by Barb Hendee
“Hannâschi?” he said softly, but her eyelids did not flutter.
Chuillyon picked up her fallen crystal, still bright with her warmth, and he looked into the breach beyond her.
He had no idea how or if Wynn had managed to pass the trap in the tunnel wall, nor how to do so himself. For that matter, Wynn would fare no better than Shâodh if the beast had gone her way.
His curiosity, his pride and arrogance, had cost Shâodh’s life. Hannâschi was poisoned and might yet follow her loved one. And someone still had to survive to tell of this place, of what happened here . . . of what waited here.
Chuillyon lifted Hannâschi’s frail form, which weighed so little in his arms. He realized he would not be able to pump the cart by himself all the way back beneath the range. They were nearly out of supplies, and they would not survive. He needed to get Hannâschi directly out of the seatt, into the open air, beneath the sky, where he could find food and build her strength before starting the journey home.
“Chârmun, be with me,” he whispered. “Guide me out.”
Ghassan lay stunned at the shaft’s bottom. He had not been able to slow his descent enough and had hit hard. Afraid of moving too quickly and injuring himself further, he carefully drew his legs up toward his stomach, feeling for any sharp pains. His need to move on overrode fear of injury, and he pushed himself up.
Flashes of pain in his back and right leg nearly made him fall again. He fought them, and his arms did not give way. None of his bones seemed broken, but he was bleeding from multiple cuts and scrapes. His clothing was torn and shredded in many places.
Once he gained his feet, he found himself at the head of a downward-facing tunnel, though he had no idea where he was or how deep he might be. He took his first steps forward, and then a shrieking blast of wind rushed up the tunnel. It made the tatters of his cloak rise and thrash.
He knew that sound. He had heard it when facing the wraith in the streets of Calm Seatt.
Ghassan stumbled along the wall, following that wail.
Chane and Ore-Locks kept running, down and down. Chane had sheathed his short blade and pulled out the crystal Wynn had given him to light the way. All he could do was trust that Ore-Locks might guess the correct passage to keep descending.
The dwarf stayed in the main tunnel, never turning aside into smaller ones. Wynn believed the orb would have been guarded someplace deep in the seatt. This was all Chane had to go on in trying to fulfill her desperate plea.
He tried not to let himself think and kept running.
If you love me . . . then go, for me.
Was this the only way to prove his love? If so, then love was unfair.
Without warning, a shrieking wind tore up the tunnel.
Ore-Locks stalled, wide-eyed, and Chane darted around him without a pause.
“What is that?” Ore-Locks huffed from behind.
Chane did not answer, though he knew that sound. Wynn had forced him to sacrifice her for the orb, and he would not let Sau’ilahk have it.
As suddenly as the wind and noise had started, it died.
This time, it was Chane who faltered. He stood, listening for anything, but all was quiet. He bolted onward, and there were no more side passages along the way. A dead end appeared ahead, and he skidded to a stop in a small cave.
Ore-Locks stumbled in after him, panting too heavily. The cave was otherwise empty, and the wraith was nowhere to be seen.
Chane began to panic as he looked back up the tunnel. Had Sau’ilahk already found the orb and faded away? No, even in Calm Seatt the wraith had only been able to carry off transcription folios by hand. It had not even been able to make one follow it as it slipped through a scribe shop’s wall.
“Look!” Ore-Locks said, panting. “What is it?”
Chane spun around and then froze at what lay in the back of the cave.
He and Welstiel had trailed Wynn and her companions seeking an orb secreted in an ice-bound castle in the frigid Pock Peaks. Magiere had found it on a pedestal, guarded and revered, in the center of a four-way stone bridge over a deep, volcanic fissure. Its resting place had been impressive . . . intimidating. This one lay abandoned, covered in dirt and dust and old bones.
Chane stepped closer, looking down at the globe of a dark material with a tapered spike piercing down through its center. Suddenly, this all seemed too easy.
“Is that what she has been seeking?” Ore-Locks asked.
