by Watson Davis
Yaj Yath’s breathing echoed in the room, each breath labored. He said, “You have learned a few tricks since last we dueled, little one, but I am still—”
Thunk.
The tentacles relaxed, going limp.
Dyuh Mon fell to the ground.
# # #
Gartan sprinted toward the gap into the temple, to the hallway leading deeper into the mountain Dyuh Mon had disappeared into, but the two Nayen priests, a man and a woman, arrived at that doorway first.
The man flung his hand toward Gartan, launching a bolt of magical fire; he dodged it, twisting his body and throwing himself to the side. The bolt skimmed across his ribs, the fire burning into his armor, before exploding against the column behind him. He rolled on the stones to quench the flames lapping at his flesh, but the cleric was already beginning another chant, while the woman beside him moved quickly, her hands jerking, fingers sketching invisible runes on the wall similar to the ones Dyuh Mon had used to open it.
Gartan sprang to his feet and hurled his axe end over end. The male cleric skipped out of the way, continuing the preparations for his spell, his hands directing the flows, his voice chanting ancient words, but Gartan’s axe found its true target, the female cleric, the one trying to close the door, the one not watching him.
The axe bit into the woman’s upper back, the blade sinking deep into her spine. She screamed, her body tensing, hands spasming, and she collapsed to the floor. The other cleric’s eyes tensed with anger and fury, but he didn’t look back at his dying friend, choosing instead to complete his spell. He fired another bolt of fire toward Gartan.
Gartan bounced to the side, a grin on his face. The bolt missed him, going wide to the right. The cleric, panting for breath, his hair limp with sweat, began to work his next spell. Gartan sprinted to him, grabbed his head, and broke his neck.
“Where are you going, Gartan?” Simthil yelled, trading blows with an orc. “The party is almost done.”
Gartan lifted his palm toward Simthil, shouting, “Hold them off! I’m following Dyuh Mon to the Source!”
Simthil blocked the swing of an onyx sword, catching the blade on the haft of his axe. Bits of stone flew off as the sword cracked. Simthil answered, “Wait for me!”
“Hurry up!” Gartan tugged at his axe, but it didn’t easily come free, so he left it lodged in the priestess. Squinting against the blazing light, he crept into the room beyond, into a circular room with arches along the periphery, three of the archways leading off into darkness. The stonework of the floor created a pattern of various colored stones all polished to a mirror finish. Magelights dangled in golden cages. A clanging noise reverberated through the hall.
With his blood-soaked boots leaving a trail behind him, Gartan eased his way into the room, to the very center of it, peering into each of the corridors. A soldier dashed toward him from the one to his right, holding his halberd like a lance, charging toward Gartan as fast as his legs would carry him. His boots clanked on the stone floor, the iron squares of his armor jingling together like a wind chime.
Gartan sprinted toward him, weaving around the point of the halberd, grabbing the shaft and flipping the soldier over his hip. The man crashed to the ground. With the halberd now in his possession, Gartan plunged the point into the man’s throat, leaning all of his weight into it. The heavy point pierced the light chainmail there, splitting through the links with ease.
He knelt, yanking a shortsword from the soldier’s belt, and he rose. His head tilted to listen, eyes glazing, Gartan trotted toward the corridor from which the soldier had emerged, a corridor with a dark ceiling with stars. He carried the shortsword in his left hand, the halberd in his right.
Ahead of him, men spoke Nayen, one of the men sounded like Dyuh Mon. Gartan sped through the hall, following the voices—voices now casting spells—turning down a hallway of mirrors, a feeling of cold air beckoning him forward. He skidded to a stop beside an open door. Someone screamed and Gartan crept through the open door into a darkened room, slipping in to the side so he wouldn’t be silhouetted against the light outside. Two men panted for breath inside, one man gurgling, trying to breathe.
Gartan blinked as his eyes adjusted, barely able to make out the shapes of two men, one in the air, the two connected by some sort of thick rope. One man spoke, and his voice was not Dyuh Mon’s. Heaving the halberd, Gartan cast it like a harpoon; the halberd went swimming through the air, and the blade struck the man in the head.
The other man fell to the ground, the ropes disappearing. Gartan raised the shortsword, padding forward in the darkness. “Dyuh Mon?”
