They arrive at a promontory. Below bubbles the source of the heat: a molten lake. Hendregan gazes at it as if at a long-lost friend. The others shield their eyes from its brightness. Fingers of fire rise from its surface. They twist and fly, breaking connection with the pooling magma. They spiral into puffs of steam and are gone. More flit up to take their place.
The promontory overlooks a narrowing in the molten lake; here it is less than half a mile across. It extends for miles to the left, and continues to the right until it terminates in the side of a steaming cliff face.
Overhead, a sole, careless raptor circles. It pursues a strange, dark bug which it has mistaken for its proper prey. The unearthly insect dives down to escape its talons. They come too close to the lake and merge into a single vapor.
Hendregan finds a shelflike protrusion of stone over the molten pool. He sits cross-legged on it. A meditative calm settles over him.
Gad waits with the others.
Finally, Hendregan's head bobs down. He has fallen asleep.
Gad moves to the magician's side. He feels his skin burn. His lungs rebel against the effort. The hot air is like a stifling curtain. Against every instinct, he pushes on through it.
He touches Hendregan's shoulder.
The fire-master starts.
"Hendregan," Gad says.
"Hah?"
"What are you doing?"
His tattoos ripple and expand. He does not appear to understand the question.
"Hendregan," Gad repeats.
"Yes?"
"Are you helping us?"
"Am I?" says Hendregan. His words are a mumble. He is drunk on heat and flame.
"You are helping us, yes?"
"What do you need help with?"
"A way around this lake."
"Around?" slurs Hendregan.
"We can't go through it, now, can we?"
"Go through it? Why would we do that?"
"Hendregan, you must listen to me. You'll do that, yes?"
He seems to break from his trance a little. "Yes," he says.
"We can't go through it, "Gad repeats, "so we have to find a way around. You can find us a way around, yes?"
"I disagree," says Hendregan.
"You disagree?"
"Who said we can't go through it?"
"I said that, Hendregan, because it's obvious."
He straightens his back. "We can go through it."
"You have a spell?"
Hendregan stands. "A birthright."
He climbs down from the promontory. His bare hands and feet sizzle and blacken each time they touch the rocks. The skin burns away, heals itself, burns away, and heals itself. The tattoos squirm and distort, reforming themselves when the flesh comes back. Gad wonders if they are truly tattoos at all.
Hendregan reaches the shore of melting stone. Tendrils of flame spurt from the lake, enwrapping him. He seizes them, wrapping them into a mantle. The lake roils.
In an uncanny, crackling voice, Hendregan speaks to it. "I am your son," he proclaims. "I am your brother. I am Hendregan."
Gad retreats from the promontory. Tiberio hands him a waterskin. He drinks its contents down. Hendregan's words burn through the bubbling of the lake and the hissing of the steaming rocks. He talks in bursts, as if conversing with the lake.
"You deny my name?" he booms.
Then: "You cannot deny my mother's name." The next word is not human speech: it is a snapping sound of consuming fire.
Then: "You have tasted my flesh. Seen it renewed by your fire. You know I am her issue."
Then: "I am both man and flame, as you are both demon and flame. And through our mutual lineage of fire, I bid you to recognize your obligations, as I obey mine."
Then: "I was conceived in flesh and born in flame."
Then: "There is no need for that."
Then: "As you know what is born of the spark, you sense that I speak true."
Then: "Very well, on that basis, I will tell it. As one brother tells a tale on his reunion with another."
Then: "Yes, my father sought to keep my truth from me. I was raised only knowing the world of flesh. As if the mother he spoke of was also flesh. Yet always I felt the fire in me. The urge to burn."
Then: "Yes, I consigned those things to flame."
Then: "Yes, and those things too. Though punished, though chastised, I burned them. Until I was cast out, and my father too."
Then: "I'll not hear you condemn him. Man of flesh he was, but also a great master of fire. Yes, he tried to stop me as we wandered. But then came the time of his death, when his bride reclaimed him, and I beheld for the first time the fleeting sight of my mother."
Then: "Not for many years after. Until I learned to fully channel the fire within, to go to the birthplace of fire. Only then did she embrace me. Only then did she give me the words of power. Do not make me invoke her authority over you. Instead, let me pass as a brother."
Then: "No, as you treat me, you must also treat them."
Then: "They are not of flame, but do its bidding."
Then: "We have come to destroy."
Then: "We destroy destruction. That which consumes will be consumed. We thus obey the first imperative of fire."
Then: "The tower of Yath. We will destroy it. That is my oath."
Then: "If we fail, may I be consumed and rejoin the primal flame. May you hunt my friends, and devour them. Braise their meat. Blacken their bones."
Then: "Yes, I undertake this."
The bubbling of the lake gives way to silence.
"I don't like the sound of this," says Vitta.
"Trust him," says Gad.
"Him?" She snorts.
"I trust him," Gad says. "So trust me."
Vitta swallows a grumble.
