by Annie Bellet
Thick white mist rose off the water, flowed over the bank, and coalesced into Fade. The mist-lynx growled, the deep rumble carrying over the stream’s burble. Familiar dark shapes rose up around us. Blunt noses, thick heads, too many teeth, and ridges of fur rising on their spines.
The warakin pack had returned.
Splinters! We weren’t equipped to deal with them. I could take out three or four before they reached us, but the fight from the morning hadn’t dented their numbers nearly enough. My quick survey counted fifteen, at least. I found myself pining for Makha’s armored bulk and Azyrin’s deadly sword and vowed to resume my melee lessons with Drake if we survived the night.
“Nice puppies,” Drake said, moving so we were back-to-back.
Fade growled louder and the large darker furred warakin I had pegged as their leader slunk forward, snarling. The mist-lynx turned his liquid silver eyes to me and then made an odd noise somewhere between a cough and a snarl before turning back to face the large warakin. In a smooth leap, he sprang at the leader and then clashed in a spray of blood and fur, teeth and claws tearing.
I raised my bow, searching for an opening, but Drake grabbed my shoulder.
“Don’t,” he whispered, looking past me at the fight. “They are battling for dominance, I think. If Fade wins, we might not have to try to kill the rest.”
I shrugged his hand off but let my arms relax. I hoped Drake was right. None of the other warakin were attacking. They stood as silent sentinels, their glinting eyes fixed on the battle.
The fight did not last long. It was difficult to track what was happening, but more brown fur flew than silver and black and I tried to trust that Fade would dematerialize if he felt he were in any true danger or if he were seriously injured. He outweighed his opponent by half again as much, all of it muscle and bone, and his jaws could crack a mastodon’s femur. The warakin screamed like a dying rabbit as Fade’s jaws finally found purchase on its throat. Blood spurted, dark in the moonlight, and the battle was over.
Fade stood, legs spread, over his kill and roared with the deep coughing sound of a true hunting cat. The other warakin answered with high-pitched yips and then one by one turned and faded into the grasslands, their shadows blending into other shadows until we were alone again.
“Good kitty,” Drake said as he sheathed his sword. “I thought we were puppy dinner for sure.”
I smiled as Fade stalked toward me, his short, fluffy tail standing straight up and his tufted ears pricked forward. He licked blood from his jaws and then bumped my hand. I swallowed more nausea as I risked a quick scratch behind one of his ears.
Battle fever from the almost-fight still sang in my veins by the time we reached the sinkhole and I nearly flew down the links of Drake’s chain ring, the climb seeming easier than before even in the textured shadows of my night vision. We left the chain dangling into the hole since there was no way to bring it down. I could read in Drake’s worried glance that he hoped it would still be there when we emerged.
The squeeze through the passage into the first cavern was easier this time as well, I think because I knew how deep the passage went and that the corridor wouldn’t narrow to the point I’d be stuck. I blinked against the brightness of the glimmer moss as my eyes adjusted from the darkness in the passage. The bodies of the angler imps had started to decompose through the afternoon and evening and the cavern smelled less like earthy damp and more like old meat and rotting fruit as we traversed the stalagmite forest.
“Now’s the tricky part,” whispered Drake as we neared the passage leading into the cavern where the whipmaw lurked. “Maybe we can sneak past it? I’ll go first.”
That surprised me. Usually he was an “elf ladies first” kind of man, always happy to let me take the lead and then let Makha’s well-shielded and armored bulk go in front of him. I stepped in front of him anyway. The whipmaw’s roots extended all over that cavern from what I could remember and I doubted we could move silently enough not to cause vibrations that would alert it. I had a different idea.
Sliding my booted feet carefully along the stones so as to cause as little vibration and noise as possible, I crept down the passage. I reached the opening to the whipmaw’s cavern without seeing any signs of life from it and dragged my bowstring slowly back, taking aim at one of the shiny black bulbs along its root system. I held my shot, picking out three other bulbs and committing their locations to my memory, mapping a pattern in my mind.
