by Watson Davis
“Oh yes!” Mitta released the tension on her bowstring and laughed. “This will do.”
Datresh and her Brightfoxes entered, lowering their weapons, their mouths agape, their eyes sparkling almost as much as the gemstones before them. Mitta wheeled around and skipped back to the narrow opening. “Nothing to see here, just my room. You all can go on back to searching for items and articles for you.”
Leedy poked his head in, and then forced his way in. “You’re going to have to learn to share.”
“No.” Mitta shook her head. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with not having as many pretty things as I have.”
“Clan Leader!” a voice called from back in the hall they’d come from, along with some murmuring, and grunting, and a, “Let me through. Clan Leader Leedy!”
Leedy retreated from the treasure room. “What? Snupesk? What is wrong?”
Mitta ignored him, ignored the hubbub outside, and picked up a handful of golden bangles which she slid onto her wrist, and a ruby ring she fit onto her thumb.
“Mitta?” Leedy stuck his head back in. “Time to go.”
Mitta held up a necklace and showed it to him. “You are mad if you think I’m leaving this place now.”
“Fine. Stay,” he said, his head disappearing back into the hall. He cried, “Everyone out this way. Follow me!”
Mitta set the necklace around her neck and ambled back out into the hall to see all of the Onei rushing down the stairs at the far end of the chamber, Leedy and Silmon already gone, and only the backs of the last of their warbands still visible. She gulped and called out, “Brightfoxes! To me!”
With her people behind her, she sprinted.
“What’s the problem?” Datresh asked, catching up to her at the top of the stairs, Lirden right behind him.
“I don’t know,” she said, leaping down to the next landing, turning, and bounding down to the next. “But if it was enough to get Leedy to forego acquiring more treasure, then it must be serious.”
At the ground floor, two doors stood open: the one through which they’d entered, where Tethan and his ragtag bunch guarded their retreat, and a smaller side door with all of Leedy and Silmon’s warriors fighting each other, trying to push through.
The sound of battle echoed from Tethan’s door, and Mitta’s heart stopped. She rushed through the hall, between the hexagonal columns and the rows of pews, and dashed out onto the portico. Orcs and Nayen warriors in Sissola’s blue and silver armor filled the plaza before the temple, and a dragon flew overhead with a giant mounted on its back, the dragon breathing fire down on buildings.
Tethan fought at the base of the stairs, his axes whirling, a mound of dead and dying soldiers around him, but fresh ones pressed forward, pushing him back. Mitta loosed arrow after arrow, killing warriors to the right and left of Tethan, hoping to give him a chance to breathe, a chance to retreat, but he stayed there, still fighting, like the idiot he was. She let fly more, killing more, screaming, “Help Tethan!”
Lirden and Datresh rushed out to meet this new threat, this army. Mitta’s Brightfoxes swarmed around her, archers shooting their arrows, the few mages left casting their spells.
Then Tethan fell. A wave of warriors dragged him down, leaping on him. Mitta screamed and rushed forward, dropping her bow, pulling her axe and her dagger, trying to cut a path to his side.
Something struck Mitta from behind and she fell, tumbling down the steps. A woman stood there, staring down at her. A Nayen woman of unquestionable beauty save for the hint of scales on her skin—scales like a dragon’s. She said something in the Nayen language.
Growling, Mitta twisted, regained her feet, and tried to rush back up the steps at her, but orcan hands grabbed her arms, her legs, and her throat, holding her there, pulling her back.
“Inare!” Datresh cried, and swung his axe at the woman.
She did not flinch, but batted the axe away with a swipe of her hand, her clawlike fingers striking at Datresh like a viper, ripping out his throat. He fell to his knees, one hand on his throat, trying to swing his axe at the woman one more time.
“Come on, you bitch,” Mitta yelled. “You and me!”
The woman walked down the stairs to stand above Mitta. She reached down and plucked the dagger from Mitta’s hand, the drow’s blade, and she studied it. Then she whirled around, giving some order, and walked away.
