“That’s the effigy Hamarin wrote about.” Dormael scowled. “It’s a bit foreboding in person.”
D’Jenn peered at the statue. “I wonder if we can trust anything else he’s written.”
“Does it matter?” Dormael looked at D’Jenn. “We’ve got to have a look.”
“Let’s be quiet about it.” D’Jenn gave everyone a meaningful glance. “Be ready for anything.”
The path leading down the slope was easy to navigate. Though much of what the ancients built had been eroded by weather, the stone pathway was still visible. The only sound was the wind blowing from the north.
The ashen material around the statue turned out to be bones.
They were piled in a great mound at the statue’s feet, surrounding her on all sides. Skulls grinned from piles of rib cages and long bones. Claws stuck from dead hands that had yet to be picked clean of dried, rotting meat. The whole courtyard smelled like leaves, dust, and carrion.
The remains of Garthorin—how long have they lain here?
The wooden effigy towered over the yard. She was five times taller than Dormael, and her leafy height was raised above the bones by a stone plinth. In order to get to her, someone was going to have to wade through the thicket of death.
Dormael reached into his satchel and opened the box containing Shawna’s armlet. He took it out, hands shaking as he touched the silver, which was warm under his fingers. When D’Jenn gave him a pointed look, Dormael shrugged.
“If another piece is up there, maybe this will help me find it.” Dormael tied the armlet to a leather thong around his neck. “I'm not going to put it on.”
D’Jenn peered at him for a long moment before nodding. “Someone’s got to have a look.”
“Might as well be me.” Dormael grimaced. “It knows me.”
I’ve taken her claws into my heart. The thought came unbidden, but Dormael knew its truth as the words flickered through his mind. His palms were sweaty at the closeness of the artifact. His mouth went dry as he thought of the Silver Lady and the power she promised.
Let that darkness go.
The pile of bones was enormous. It covered the whole of the square, rising chest-high in haphazard drifts. Dormael looked for a way in, but the bones created an effective wall. If he disturbed the pile and bowled his way through, the clatter would echo across the valley.
Dormael turned to D’Jenn. “If I move these bones, can you muffle the sound?”
D’Jenn gave the square an appraising look and nodded. He closed his eyes and let his Kai whisper over the statue. His magic settled in the air like a blanket over a mattress.
D’Jenn opened his eyes and nodded to Dormael. “Go. Don’t make a ruckus. I feel exposed out here.”
“I don’t like it, either.” Bethany scowled at the valley. “Something’s wrong with this place.”
“Don’t worry, little pig.” Allen nudged Bethany’s shoulder. “This place has been dead a long time.”
Bethany gave him a skeptical look and closed her eyes. Her brows knitted together as she reached her hand toward the overgrown city. She opened her eyes and shared a worried glance with everyone else.
“It’s not dead,” Bethany whispered. “It’s sleeping.”
Dormael shared a grim look with his friends. D’Jenn narrowed his eyes at the woods beyond the courtyard and went silent. Dormael opened his Kai and quested out with his senses.
His magic snaked along the pathways, picking up different tones. It returned the vibrant music of living vegetation and the quiet hum of ancient stone. Though his eyes had shown him only hints of something beneath the green carpet of the valley, his Kai revealed the hidden pattern under the veil. The remains of ancient flagstones hummed in his senses, cracked by the ever creeping roots of the underbrush. Structures appeared in his mind—buildings, walls, and ruins lying under the forest.
Inside the various structures were the sleeping forms of living things. They were tucked into every space that could hold them, huddling together for warmth. Dormael could feel the sum of their breathing in his magic, a buzz that reminded him of a prosperous beehive. There were scores of the things, perhaps hundreds—too many to count.
Garthorin! A whole damned horde of Garthorin.
Dormael opened his eyes to find D’Jenn staring at him.
“Just get it done. Get in, find the next piece of the artifact, and get back out.” D’Jenn turned an intense stare on everyone else. “No one makes a sound—no one.”
“What is it?” Shawna’s gaze darted toward the city.