Chane did not care to explain. A hunk of carved rock was not worth her life. But he had found it, seemingly undisturbed, and so quickly.
“Take it,” he told Ore-Locks. “We go back now!”
The dwarf hefted the orb, appearing surprised at its weight, but he wrapped it under one arm while still carrying his iron staff.
“No!” someone snarled.
Chane whirled with his dwarven sword aimed point out. A tall figure limped into his crystal’s light. At first he was uncertain who it was, and then he shook his head, not believing his eyes.
“Il’Sänke?”
The domin was a torn and bleeding mess, bracing one hand against the wall at the cave’s mouth. He did not enter but stood there, blocking Chane’s way.
“Give it to me,” il’Sänke ordered, his voice low and hard. “Whatever it is, it must be protected. You and she are nowhere near capable of that.”
“Who is this?” Ore-Locks demanded, taken aback that Chane and the intruder knew each other. “What is this . . . thing you all want?”
Chane kept his gaze locked on il’Sänke. His first instinct was to kill the man where he stood. But il’Sänke was more than a sage, perhaps more than a highly skilled metaologer.
For an instant, Chane almost considered giving up the orb. Even if he reached Wynn and found her still alive, after all she had suffered and all she had risked, how could he face her if he did so?
“Do not defy me,” il’Sänke said, his voice deadly cold. “There is more at stake than you understand.”
Chane tensed, ready to charge and strike.
Il’Sänke’s gaze turned on Ore-Locks. As his bloody right hand shot out toward the dwarf, he began to whisper unintelligibly.
Chane knew what was happening, had seen it before. He quickly sidestepped between the two, breaking il’Sänke’s line of sight to Ore-Locks.
Il’Sänke’s eyes widened. He shook slightly as anger washed over his dark-tan face.
Chane suddenly remembered something that il’Sänke might not know. They all had abilities, powers, not just the domin. They could do things most people could not.
“Ore-Locks, go!” Chane said. “Take it into stone!”
It was a desperate move, but he saw no other choice.
“Neither one of you leaves with that!” Ghassan shouted, losing his composure.
He pushed off the wall, limping forward and shifting left around the cave wall.
Chane shifted too, keeping himself between the domin and the dwarf. He was losing precious moments, and desperation broke his control. The beast inside him surged, struggling against the violet concoction he had taken upon heading under the mountains.
Chane whirled with a wild slash at il’Sänke and shoved Ore-Locks toward the cave’s rear wall.
“Go!” he rasped.
Ore-Locks started in surprise at the sight of him. Chane knew his eyes had lost all color, his features likely twisted into something feral. He did not care as long as Ore-Locks listened.
With one last glance, Ore-Locks backed into—through—the wall, and Chane turned on il’Sänke.
Ghassan’s breath choked off as the dwarf simply sank into the cave’s back wall and vanished.
Then Chane turned on him.
He couldn’t help stumbling back at the sight of Chane’s altered face . . . colorless eyes, elongated teeth, and twisted features. Chane rasped like a snake or a voiceless, rabid dog as he thrust his sword.
Ghassan flashed a hand in front of himself, focusing on the steel.
The
blade swerved slightly at his gesture, striking into the wall at his side. He tried spinning away before the blade slashed across at him, but sharp pain in his right knee made his leg buckle. Ghassan tumbled down along the cave wall.
Bloodied and weak, he could feel his strength ebbing. He raised a shielding arm and tried to scramble back before Chane struck him down.
The blade never fell, and he heard only the sound of running feet.
Ghassan peered over his arm at an empty cave. When he flopped over to look up the tunnel, all he saw was a form fleeing by the fading light of a cold lamp crystal.
Ghassan rolled back, his heart pounding, as he looked at the cave’s rear wall. None of this made sense. There was not even a hint of the dwarf’s passing . . . and the orb was gone.
He had read Wynn’s journal accounts of what she and three others named Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had found in a castle among the highest icy peaks of the eastern continent. The description of their find matched what had been under the dwarf’s arm.