In Chains
Gartan stood motionless, unable to move even his eyes, staring at the wall across from him as his lungs demanded air, demanded he breathe, as his eyes—burning and aching—demanded he blink, a panic in the basest part of him wanting only to suck in a breath. Dyuh Mon walked out through the passage behind the altar, the light of his magelight receding, leaving Gartan in the darkness, his shrieks of terror locked away in his own mind.
To fight the panic, a panic he could do nothing about, Gartan listened to Dyuh Mon’s sandals sliding on the stone floor, the sound growing lighter and lighter. He strained his ears, hearing an indistinct mumbling, a spell being cast, but the sounds grew fainter until the only thing he heard was his heart in his chest, each beat a little further away than the last.
Thin strands of light appeared woven into the walls like a web, a rainbow of soft pastels undulating in an unseen and unfelt breeze, colors he hadn’t seen in the light. The colors disappeared when a dim light washed them away, the light coming from his left, from the door through which he’d entered the room. Feet padded on the stone floor, soft footfalls, light breathing, and then a voice said, “Gartan?”
Simthil?
Gartan wanted to scream with joy and rage, but mostly he wanted to breathe, and blink.
Simthil appeared before him, the bear of a man holding a cheap torch of wood and cloth, the embers barely burning, supplying scarcely enough light for even an Onei to see. Simthil studied Gartan, looking him up and down, his face marred by a frown, his lips pursed. He affixed his axe to his belt and stepped forward, bending down before Gartan into a blind area where Gartan couldn’t see.
“I hate magic.” Simthil stepped back and stared at Gartan. He stomped over to the doorway, and Gartan struggled to follow Simthil by sound alone. Moments later Simthil padded back beside Gartan, looped his arm around Gartan’s waist, and picked him up.
Simthil balanced Gartan on his hip and stumbled through the archway, banging Gartan’s feet on the edge of the door, turning to get him reset, and knocking Gartan’s head against the wall. “Oops. Sorry about that.”
Shifting Gartan’s body around and getting a better grip, Simthil padded down a corridor, following the sounds, the smells, the traces of light, taking the second junction to the right.
At the end of this corridor, Dyuh Mon stood with his back to them, waving his hands, humming an incantation in the dim glow of his magelight. Lights appeared on the wall before them, runes glowing, seeming to move like water across the stone.
Simthil laid Gartan on the floor and eased forward, making no sound.
The wall before Dyuh Mon split in two, each half pulling away and sliding aside, sending puffs of dust billowing into the corridor and revealing the room beyond: a desk with pages of paper piled on it, the paper covered with a thick layer of dust; a skeletal cadaver in a chair holding a quill in the bones of its fingers, thick ink dripping from the tip; other skeletons lining the wall, sprawled out before bookcases.
The creature in the chair jerked, swinging toward the now open doorway. It lurched to its feet, balancing for a moment. When it reached its emaciated hand toward the door, the quill slid from its fingertips and fluttering to the ground. A whispery voice said, “Dyuh Mon?” and something more in Nayen.
“Stad-ai?” Dyuh Mon said, stumbling forward and catching the thing, but it came apart in his hands, whatever force holding the bones together dissipating, evaporating, leaving those ancient bones to tumble to the ground. Dyuh Mon sobbed and cradled the skeleton ribcage in his arms, whimpering, “No. No.”
Simthil surged forward, sur
prisingly quick and agile for a man his size, and his right hand clamped down around Dyuh Mon’s neck while his left hand grabbed Dyuh Mon’s right wrist. He lifted the man into the air, shaking him, growling at him, and he slammed Dyuh Mon’s face against the wall, once, twice. Dyuh Mon hung limp in Simthil’s hand, dazed.
The spells binding Gartan released, and he relaxed to the ground, sucking his breath in. His whole body spasmed, wanting nothing more than to scream his agony to the world as he squeezed his eyes shut. He rolled onto his back, relaxing, sucking in a breath of foul air, air that reeked of ancient death, a death that clung in his nose and stung his eyes. Gartan coughed, trying to purge himself of this taint.
Simthil threw Dyuh Mon aside and rushed to Gartan’s side. “You back with me?”
“Careful with him,” Gartan said. “We might still need the lying icefang.”
Simthil helped him to his feet.