“Garthorin.” Dormael shared a grim look with her. “Lots of bloody Garthorin.”
Allen cursed and eyed the path back to the mountain. Shawna moved closer to Bethany, her hands going to the hilts of her swords. She gave Dormael a pointed look, gesturing toward the effigy.
Shawna’s hands spun in the Hunter’s Tongue. Hurry, and be careful.
“The rest of you should start back toward the mountain.” D’Jenn kept his voice low. “We can’t enter the valley if the Nar’doroc isn’t here. One way or the other, this is the end of our line. Dormael and I will take care of this. No one else needs to be here.”
Shawna made to protest, but went quiet when her eyes fell to Bethany. She took Bethany’s hand and gave D’Jenn a nod. Bethany tried to pull free, but ceased when Dormael gestured for her to go. The two of them started back toward the mountain, with Bethany throwing angry glances over her shoulder. When Allen didn’t move, D’Jenn gave him a level glance and raised his eyebrow.
Allen shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
D’Jenn sighed and turned back to the effigy. “You’re the one getting eaten if you stay.”
“Only if I’m slower than you.”
“Just be ready if anything happens.” Dormael pulled his satchel over his head and handed it to Allen. He passed over his spear as well and made sure Shawna’s armlet was secure around his neck. With a quiet nod to D’Jenn, Dormael climbed atop the courtyard wall.
He at first thought of pushing the bones aside and blazing a path to the effigy. Another look at the square gave him second thoughts. If the bones piled high enough to tumble over the wall, they might fall outside the limits of D’Jenn’s magic and alert the sleeping horde of Garthorin.
Piling them to the side will take too much time and finesse.
A section of the courtyard wall had tumbled outward on the far side. It was large enough to support Dormael if he turned it sideways, given that it wouldn’t crumble when he touched it with his magic. He reached out with a delicate magical thread to lift the ruined wall from the ground. He smiled when it rose in a single, unbroken piece.
Dormael moved it over the pile of bones to a place halfway between the wall and the effigy. With careful magical hands, he laid the wall on its side and let the weight settle. There were a few crackling noises, but the spell was otherwise silent.
Dormael shuffled to the best spot from which to jump. He shared another quick nod with D’Jenn and took a deep breath. Wrapping himself in his floating spell, Dormael summoned all the strength in his legs and leapt from the wall.
He sailed over the bones, arms windmilling as his body turned in the air. For a moment, he thought he was going to overshoot the ruined section of wall and go tumbling into the bones. He pictured his body clattering into the pile, teeth and claws and sharp, broken edges tearing his skin during the landing. As he grew closer to the platform, he bled power from his spell and his body fell toward his target.
Dormael’s feet slammed into the stone and slipped, sending his body falling toward the edge. Dormael abandoned the spell, flipping onto his belly. He slid to a stop and let out a tense breath, trying to slow his heart.
Halfway there. Checking to ensure the armlet was still tied around his neck, Dormael rose to his feet and waved to Allen and D’Jenn. They waved back, and Dormael turned toward the effigy.
As Dormael reenacted his floating spell, Shawna’s armlet began to sing.
<
br /> Dormael’s eyes shot around the courtyard, searching for the Silver Lady. His limbs felt warm, as if he was sinking into a hot bath. His stomach fluttered, and sweat beaded on his face. The woman was nowhere in sight, but Dormael could feel her presence like a burning shadow over his shoulder.
You’re anxious. Just as tense as I am.
Dormael looked to the effigy, tried to peer beyond the twisted vegetation of her form. From his vantage point, her belly was swollen to a vulgar size. Her face was nothing but bushes and vines rolled together, her arms the rotting branches of an old tree. When viewed up close, her rough appearance made for a frightening impression. There was no glimmer of jewelry in the twisted vegetation.
Something is causing the Nar’doroc distress, though. It has to be there.
“You be quiet, now,” Dormael said. “Don’t do anything crazy.”