Hendregan returns to them, caked in soot. Smoke curls from his naked skin. When he opens his mouth to speak, his teeth glare their contrasting whiteness. "We can cross the lake now," he says. The booming commandments of the molten shore have given way to his usual quavering timbre.
"Cross the lake?" says Vitta.
"Yes," says Hendregan. "But we must go quickly, before they forget. They are beings of the moment."
"Then they won't remember you promised us to them if we fail to destroy the tower."
"That they'll remember," says Hendregan. "Quickly, now."
He leads them to the top of the promontory.
"Hendregan," Vitta says, "you promised us to them."
"Only if we fail to banish Yath," the magician says, "and if that happens, we'll likely be dead anyway."
"A fair point," Gad says.
"Fair?" Vitta sputters.
They climb down to the shoreline, scorching themselves on the rocks.
"And how exactly are we supposed to cross the lake?" Vitta asks.
"Sssh," says Hendregan. He strides to the shore. He commands the pooling lava: "Now is the time!"
In a sinuous wave, the lava parts, rushing from the narrows to slosh against its distant shores. Stones there tumble in to become one with the yellow-red liquid. The parted magma becomes a pair of walls, creating a temporary corridor across the pool. Steam rises from the exposed, glassy lake bed.
"And withdraw your heat!" Hendregan bellows.
The steam dissipates. Cracks rush across the glassy surface. Hendregan steps out onto it. "Now the rest of you," he whispers.
The others hesitate.
Gad steps out, finds his footing. The sharp cracks cut into his boot soles, but also give purchase against the smooth and slippery surface. The lava walls loom around him.
"Stride with heads held high," Hendregan instructs, "but also with dignity."
Jerisa steps onto
the cracked glass, then Tiberio, Calliard, and finally Vitta. They make their way across. Vitta is first to step onto the far shore. Hendregan waits, calmly scrutinizing the parted magma, until the others are safely up its slope. He bows, dropping to one knee. "The trust you have shown in your brother shall be rewarded," he says. Then he hops back up, turns, and sprints up the incline to join his allies.
Before them lies a fresh expanse of jagged rock. They pick their way painstakingly through it. As the air cools, Hendregan pauses to clothe himself.
"Was I mistaken," Vitta asks him, "or did I overhear that your mother is some kind of fire elemental?"
Hendregan replies by indistinctly grunting.
"Leave it alone," says Gad.
Vitta persists. "I thought you were a wizard."
"I am a wizard," says Hendregan.
"No, no, if you're of inhuman heritage, if you're part elemental, that means your magic comes from inside you, and not from books. Which means you're a sorcerer."
Hendregan shrugs. "Then call me a sorcerer."
"Which is it?"
"What does it matter?" says Jerisa.
"It might prove important," Vitta answers. "To solve problems, we must each understand what the rest of the crew can and can't do."
"That's my job," says Gad.
Vitta turns to Hendregan. "You're either one or the other. A wizard or a sorcerer."
"Categories," Hendregan scoffs.
"I've never seen you look at a tome, or recommit its incantations to memory," says Vitta.
"When others ask," says Hendregan, stooping to pick up a sharp-edged chunk of volcanic stone, "tell them I am a wizard."
They shelter for the night alongside a high tumble of rock. Vitta and Tiberio find the remains of a long-abandoned village and from its shattered timbers construct a cursory lean-to.
Calliard dreams.
He stands in a castle courtyard. He wonders which one. It's Suma Fortress, he realizes.
Black shapes dot the sky. Demons. Attacking demons.
Arrows fly up at them.
He has a bow in his hand. He is one of the archers.
He looks around. Arrayed with him are all the people he's disappointed. All who know his shame.
He wants to shoot one of the demons but his hand won't release the arrow. The creature looks like a mosquito. It seems frozen in the air.
Everyone else's arrows hit it. It falls from the sky.
He's looking at the clouds. They're inky. Shadows. No, they're not clouds at all. Nor are they shadows. They're a demon, taking shape.
It's the invidiak, the shadow demon, the one that looked into him when he actually fought at Suma Fortress.
Calliard realizes that this isn't real. That it's a dream.
He realizes that the invidiak is real, even though it's in a dream.
He tries to wake up.
Now all of him is frozen.
Around him, the battle rages. Demons drop from the twisted heavens. They beset the legion of the disappointed.
Calliard is grateful. Grateful that they'll soon be gone from his sight, no longer witness to his shame.
He catches himself having this thought. Burns with deeper shame.
The demons are killing them. Tearing at his old friends and loved ones. Scissoring through necks with ebon mandibles. Pulling open ribcages. Roping out lines of viscera.
The invidiak comes to him.
He points the arrowhead at its horned and shifting face.
You can't hurt me, it says, without speaking.
Its red-coal eyes drill into him. I saw into you, it says.
No.
Yes. I saw into you, and you are already mine.
Calliard looks for help.
He sees Gad, on the parapet. He is the only one the demons haven't got.
No wait, there's Jerisa, too. Poor girl. Running to follow him.
Who's that? the demon asks.