Gartan pushed Simthil away and tottered into the dusty room on uncertain feet, closing his nose and breathing through his mouth so he didn’t smell any more of that stink. An odd chill caressed his skin, not the chill of the snow—an honest cold to be welcomed—but the chill of death and the sad, honorless grave of an unremembered name and unremembered deeds.
Simthil harrumphed, stomped back to Dyuh Mon, and clamped his massive hand around Dyuh Mon’s neck, allowing the mage to gasp for breath before clamping down again. He followed Gartan into the room, dragging Dyuh Mon by the throat behind him.
Books covered the walls of the room, stacked up to the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Metal bars cut off the far end of the chamber, forming a cell on the other side, with a door set into the middle. A chain wrapped around bars sealed the door shut, the chain having no visible lock.
Inside the cell, a teenaged girl with skin more pale than even an Onei huddled against the far wall, a wooden cot on her left side, a small table with pages and books on her right. She held a quill in her right hand, with thick dark ink dripping from the tip. Her black hair hung down over her eyes, hiding them in the shadows, and her lips were full and dark. Her left arm hung down, showing a black wound in the crease of her elbow, black tendrils reaching out from that wound, darkening her skin like a black web.
She murmured, “Dyuh Mon?”
# # #
Tethan sat on his knees on the unforgiving stone of the plaza outside Gal-nya’s temple, his head bowed, eyes half shut, all the aches and pains of all the battles in his short life seeming to return to him, to hurt him. He panted, sweat dripping off his nose, down his brow, into his eyes, into his wounds; his body hunched with exhaustion and failure. Peira Icefang knelt to his right, Hobanya a few spots down from her, and Snupesk behind him.
A stream of black ants marched past Tethan’s knee, one by one, helping each other, carrying sticks, leaves, and bits of flesh back to a mound hidden between the stone pavers.
The morning sun peeked over the roofs of the buildings, the black sky turning blue, the stars fading, and the Nayen people who lived in Gal-nya’s city left their homes. They gathered around the edges of the plaza, close enough to see Tethan and his Onei, and the orcan army that defeated them, but far enough away to flee. The people stared and spoke to one another, their voices indistinct.
The warm wind brought with it the smell of bread baking, of life going on as though nothing had happened. And to most people, nothing had.
Behind Tethan, orcs barked orders in Nayen, their voices harsh and guttural.
Peira Icefang leaned toward him and whispered, “What the hell are these beasts saying?”
Tethan opened his mouth, preparing to speak, to say he didn’t understand, but behind them one of the orcs roared in anger, his boots pounding on the stones as he rushed toward them. Tethan shut his mouth, biting back his response.
An onyx-tipped spear plunged into Peira’s neck at the base of her skull, the life fleeing from her eyes before the orc drove her face-first into the ground with a wet thud, her blood seeping out around her head in a pool.
Tethan glared back at the orc, tensing his exhausted muscles, preparing to hurl himself at the monster, trying to find the strength. The orc put his foot on Peira’s back and pulled his spear free, smiling at Tethan, his lips pulling back from his tusks to reveal yellowed teeth, daring Tethan to do something, anything, so he could be sent to his fate as well.
His upper lip rising into a sneer, the orc said something in Nayen, placing the bloody tip of his spear against Tethan’s throat. Tethan turned and relaxed, staring across the square at the trees lining the walkway, trees that had been burning during the night but were now just blackened sticks, their branches scorched away, with wisps of smoke rising from those blackened trunks like souls with no desire to leave this realm, but no choice, pushed along and scattered by the winds. Bodies of friends and foes littered the square, the wagons they’d planned on using to return their plunder to their ships still piled high with gold, jewels, and objects of art.
Orcs walked down the lines of Onei, yelling and waving their hands. A strong hand grabbed Tethan’s upper arm, the fingers digging into his skin, into his muscle, yanking him to his feet.
Tethan straightened up and shouted, “Everyone stand up!”
The Onei glanced around, but they struggled to their feet. A few of the orcs standing away from the Onei stared at Tethan, squinting, murmuring among themselves and nodding.
Nayen people of all sorts, young and old, shopkeepers and laborers, mothers and fathers, lined the streets, staring at the Onei on their knees in the plaza, not cheering, but with expressions of sadness, of dejected acceptance, of hopes dashed.