Dormael backed to the edge of the wall. He took a pair of running steps and leapt from the edge, enacting his floating spell once again. This time he was ready for the weightlessness, and his body stayed upright.
He slammed into the base of the effigy, feeling the bite of twigs and brambles. He had to jerk one of his arms free of the statue, wincing at a multitude of shallow scrapes along his forearm. Blood filled his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue, and Dormael took a moment to spit and catch the breath the impact had knocked from his chest.
The armlet was sandwiched against his neck, the silver hot against his skin. Its alien voice filled Dormael’s mind, singing with insistence. He climbed up the side of the effigy, trying to ignore the armlet’s song. The Nar’doroc made his whole body warm, shifting his injuries to the back of his mind as it filled his thoughts with its voice.
“Would you shut up?”
The Nar’doroc didn’t answer him. It urged him upward, toward the woman’s swollen belly. Dormael focused on the climb.
His site went blurry as he clawed his way upward. His ears filled with the song of the armlet, his chest with warmth. His heart pumped fire through his veins and fluttered with anticipation. He found himself tearing into the statue’s belly, ripping vines and twigs away as he delved inward. There was something just beyond his fingers, something resonating with the song in his mind.
SUNDERED!
The impression hit him like a brick to the skull.
DIVIDED!
Dormael’s mouth went dry, his stomach heaved. His fingers quested blindly through the giant womb, pulling twigs aside and ripping them away. He could hear the song of the Nar’doroc playing over the rhythm of his beating heart.
He touched something smooth, something cool and metallic. Dormael’s body rang like a struck bell. The armlet moved at his throat, its song exultant and deafening.
Dormael’s hands closed on something within, and another song rose to join that of Shawna’s armlet. The thing under Dormae’'s fingers went liquid, slithering over his skin with searching tendrils. He wanted to pull away, felt the urge to leap from the effigy in horror, but the song of the Nar’doroc held his limbs in stasis.
REUNITED.
The tendrils from within the womb crawled up Dormael’s arms, reaching for his face. He thought he was screaming, but he couldn’t be sure. The only sound he could hear was the voice of the Nar’doroc.
With the speed of a striking snake, the silver tentacles went for Dormael’s eyes.
***
The man woke, clawing at his eyes to pull the Nar’doroc away. He was panicked, screaming, his body falling into a deep, black—
Wait. What is happening, here? Where—?
A ghostly voice called a name, as if from a great distance. Dormael!
Who is Dormael?
The man paused his mad clawing, tried to still his beating heart. What magic was this? Was it madness, that ever-present threat to Shamans who carelessly delve to the depths of their power? Had it come for him so soon?
Have I finally found the bottom? Have I dug too far into the mysteries trying to solve the problem I created? Am I losing myself to this fight?
“No,” he said aloud. “I’m not lost yet, not today.”
Though today would be a good start down the path to madness.
Indalvian realized he was standing with his hands over his eyes like a child. The urge was quite unlike him. From whence had it come?
Plenty of sights to hide from today.
He knew what he would see when he tore his hands away from his face. The day had been full of horrors already, and if Indalvian was a betting man, he’d wager that things were about to get much worse.
Removing his hands, Indalvian forced himself to look at the mass of people below the hill.
The wails of wounded men mingled with the cries of children. The sound made Indalvian’s stomach twist, made his veins go cold. The remnants of the united Gathan tribes were corralled into a depression in the land, surrounded by rank upon rank of vengeful spears. The fighting men still alive in the beaten mass held their families close and eyed the hill with fear. There weren’t many left after the day’s bloodletting. Most of the people in the group below were women and children.
Ruin littered the valley. Blood had turned patches of ground to foul-smelling mud pits. The tides of battle had left drifts of lifeless bodies scattered like waves of sand.
Narilin hobbled to Indalvian’s side as fast as his gnarled legs could carry him. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” Indalvian gave the old shaman a grim look. “I tried to speak with him—”
“Tried to speak with him?!” Narilin pulled Indalvian’s shoulder around to look in his eyes. “What can we do if he decides to burn us all to ash?”