The man staggered to his feet, hand rubbing at his neck. “Gartan? Is you?”
“Let us find the Source, my friend.” Gartan chuckled. “Together this time.”
# # #
Tethan stood guard with his ragtag band of warriors and shamans on the steps outside of Gal-nya’s temple, some of his warriors leaning on the treasure carts while Icefang and Brightfox warriors loaded the wagons up with gold: chalices, candelabras, chains, all manner of items.
Gal-nya’s city blazed in the night, flames licking up into the nighttime sky, reaching up toward the flickering stars above, the warm breeze carrying the pungent scents of fire, of more than just wood burning. He squinted, stomped down the steps to peek around the corner of the temple, and jogged back. “Where did the dragons go?”
“Dragons?” Hobanya, the Ironcutter archer, stood from her perch on one of the wagon’s seats, the wagon creaking beneath her, tilting to her side. She looked around, her eyes wide. “They were just over there. Weren’t they?”
Peira Icefang gazed up into the dark sky, grinning. “Maybe we will see some fighting before the sun rises.”
Other warriors under Tethan’s command rose from their seats on the steps, peering around. Across the square, down the main boulevard from the temple to the southern gate, something sparkled, an unexpected fluttering light, a light reflecting off of a shield, and behind it a hint of a standard.
“On your feet,” Tethan commanded, taking an axe from his belt, filling his right hand with its hilt. He pulled Snupesk to his side, saying, “Go inside. Find one of the clan leaders. Tell them another army approaches. We will hold them as best we can, but we’re going to need reinforcements soon.”
Snupesk stared at him, mouth agape, eyes not comprehending. Tethan flung him toward the door. “Go!”
The other Onei moved through the gaps between the wagons, gathering into a thin line. Tethan pushed through the line, removing his second axe from his belt, holding the two of them above his head. He shouted, “Let’s go!”
He spun and ran, the other Onei behind him.
A horde of orcs appeared down the street, their blue kite shields fitting together like a wall. Their maskless helmets exposed their brutish faces, and their boots shuffled on the stone pavers, the basso rumble of their growling a counterpoint to the joyous Onei hurrahs of an impending battle.
Tethan hurled himself up and over the line of the shields, twisting to dodge the onyx-tipped spears jabbing out and down over the tops of the shields. He swung his axes right and left, clearing space, striking two orcs at the base of their helmets and sending the soldiers tumbling to the ground. The front line swung to defend themselves, the second line pushing forward, driving him back.
He hooked the blade of his axe over the top of a shield, pulling it down. A spear darted forward and punctured his shoulder. His axe sliced through the space, cutting through the orc’s throat on the other side.
Their lines kept pressing Tethan back out into the square. He hacked into them, killing them, their swords and spears discovering him, poking at him, stabbing him, slicing him, impelling him backward, one aching wound after another until his vision grayed at the edges. His heels hit the steps of Gal-nya’s temple and he tumbled down, collapsing on the steps, dropping his axes.
The orcs flowed over him.
# # #
“Take this.” Gartan fli
pped the sword around, his fingers grasping the blade by the blood gutter, holding the pommel out toward Dyuh Mon.
Dyuh Mon squinted and mumbled a word, holding his right hand aloft, where a wisp of light sprang to life.
Gartan winced, averting his eyes, allowing them to adjust.
“I don’t need,” Dyuh Mon said, shaking his head, his eyes leaving the sword to study their surroundings. “I have magic to protect me.”
Gartan, chuckling and grinning, pressed the pommel into Dyuh Mon’s side, poking him with it. Dyuh Mon started, jumping aside and glaring down at the sword, at Gartan. Gartan offered it to him once more. “Your magic needs help.”
Dyuh Mon sighed and nodded, taking the sword’s hilt in his left hand, the tip dipping when Gartan removed his support.
“Where do we go next?” Gartan crossed to the dead mage and placed his bloody boot on the mage’s chest, yanking the halberd from the skull. “What defenders?”
“This way.” Dyuh Mon gestured with his right hand, the wisp of light floating away into a dark hall that glittered in the light, the walls covered with gold etched with spidery markings. “I did not expect Yaj Yath here.”