Several buildings near the plaza of Gal-nya’s temple burned, with even the stones melted from the heat of the dragons’ breath. Nayen mages cast magic to summon water and wind to douse the flames that stretched up into the sky while the owners of the buildings, of the inns and shops, gathered outside to watch their livelihoods passing away, yet still turned to peer back at the Onei.
Tethan blinked, stared at two of the mages, and then averted his eyes. Mian-on, Hanno, and another woman stood before the inn, a woman with a scar on her face, her arms crossed over her chest, a hood pulled up over her head. Kalo.
The door to the temple opened, and a woman stepped out with a giant of a man in blue and silver armor at her side, her hand gently resting on his forearm, clerics and mages trailing behind them. Her cape billowed around her as though she were walking through water, clinging to her in places suggesting her shapely curves, and her face was so delicate and beautiful that Tethan gasped. But her skin sparkled with the odd hint of scales.
The man said something in Nayen, his voice booming and echoing from the helmet covering his face. He nodded his head, and a cleric rushed forward, a man in brown robes. The cleric stopped before the Onei and said in heavily accented Onei, “Who is your leader?”
# # #
Gartan stomped to the wall, kicking away bones that clattered on the stone. He leaned against the wall of books, placing his forehead on the cracked leather spine of one of them. “Where is my damned treasure?”
“What sort of hell is this place?” Simthil asked, a horrified expression on his face, his nose twitching, his lip curling in disgust. He dragged Dyuh Mon with him further into the room. The magician flailed his arms and legs, struggling to speak, his hands pulling on Simthil’s forearms, clutching at Simthil’s hand covering his mouth.
The girl stared at them, her eyes a glittering black beneath the dusty hair covering them, her hands drawn up to her mouth, her body shaking.
“I don’t know,” Gartan said. “But whatever it is, I don’t think it’s what we wanted or what we needed. Bring the little traitor here.”
Simthil dragged Dyuh Mon to Gartan’s side, still squirming in Simthil’s hands, tears streaming down the Nayen’s cheeks. Gartan laid his left hand on the man’s chest and stared into the man’s frightened eyes, eyes not looking at Gartan but toward the cell at the end of the room.
In Shrian,
Gartan said, “I should kill you and be done with this. But you made a promise back in Shria and again outside. Now we talk, you and I. Speak only in Shrian or I kill you.”
Dyuh Mon didn’t nod or seem to give any indication of assent; his eyes were still turned toward the cell.
Gartan looked up at Simthil and said, “Let him talk but be ready to shut him up.”
Simthil nodded, lessening his grasp on Dyuh Mon’s throat and jaw.
Dyuh Mon coughed, sputtering; in a desperate voice he cried something in Nayen. Gartan grabbed Dyuh Mon’s jaw, slamming his mouth shut, silencing him.
“Where is the Source?” Gartan asked, grabbing Dyuh Mon by the collar and yanking him out of Simthil’s grasp. “In another damned room? One of these damned books? Tell me and you may survive this.”
Dyuh Mon hung his head, sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks, down his nose.
“Answer me,” Gartan commanded, shaking Dyuh Mon.
“Yes,” Dyuh Mon said, his voice trembling. “But not this way.”
Dyuh Mon screamed something in Nayen, and Gartan slammed him against the wall, into the books there, sending the books tumbling down. Growling like a bear, he pounded Dyuh Mon against the wall until Dyuh Mon stopped moving. He tossed the man aside and stared at the bookcases, at the pages on the desk, seeing fresh ink scrawled over the topmost page.
Simthil chuckled. “I thought you said we might need him.”
“Fuck him,” Gartan said. “This is all a huge mistake. My mistake. I should never have dragged us into this.”
“No mistake,” a thin, wispy voice said in an oddly accented Onei. “If you let me out, I will show you the Source, and take you to the treasure.”
Gartan whipped his head around, checking the shadows for an Onei he’d missed, for someone else in the room, his eyes coming to rest on the young girl in the cell. She crouched down, hugging her knees with her scrawny arms, her back against the wall behind her, her mouth hidden by her knees and the skirt covering them. Gartan said, “Did you say something?”