Indalvian’s eyes locked to the old man’s. “Nothing. The Wierding isn’t complete.”
“Gods preserve us.” Narilin turned back to the scene below. His jaw tightened, and Indalvian felt the old man’s magic writhe in the ether. “Gods preserve us all.”
“I tried to make him see reason,” Indalvian said. “Tried to get through to him, but—”
“It’s too late.” Narilin looked to the figure floating above the valley. “She has him now.”
Indalvian followed Narilin’s gaze, stomach twisting with worry.
Ishamael floated in the air above the prisoners, undisturbed by the wind or the cries from the people below. His eyes were locked to the defeated mass of prisoners, his body as still as a plinth of stone. Liandri’s dress fluttered in the wind, her limp body held to Ishamael’s chest. Blood dripped from one of her delicate hands and was whipped away by the breeze. Indalvian couldn’t see her face from where he stood, and he was glad for it. Liandri had been like a sister to him, and he couldn’t stand to see her in such a state more than once.
The Nar’doroc sang, filling the ether with its terrible music.
Ishamael turned his head to look upon Liandri. Silver tendrils moved beneath the neckline of Ishamael’s loose, white shirt. He paid them no more attention than he had Indalvian’s arguments against his vengeance. Indalvian could feel tension crackling through the air—a sound like a distant storm in his Kai.
He traded a look with the other shamans arrayed at the top of the hill, a group as varied as the tribes from which they hailed. Old men like Narilin, young women with tattooed faces, and shirtless Mals from the southern savanna—all of them looked to Indalvian with the same terrified expressions. Indalvian’s chest clenched with anxiety.
“People of the Gatha!”
Ishamael’s voice brought a sudden hush to the air. The cries from the prisoners silenced, and the thousands of spears herding them together went still. Indalvian quailed at the sight of so many helpless expressions turned to the sky, like a bed of ants regarding an oncoming boot. He felt another urge to call out to his friend, to implore him to end this madness before it went further.
You tried to make him see reason. It was useless.
“You who have taken up the sword against us—betrayers all!” Ishamael paused, looking down upon the pitifu
l mass below. “To fight a war is one thing. To spend lives in pursuit of your goal, however ill-conceived…that is what brought us together in the first place. Turning your spears against your brothers is abhorrent to the gods, but even that, I could understand. That, I could forgive.”
Liandri floated away from Ishamael’s arms, her body moving closer to the huddled mass of people. Screams went up from the crowd as Ishamael forced them to look upon her. Indalvian tore his eyes away in disgust.
He knew what he would see—she had been gutted like a pig for slaughter.
“This,” Ishamael said, his voice booming through the valley, “I cannot forgive. I will not forgive! This is not the work of men! It’s the work of monsters. The legacy of beasts!”
A low hum started in the ether.
“You took my wife from me! You took the child she carried!”
The air filled with screams as fear took hold of the prisoners.
“And for what? For your own weakness. For fear of the power I hold.”
The hum grew louder, intruded on Indalvian’s magical senses. His knees buckled, and he caught himself as he pitched toward the grass. A crippling nausea gripped his stomach, and his bones vibrated with the sound of the Nar’doroc’s power. Cold sweat beaded on his skin, and he spit to the side as his mouth filled with saliva.
Narilin was on his hands and knees beside Indalvian, retching onto the ground. His gnarled hands shook as he moaned through labored breaths. Indalvian wiped sweat from his eyes and looked over the hill, finding the rest of the shamans writhing on the ground as well. He tried to say something, but all that came out of his throat was a strangled exclamation.
“Look upon your handiwork!” Ishamael’s words cut through the haze in Indalvian’s mind.
Indalvian tried to force the dizziness from his mind, but could do little but raise his eyes from the grass. Liandri’s body hovered just over the heads of the cowering Gatha. Her corpse burned with an odd light, painting the terrified expressions of the gawking prisoners in stark clarity.
“Ishamael!” Indalvian tried to scream, but his stomach kept heaving. “Ishamael!”
The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4) Page 31