“A lot of things not going as you expected,” Gartan said, following along at Dyuh Mon’s elbow, his eyes darting behind and forward, his halberd pointing back the way they’d come. “That is life.”
Dyuh Mon directed Gartan down a hallway, the air heavy and warm and stinking of sewage. Someone chanted, a woman’s voice, a full and throaty voice. Gartan stopped and pulled Dyuh Mon back, whispering, “You hear?”
“No.”
“No?” Gartan closed his eyes and repeated a couple of the syllables.
Dyuh Mon shoved his hand over Gartan’s mouth, muzzling him. “Do not say, do not speak.”
Gartan nodded. “So?”
Dyuh Mon tilted his head with his eyes closed, the fingers of his right hand wiggling, the light stopping and returning to him. Dyuh Mon spoke some words, a spell of some sort, and leaned forward.
The chant started again, a new set of words Gartan couldn’t understand.
Dyuh Mon gasped, his head jerking erect, his eyes flying open. He said some words—Nayen words, from the sound of them—his breath growing fast with terror. He looked back the way they had come, took a step that way and may have fled had not Gartan grabbed his arm.
“What?” Gartan asked.
Dyuh Mon stared into Gartan’s eyes, the panic clear and obvious; he babbled in a language Gartan couldn’t understand. Gartan shook him.
“Speak Shrian. Speak slow,” Gartan growled.
“Shhh.” Dyuh Mon placed his fingers over Gartan’s lips, his eyes flicking back in the direction of the voice, which was still chanting. He breathed. “Um. The Eternal Council. They’re here. Why they here? Can’t be here. No sense. Have to flee.”
“Calm,” Gartan said, straining to listen. He shook his head. “Whole council? I hear one voice.”
Dyuh Mon listened, edging in the direction of the sound, taking one step, two more. Gartan followed, watching Dyuh Mon’s face. Dyuh Mon’s eyes changed, a recognition flashing over his face, a kind of relief; he mumbled in Nayen.
He nodded. “You right. Only hear Yut-hosa Seeth. She’s performing…” Dyuh Mon looked down, tapping his fingers together, his brow furrowing, his mouth opening, closing. He shrugged and looked back up at Gartan. “Don’t have words. But must have another, a Nayen person.”
Gartan wrapped his fingers around Dyuh Mon’s upper arm and dragged him down the hall, moving at a pace too brisk for Dyuh Mon. The cleric stumbled behind him, trying to regain his feet, his light lagging behind. A glow of dim magelights filled the hall ahead, spilling out of a corridor branching off to the left.
Gartan turned down the hall, with Dyuh Mon still struggling, squirming, trying to pull free from his grasp. Gartan released him, and the cleric stumbled back against a wall.
A woman-like creature Gartan assumed was this Yut-hosa sat cross-legged on an altar, chanting with her eyes closed. Two children lay before her, their heads no longer attached to their bodies, and her hands were buried up to her wrists in their chests. Yut-hosa’s hair floated above her shoulders as though she were swimming through water, the strands undulating as though moved by invisible waves, wrapping over each other. Her body swayed from side to side in rhythm with her chanting.
A man knelt before her, a cup in his hands, with which he caught the blood and bodily fluids flowing from the children’s corpses.
Gartan grabbed Dyuh Mon’s thick waist and hurled him into the room, angling him to the right. Dyuh Mon stumbled, struggling to maintain his balance, to find his feet, and scurried in along the wall to the right, watching the altar, keeping to the shadows.
Yut-hosa’s eyes flew open—eyes blacker than the blackest night, eyes that seemed to suck the light from the air. Her hair stood up around her head like a hood. Her chanting stopped, and her lips pulled back from her teeth to reveal a mouthful of fangs—not filed-down teeth like Dyuh Mon’s, but long, needle-like fangs.
“Dyuh Mon?” she rasped, her body rising up in the air, her legs uncoiling beneath her. She pulled her hands from the bodies of the children, her clawlike fingers dripping with black gore. The man kneeling before the altar whirled around, his face pale, hands shaking.
Dyuh Mon stood before her with his eyes wide, his knees trembling, hands quivering. He dropped the sword and it clattered to the ground, echoing in the chamber.