Even as my first arrow sank into the bulb I had my second drawn back to my lips. I sent that one into the next bulb and drew my third in a smooth motion. The whipmaw, two of its root bulbs now spurting inky liquid, thrashed to life. My third arrow was smashed into the floor, missing its target, but I had the next one already in the air and the whipmaw wasn’t quick enough. That arrow sliced deep into the fourth bulb I’d picked out and more inky fluid spurted. My fifth arrow nicked its mark, the tentacle that whipped to intercept it not quite getting in the way in time. Two uninjured bulbs remained that I could see from where I stood. Three arrows later, they, too, were reduced to empty, oozing sacks.
“Great,” Drake said, coming up behind me. “You certainly pissed it off.”
The whipmaw continued thrashing, its tentacle branches unfurled and the undersides open, sharp rows of backward leaning teeth revealed. Dust and debris from where its stony arms impacted the walls and ceiling clouded the air, and I took a few steps back into the passage, coughing. For a handful of long moments, I thought my idea had failed. But the debris cleared and the whipmaw’s angry lashing turned more to shudders and convulsions and its tentacles curled shut. Its roots buckled against the stone, peeling partway up with a teeth-aching grating sound.
When the whipmaw was totally still, its branches lax against its trunk and no shiver of moment visible to my keen eyes, I risked stepping into the chamber. The whipmaw did not react. With a bravery I didn’t really feel, I inched forward and poked at one of the roots with Thorn. No reaction.
“Killer killed the tree,” Drake said with a laugh that was more a release of tension than true humor.
I wished I could join him, but I merely smiled.
“Now, which passage?” He had removed the spectacles once we were inside the glimmer moss cavern, and his hazel eyes looked more green than brown or gold in the odd light. They unfocused for a moment, as though he were trying to recall the way.
More vision-from-the-scabbard nonsense. Great Tree spare me.
“Left passage.” Drake moved past me, giving the whipmaw a little kick as he went by, and headed for the opening on the left.
The corridor wound deeper underground and at one point constricted enough that we had to kneel and crawl to get through. I picked up the metallic scent that millipedes and other crawly underground denizens give off and hoped the itching sensation I suddenly felt in my hair was just my imagination trying to conjure bugs where there weren’t any. I vowed that as soon as I was back on the surface, I would strip down and take a very thorough bath in the nearest body of clean water.
Drake crawled ahead of me, leaving a trail of loose pebbles and swearwords in his wake. His curse vocabulary had clearly been expanded by Makha’s. Little passageways opened off this one, some curving upward, others veering sharply down and beyond where I could follow with my eyes. None of the openings were large enough for us to get into so I somewhat trusted that Drake was leading us toward somewhere. Or, I supposed, into a tight dead end.
I heard water dripping ahead of us and at last we crawled free of the tunnel into a wider passage. The floor was thick with algae and standing water that trickled over my boots. The walls had sparse glimmer moss, enough to lend light to my vision but not nearly the overpowering green glow it was in the other caverns. Following the flow of water, I looked up and saw a chute going high into the rock and earth above from which trickled a metallic stream. Drake had already sloshed ahead, and I turned and followed him, adjusting my quiver back into position after having moved it to
the side during our crawl.
“Will you look at that?” he said as we stepped out of the corridor and into a wide cavern that rang with the sound of flowing water. “Cave bacon.”
Sheets of striated stone hung down from the ceiling of the cavern like fancy drapery. The rust-red, yellow, and brown stripes made it looked a lot like thick slices of bacon crisped in an iron pan. Drake’s vision had come to pass, as silly as it had sounded before. Cave bacon.
“Come on,” he said to me as he started forward again. “It isn’t far now.”
The water was deeper here, coming up almost to the top of my knee-high boots, and more dripped down on us from the frilly edges of the drapes above, cooling my skin and tickling in my hair. Because that is water making my head itch. Not bugs. The cavern floor curved upward toward the end and an opening into another, larger cavern lay through a massive archway of the striated rock.