And where was Wynn, if Chane still . . . lived?
Pieces of the poem tumbled through Ghassan’s head.
The Children in twenty and six steps seek to hide in five corners
The anchors amid Existence, which had once lived amid the Void.
One to wither the Tree from its roots to its leaves
Laid down where a cursed sun cracks the soil.
That which snuffs a Flame into cold and dark
Sits alone upon the water that never flows.
The middling one, taking the Wind like a last breath,
Sank to sulk in the shallows that still can drown.
And swallowing Wave in perpetual thirst, the fourth
Took seclusion in exalted and weeping stone.
But the last, that consumes its own, wandered astray
In the depths of the Mountain beneath the seat of a lord’s song.
The anchors of the creation were the orbs. The poem was a puzzle, giving clues to their locations. Wynn had figured this out before he had.
There were others orbs hidden by the Children of the Ancient Enemy.
Ghassan struggled up, biting the inside of his mouth against the pain in his knee. What could he do now? Go after Chane, try to dip into his thoughts, and find where the dwarf might have gone?
That would not serve him. He had tried to hear Chane’s thoughts once before and found nothing, as if the man—the undead—was not even there. Even if he could find the dwarf . . .
What if Wynn had sent those two on purpose, so the dwarf could take the orb? No one would know where he had gone, so that not even she or Chane would have knowledge of its new location.
Anxiety set in, and then a strange paranoia grew within Ghassan.
Had he underestimated her? Could Wynn be that devious? Did she know what he was . . . what he could do? Did she understand he was more than some guild practitioner of thaumaturgy or even conjury?
Did Wynn even suspect sorcery still remained hidden in the world?
He put a hand to his mouth, smearing blood across his face in the process. Perhaps he had been reckless to jump down that shaft. His body now betrayed him.
The medallion against his chest suddenly warmed. Amidst his turmoil, he ignored it at first. He had no wish to speak with Mujahid, and he waited for the medallion to grow cold again. It would if he did not answer.
The warmth did not fade, and he finally grabbed it.
What? he demanded.
Return now. Make all haste.
It was not Mujahid’s voice in Ghassan’s head, though he recognized it. His thoughts cleared at her urgent words.
“Tuthâna?” he whispered. “What . . . what is wrong?”
I cannot say, even in thought, for . . . It has awoken and might hear.
Ghassan’s breath caught in his chest. How did this happen?
Hurry.
The medallion cooled in his grip. He plied his will upon it, crushing it in his hand as he tried to reach out for her.
“Tuthâna!”
No answer came, and he lingered, not daring to think of what his comrade’s warning might mean. Some part of him felt like he had been defeated by the seatt itself, but he could do nothing more here. He had been away from his kind for far too long, and it appeared the worst had happened in his absence.
He had to reach home . . . quickly.
Ghassan limped up the tunnel, taking the side passage that led back to the shaft. He would have to crawl out the same way he had come in, the only sure path he knew.
If it had escaped, he could waste no time searching for another exit.
When Ghassan reached the shaft’s bottom, he closed his eyes and focused all of his will, and he began to rise through the dark.
CHAPTER 26
Still lost in the memory, Wynn—Deep-Root—emerged in the glistening caves of the honored dead. He stepped out of stone, placing each foot slowly, fearful of making any sound. Then he crouched to feel the cave floor with one hand.
The leaf-wing still skittered in Wynn’s mind, holding the whispers at bay, but beyond its influence, Deep-Root felt the gale whispers. They were distant, moving erratically, but they were out there, searching for him. He had no more time for caution.
He began searching quickly among the calcified figures and paused before one.
It was tall for a dwarf. Though mineral crust obscured details of its form, it held something long and narrow against its chest in a double grip. The object appeared to reach all the way to the cave floor, unless decades and centuries of buildup had dripped down to make it look so.
“Forgive me,” Deep-Root whispered as he drew one heavy dagger. “I beg of you, grant me absolution for this sacrilege.”
With a single, quickened breath, he struck the first blow.