Yut-hosa howled, lunging over the altar, her clawed foot landing on the back of the man there, driving him face first into the stone floor. She threw her hands forward, a blast of black energy, a black lightning, flaring out from her palms.
Dyuh Mon extended his hands, reaching out wide, a shadowy disk springing to life in the air before him, angled to the arc of the black energy, with arcane symbols swirling on its surface. It deflected that black energy, but the disk itself cracked, buckled, collapsing down the center. The black energy leaked around the edges, and the disk shattered. Dyuh Mon fell forward and the black energy touched his chest, searing him. He screamed.
The man before the altar writhed on the ground, flipping over onto his back, grunting in pain as he pushed himself away from Yut-hosa, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. The cup tipped over and spilled its gooey contents.
“Enahu guide me!” Gartan yelled, as much to draw her attention away from Dyuh Mon as for the support of his god. He burst from the shadows, leaping over the altar, coming at Yut-hosa from behind. Her hair extended toward him first, pointing at him. The black energy streaming from her fingers trickling to a halt, she whirled around, fear flashing on her horrid, hook-nosed face. The blade of Gartan’s halberd sliced cleanly through her neck, the steel corroding instantly as her blood ate at it. Her head tumbled to the ground, rolling toward Dyuh Mon, her mouth working but no sound coming out, her hair directing itself to Gartan, to Dyuh Mon, shifting back and forth.
Her body fell to its knees, her clawlike hands, black with blood that dripped onto the floor, reaching out blindly. She inched forward, her hands searching. Gartan raised the halberd and slammed the point down into the middle of her back, aiming for her spine. Her legs gave way, leaving her body lying on the ground, but she twisted around, her hands blindly swiping the air behind her. Gartan skipped back out of their range, abandoning the halberd in her back.
Dyuh Mon stumbled forward, panting. He kicked her head out of the way. The head gnashed its teeth at him, her hair swishing at the stone, trying to propel the head toward her body.
Dyuh Mon said, “This no last long.”
Gartan gestured toward the priest on the floor. “Him?”
The priest had pulled himself into a corner of the room and propped himself up. He spoke to Dyuh Mon, pleading, his hands gesturing, begging.
“Wants my job.” Dyuh Mon walked over and plunged the sword into the man’s chest. He pulled the sword out and plunged it in again several more times.
Gartan grinn
ed. “Not good friend, then.”
“No,” Dyuh Mon said.
Yut-hosa’s body reached its hands out, then pulled itself forward, reaching out again, trying to find its head.
“So what am I to do with her, then?” Gartan asked, gesturing toward Yut-hosa’s squirming body. “A wooden stake to her heart?”
Dyuh Mon shook his head, saying, “Has no heart. She had removed, placed somewhere safe.”
“Well, damn.” Gartan picked up the halberd.
He sliced the corroded blade into the writhing body, over and over, cutting off its limbs, chopping the hands from the arms, the feet from the legs, the fingers from the hands joint by joint and the same with the toes.
Dyuh Mon watched, holding his hand over his mouth, watching Yut-hosa’s face, giggling.
Gartan stopped and panted for breath. “Where to now?”
Dyuh Mon set the sword on the altar and closed his eyes, mumbling words Gartan didn’t understand, his hands weaving intricate patterns that grew quicker and quicker.
Hearing breathing, the shuffle of boot on stone, Gartan tried to glance back the way they’d come. His head didn’t move. He strained, trying to move his arms, his legs, his hands, a fear rising in him.
Dyuh Mon completed his spell and sighed.
“Where to?” He peered up at Gartan, patting Gartan’s cheek just as he had back in the infirmary in Shria. “I go to the Source to meet Her. Thank you for help, idiot.”
# # #
The bronze doors creaked open, just wide enough for two people to enter, and Mitta darted through with an arrow nocked and her bowstring drawn taut, Lirden by her side with his axe in his hand, and Leedy and Silmon waiting outside with the rest of their warbands.
The room sparkled with white marble walls and a green limestone floor, the vaulted ceiling above a web of shades of green. Magelights hovered in every corner and every nook, focusing their light down on necklaces of gold and lapis and sapphires and opals, with rings and headdresses, golden dresses on marble statues.