The large cavern had a raised stone middle in a loosely circular shape with steps leading up to it that might have been carved by men, but more likely by time and water. The surface of the platform was stone, but had rings marring its top like a giant tree trunk had been cut and petrified. The whole place looked like a giant dome, the ceiling far above our heads covered in glimmer moss that was pale yellow instead of green, the light shining as though from high quality candles. Unlike the caves we had traveled through, this one seemed eerily uniform and devoid of damp and any mineral growth. I picked up no movement in the well-lit space nor could I smell anything other than water and the heavy mineral and earth smells that clings to most underground spaces.
“It should be here.” Drake had moved further into the cavern than my cautious feet had taken me and now walked up the rough steps to the platform.
Blue mist pooled and gathered in the center of the platform, and I sprinted toward it as Drake spun and drew his rapier. My foot touched the first step and a shimmering blue wall of energy flared, pushing me away with surprisingly gentle force. I retreated and stretched out a hand. The barrier rose again and rebuffed my gesture.
“This is not good,” Drake muttered.
The blue mist coalesced into the form of a man and took on substance. He was a finger or so shorter than Drake but built with the same lean strength. He wore a blousy shirt that laced at the neck and sleeves and tucked into a pair of leather pants. The blue glow remained in the man’s eyes even as his middle-aged features came into focus. He had a thin, keen face with a black moustache and short dark hair. He smiled faintly at Drake and saluted him with his sword.
Dwarfwork. Definitely. In his left hand was a rapier that took on more solidity than the man had. Its blade was of a length with Drake’s own but the steel was folded into patterns and shone silver with hints of red in the soft light. The basket was a beaten metal bell shape of the same material as the blade, and the knuckle guard curved back with the grace of a swan’s neck or a striking serpent. The pommel glinted red though I couldn’t tell if it was from a gem or more of the dwarf metal’s shine. I don’t even like swords and I wanted to hold this one.
“You have come to duel me?” the man asked in a breathy, cold voice.
“I have come for the sword,” Drake said, glancing back at me. I reached out again and demonstrated the magical field effect. He was on his own.
“Then you have come to duel. To win the sword you must defeat me.”
“Rucao?” Drake guessed. “The duelist from Stonebarrow?”
The man, or shade, for there was little chance he was anything other than the ghost of the mortal who had once claimed the sword, shook his head and then tilted it to the side, considering. “Yes, I think that was my name.”
“I am Drake Bannor,” Drake said. “I would be honored to duel you.”
Blue light flared in the shade’s eyes and he bowed. “No magic. No weapons other than rapiers. No quarter given unless you cry mercy.”
“Agreed,” Drake said. He unbuckled his belt and slid his sheath free, tossing it to one side.
The shade moved to the middle of the platform and turned away from us, bowing to spectators that lived only in his dim memory. I thought of the plump faces of Myrie and her sister and could almost imagine a little girl holding her father’s scabbard as he dueled a man in a crimson cape. Standing hundreds of feet below ground watching Rucao and Drake face off, it seemed less likely their granmama had made up the tale now. If one part were true, why not the whole of it?
Drake and the shade bowed to each other. I took a deep breath and tried to relax my grip on Thorn. There was nothing I could do but hope that Drake was as good as he liked to think he was.
“Begin,” the shade hissed.
They circled each other, only Drake’s feet making any sound at all on the stone. Their bodies were both turned sideways, swords extended so that the tips almost touched. Drake had a slight half smile on his face and his nostrils flared, giving away his excitement. For a long moment they shuffled in a circle, blade tips twitching in the air.
Drake lunged but Rucao parried his blade to the side and countered with a blur of slashes that turned to silver streaks in my vision. Drake danced back and I caught his sharp intake of breath as one of the cuts must have connected. Red bloomed on his upper sleeve, but his arm didn’t drop and I hoped that meant the wound was superficial.