He stabbed and hacked until Wynn saw a glint of tarnished and mottled steel. Then the sound of running boots echoed among the caves. Deep-Root dropped the dagger and grabbed the top of the object with both hands. Calcified stone fractured and broke as he wrenched it from the figure’s grip.
Wynn thought she saw the petrified remains of dwarven arm bones as the figure’s hands broke off, still bonded to the object. She wanted to cringe at the sight of them.
The footfalls grew loud and near.
Deep-Root whirled, and all he could do was raise the object he held. A blade cracked against it.
Pieces of calcified stone exploded around the impact as he saw another stonewalker with a maddened expression before him. Chips shot into his face, and even Wynn flinched at their patter. Deep-Root groped at his belt for his other dagger. The other stonewalker’s hand closed into a massive fist, and he struck low.
Wynn felt the pain as if her own abdomen had been hit. Breath rushed from Deep-Root as he toppled back against the calcified figure.
“Your bones will not rest here!” the other stonewalker snarled. “We will leave you to rot with those outside who try to come for us.”
His features glistened with a feverish sweat and were so twisted that Wynn couldn’t tell if he was the same elder from before. Then she saw his blade coming again.
Deep-Root tried to block. The stonewalker’s blade slipped off the object Deep-Root held up and tore down the left side of his scaled armor. Wynn heard steel-tipped scales screech under its passing.
Deep-Root cried out as he jerked his last dagger free. He slammed the long, crusted object into his attacker’s face as he raised his blade. The stonewalker’s head jerked in another spatter of calcified stone. Deep-Root swung downward, and his blade sank point first into the neck of the stonewalker’s armor.
There was a wet, grating sound, like steel across stone—or bone—but the stonewalker didn’t fall. He reeled back, his mouth gaping as he choked. Blood began seeping between his teeth and over his lower lip.
Wynn heard Deep-Root’s dagger clatter on stone as he looked in horror at what he’d done. More footfalls and shouts echoed through the caves, growing louder and closer. Dee
p-Root raced across the cave and into a wall.
There had been no choice in what he’d done, and Wynn knew this. But in the darkness of stone, her own shame began to grow. She realized what he was about to do.
Deep-Root leaped out of stone into the dragon’s deep cave. Mute whimpers escaped his mouth with each sobbing breath.
Wynn heard the echoes of pursuit rolling in from the tunnels above this place. When Deep-Root raised his sagging head, for a moment all she saw was a watery blur through his eyes, until he dragged the back of his hand across his face.
The dragon stood waiting in the middle of the viscous pool. It hung its head, its breath weak, but it gave Deep-Root not a moment’s rest.
Strike below my last rib, upward into my chest, as if toward a heart. But only when I have begun my last flame and swallowed it down. Only then . . . only upon my command.
Deep-Root raised the stone-covered object in his hand.
So much of its mineral crust had broken away that Wynn saw parts of a long, thick blade. He grabbed the lumpy hilt, breaking away the remains of calcified fingers. With one hesitant glance up the sloping passage, he gripped the cleared hilt and slammed the crusted blade against the cave’s wall. He beat it again and again until the sword’s blade was nearly clear.
Every ringing blow sharpened Wynn’s panic. It would be heard everywhere in these tunnels.
A shout erupted just before a splash.
Deep-Root turned wildly. Another of his brethren splashed toward him through the pool, and then came a slap upon stone that hummed through his bones. Up the sloping tunnel, another stonewalker had her hand firmly against the tunnel’s rough wall. The sound of a blunt impact and rapid splashing pulled Deep-Root’s attention the other way.
The dragon’s head slammed against the wall as it staggered sideways in the pool. A stonewalker whipped an iron staff back for another strike.
Deep-Root splashed toward the dragon, but the beast suddenly righted itself.
Its head whipped around, its maw widening, and then it dipped its head and its mouth snapped shut with a crack. Half of its assailant vanished amid torn bowels. Spatters of blood rained down on Deep-Root.