Calliard shuts his eyes. I won't let you see them.
You think they'll save you?
Go away.
He closes his eyes harder. Now Gad is gone, and Jerisa, and the castle around them. There is only shadow, and the shadow demon, and Calliard.
Whoever that was, the demon says, he trusts you. I can read that at least.
I'm waking up.
No, you're not. He trusts you but you know that isn't deserved. You know you'll let him down. Bring ruination to him and all the others.
I won't. Not this time.
You will, Calliard. It is as inevitable as your enslavement. You are tainted. Only fit to serve me. Know your master's name. It is Xaggalm.
Calliard tries to pull the arrow further back. His hand won't budge.
I will find a use for you, Calliard, the demon whispers. You'll do me good service and advance my cause. And then I'll consign your soul to the Abyss. Only when it is torn to shreds, only when Calliard as a discrete consciousness is eliminated, will you know peace. The peace of utter nonexistence. That is the best you can hope for, Calliard. The best you warrant.
I realize that.
You do, don't you?
Yes.
You're going to fail.
No, no, he won't let that—
What was his name again?
No, no.
Yes, yes. But never fear. Xaggalm is a kindly master.
Shut your stinking face.
Xaggalm laughs. After you fail, and before you are shredded into soulstuff, I'll grant you what you crave. You'll drink fully of my essence.
No. No!
Calliard jolts. Tiberio's hand is on his shoulder, shaking him awake. The night is still ink-dark.
"It's my watch already?" Calliard asks. No, that can't be, he watches after Jerisa. She snoozes, propped up against a rock.
"You were groaning," Tiberio tells him.
"Bad dream," Calliard says.
Tiberio looks up. "This is a place of bad dreams."
"True words, big man."
Tiberio waits a moment. Then: "I'll listen to you tell me your dream, if you want."
Calliard stands. "I don't remember what it was." He steps away from the camp and finds a place to empty his bladder.
The next day brings the uncertain cover of a charred forest. When demons soar overhead the six press themselves to the tree trunks, hoping to be hidden by leafless branches.
They wait until the sky empties. They continue the trek. Gad and Vitta take point.
"Any guess on how close we are to the tower?" Gad asks.
"We should already be there," says Vitta.
Dark underbrush turns to soot beneath their boot heels.
"You're worried," she says.
"Sorry."
"It's all right if I see it," she says. "I require no coddling."
"Unlike some of the others, you mean?"
"I didn't say that; you did."
He smiles. "You maneuvered me into saying it."
"What I mean to say is, you can talk to me."
"I've never liked this part," says Gad. "Traveling to the job. There's never an upside in the journey part of it. Until you get there, all you can do is lose."
"We'll be there soon."
"And also I hate the damn wilderness."
"No problems you can solve by talking?"
"That about says it," he nods.
"You could steal the sorcerer's trick, and learn how to con lava."
"I doubt that's teachable."
They pretend this is funny and share a laugh.
Jerisa watches them, wishing she could be easy with him like that.
The forest uncoils to greasy life. At first a smattering of living trees appea
rs amid the legion of burned trunks. They loop and spiral into twisted shapes. Translucent fluid drips from their tattered leaves. Bulbous insect larvae cling to their trunks, vampirizing their sap. The travelers pretend not to see their staring, manlike faces.
As the six trudge on, the Abyssal trees increase in number. Hooked, parasitic saplings compete for territory with briars and burdocks. Segmented vines, sheathed in a chitinous outer shell, gird the forest floor. When stepped on, they release a noxious orange suppuration.
The woods enclose, growing dense enough for easy ambush. Blood-sucking flies cloud around them. The team tries to slap at them quietly.
They hear thrashing in the nearby underbrush and call a silent halt. They ready spells and weapons. The sound of movement forks away from them. For caution's sake, they prolong their pause.
An hour later, they hear talking and stop once more. The speakers buzz and click in the demonic tongue. The group crouches behind a dense-knit briar.
Two figures sickle their way into a clearing, directing unpracticed blows at the clinging brush. Despite their demonic colloquy, the inexperienced bushmen are human. One is tall, jug-eared, gap-toothed. The second is of nondescript height and build, his flat face a vacant pudding of ill-drawn features. Their skin hangs loose from gnarled bones. They wear soiled and tattered robes, dyed a revolting shade of puce. They lurch ahead, their expressions dulled by hunger. They spot a tree warted with throbbing larvae, each as big as a fist. The tall one rushes to it; the other holds him back. They trade halting arguments, spittle flying, demonic utterances stuttering from peeling lips. The pudding-faced cultist releases his companion. He seizes the fattest of the larvae, tearing at it with his fingers. It bursts, spattering him in a lime-green spew. With pathetic desperation he licks the substance from his hands and arms. The second man trips through the vines and begins to lick at him, too. The first chatters out a curse and pushes him into the brush. The felled cultist gets up, reluctantly plucks his own rounded maggot from the bark, raises it to his mouth, and bites into it.
The Worldwound Gambit Page 13