They circled again and this time it was the shade who darted in. Steel rang on steel as each thrust was met with a counter. Drake’s feet were a blur as he strafed and dodged. I had never seen him move so quickly. His style when fighting with us was to hit the vitals and otherwise use his flashing sword to keep whatever was attacking at bay. He had some dirty tricks as well, often tossing dust or daggers or throwing punches and kicks. I was also usually busy shooting things or trying not to get eaten or killed, so this was the first time I was able to stand aside and watch him move.
Sword on sword. No tricks. They moved around the platform striking and parrying and breaking apart only to rejoin the fight a moment later as they circled, each hunting for openings. Blue smoke trailed from cuts on the shade’s body, but he did not seem to tire or slow. Drake had red splotches on both sleeves now, and on his left thigh. Sweat beaded on his brow and matted his curls and his breathing was the loudest sound in the chamber. His half smile had turned to a half snarl of concentration.
Rucao turned Drake’s blade away and slashed in with a lightning flick, but Drake twisted aside and dropped to one knee, thrusting up toward the shade’s belly and forcing him back again. I found myself leaning forward, my face almost touching where the barrier would be and I made myself stand up straighter, not wanting the blue light to flare and block my view of the fight for even a moment.
Drake wasn’t just good with his sword, he was amazing. Fresh respect dawned in me. I had witnessed many duels at home; fancy swordplay, like archery and horseback riding, was a favorite pastime of my kind. Before my exile and curse, I hadn’t enjoyed sweating, so I’d never seen the point of duels myself. Drake would give most of the elves I’d known a workout.
“You’re very good,” Drake gasped.
“I am,” the shade agreed. He retreated from a flurry of thrusting jabs. “I hear a but in your voice.”
“But. . .” Drake parried a counter thrust. “You’re not used to this.”
“I have fought more duels alive and dead than ever you will,” said the shade, anger lending color and warmth to his cold voice.
“But…” Drake said again. “I’m left-handed.”
He slapped a thrust out of his way and darted forward, forcing the shade back and back again as every swipe of the shade’s sword was met with Drake’s own blade and forced to the right. The rogue strafed to his left with dizzying speed and whipped his blade around, first low, then high. Rucao tried to block and turn, but the cuts came too quickly and his sword blade was out of position.
The shade screamed and fell to his knees, blue smoke pouring out of his leg and side. “Mercy,” Rucao whispered, and he tilted his head back, barin
g his throat. “My sword is yours.”
Understanding and sadness sobered Drake’s features and his smile faded. He brought his rapier up and cut quickly across the shade’s throat. The dwarfwork blade tumbled to the stone with a clear bell’s ring and the shade faded into blue smoke which drifted upward until nothing at all remained.
I tried the steps again and found no barrier. His scabbard lay nearby and I picked it up, bringing it to him. He took it and sheathed his sword before bending with a hiss of pain and picking up the dwarfwork rapier. Red light shimmered on its surface and a word appeared. Ajah. Reason.
“Reason,” Drake muttered. He looked at me with wide eyes. “I see its maker. This is dwarfwork, Killer.” Drake ran a hand through his hair and flicked the tip of the blade in a small circle in the air. “They’ll never believe this. I can see them. Not short and bearded like the stories. Tall as you or me with scales on their skin the color of fire.” He shook his head and chuckled. “You are a terrible conversationalist, elf. Here I am having one of the craziest moments in my life and you stand there like a statue.”
I smiled at him. There was no way to tell him that I believed him completely. I had often looked in on the Fire-kin and their forges from the Hall of Windows. Whatever that sword was showing him, from what he had said aloud, he was seeing truth.
“A smile, eh? That’s something I guess.” Drake peeled back his shirt from his arm. “Shallow wounds. I’ll live. Come on.”
I stayed put, thinking how to ask what I wanted to know. Finally I tapped Thorn on the ground where the shade had died. Drake paused on the edge of the platform and squinted at me. I held out my left hand while turning my body sideways and my curse let me know with another gut punching wave of nausea that this was pushing a little too far.
