side, the downhill side. Its movement hurt like hell as it shifted across her tender rib cage. And then it rolled over her free arm and went bouncing down the hill.

  Air rushed into her lungs, filling her body with pain like she’d never felt before. She groaned, afraid to take in more air but desperate to fill her lungs. She breathed in short bursts like a dog panting until the pain subsided enough to move. It became easier to push the rest of the rocks off her body, and after a few minutes, she could sit up and assess the damage.

  She ached all over, and she was utterly soaked, but no bones seemed to be broken. A sharp pain in her side was the worst. Her clothes were bloodied in spots where she’d suffered scrapes and cuts, and on her right side, a larger patch of blood darkened her tunic to mark the area of the most intense pain. She lifted the hem.

  A shard of rock had sliced through the fabric of her shirt and corset and embedded itself into her skin between two ribs. No doubt some of her ribs were cracked, but this shard explained why breathing hurt so much. She touched it gingerly and winced from the pain. Removing it was going to hurt like mad. Better get some water to wash the wound.

  With great effort and gritting of teeth, she managed to stand on shaking legs. One of her boots, her cloak, and her pack were missing. She wasn’t sure how she could find them in the pile of rubble, but at the very least, she needed that pack. Without the journal, she had no chance of distracting Kinshield away from his pursuit of her. She swept her gaze across the mess the landslide had made. A hoofed brown foot jutted up from beneath the rocks and dirt. Stupid horse. This was all its fault. She was glad it was dead, but its death was also terribly inconvenient. She’d have to walk the rest of the way to Ambryce, despite her injuries.

  After taking a few tender steps on the shifting rocks, she pushed aside the rocks nearest the area where her feet
had been when she first regained consciousness. Maybe the boot had come off not long before she’d stopped her fall. Something brown showed through, and she reached down and tugged it. It came free, pushing rocks aside. The knapsack — what luck. She checked inside and found the empty waterskin and Crigoth Sevae’s journal, damp but intact. Excellent.

  She looked for her boot but gave up after a while, though she did find her cloak, and shook it as hard as she could manage to fling away the water from the underside. She ripped what was left of Vandra’s spare tunic, noting the make-shift bandages were gone, and wrapped up her foot, padding the bottom with leaves she stripped from a tree that had been uprooted in the landslide. The cuts on her hand had bled a little but not enough to trouble her.

  With a hand cupping the shard in her side to keep it from shifting, she returned to the knapsack and dug out the waterskin. She didn’t know where the other was, but there wasn’t much of a chance to find it now. She uncorked its top and shook the last two drops of water into her open mouth. Perhaps she ought not try to remove the shard until she could get to the river to rinse the wound and quench her thirst. She studied the cork in one hand and the skin in the other, realizing the shard was a cork for her blood. She’d better wait and let a healer do it.

  Then she noticed the sound of trickling water. A quick look around confirmed there was no stream nearby. The stones on the mountainside were dark where water was streaming down from above. She traced its origin up to the top — to where the eagle-shaped boulder overlooked the valley below.

  The gods favor me.

  She limped over to where the water trickled from a jutting rock to drip onto the stone below it. She let it pool into her cupped hand — cool, clear water. Could this be water from the famed Well of the Enlightened? She hadn’t seen any clean water up there. Could the mud pit have been an illusion created by whatever magical force was protecting the wellspring? The landslide must have caused the wellspring to leak. Now here was the water for the taking.