by Brian Fuller
“Don’t throw your life away again,” Maewen lectured him sternly, then lowered her voice. “I know you would save all these men, but your life and your abilities are worth more than all of them. Come quickly.”
Gen understood her point, but it was not in his nature to feel above anyone. He would save whom he could. Gathering his wits, he strode out of the forest into the beautiful glade. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows and warm tones across the wildflowers and green grass. With every passing moment, the mind of Hekka Dhron pressed upon his consciousness, ever inviting him to open up to let it in. Ghama Dhron he could command because he was Mikkik’s creature, but he understood instinctively that Hekka Dhron would not respond to any wish of his.
A swarm the beetles poured out of the tree boles on the opposite side of the glade, though they caused little more than a slight agitation of the tall grass and wildflowers across the length of the field as they skittered toward him by the thousands. The hard carapaces and the clicking sound of their mandibles and legs filled the air with a harsh noise that chilled Gen’s spine. He breathed, remembering Shadan Khairn’s training, seeking the stillness of mind and emotion he needed to confront an enemy that would overrun him in seconds.
As the first of the obsidian beetles emerged into view, Gen sifted through his mind for some way to deal with them. The Dhrons had come late to the war, Mikkik’s last innovation of destruction before he weakened and disappeared, and none of the memories of the masters in the Training Stones and none of the instruction of the Millim Eri could aid Gen. The purpose of the Dhrons became immediately clear as he watched them roll in like a tide. To take down a single large creature would be easy for a Trysmagician. Trying to deal with a horde would be nearly impossible. Some few could be disintegrated or disabled, but not enough to keep the whole from its dark path of destruction.
He needed time to think, but that luxury was denied him. With an incantation he brought down fire around him, blasting a charred circle in the meadow with him in the center. The beetles burned and died, but where any fell, others simply swarmed forward to take their place. They made no attempt to avoid the flames, pushing forward heedless of their lives as if driven by some implacable force. For every one he burned, twenty passed by, and Gen panicked, realizing the futility of his efforts.
Helpless and his Duammagic draining, he turned and fled the wave, hoping to outpace the insects. His mind raced with his legs, and as he reached the forest edge, a thought struck him. While he couldn’t destroy tens of thousands of beetles, only one mind controlled them. Was the mind imbued within them all, or did it reside outside the swarm? He turned inward, feeling the pressure of the evil mind still trying to break down and enter. But this time, he found something else—directionality. The push came from somewhere, and he could feel it.
Pushing away his fear, he turned back toward the wave, running to where he felt the vile intelligence moving amid the cover of its fellow creatures. Again calling upon the virtue of fire, he scoured the path before him, boots pulverizing the crisp remains of the beetles as he charged past. His power over Duam was fading fast, and with it the ability to keep the creatures from attacking him. The presence was moving with the rest of the swarm, and in dismay he realized that finding the right one would be akin to singling out an ant in its hill. He had to find a way to reveal the one among the many.
A sting on his calf let him know that his efforts at self-protection were failing, the pincers of one of the creatures puncturing his boot leather and his skin. He kept running as the beetle’s tubule sank into the meat of his lower leg. The pain he could ignore, and the beetle fell away almost immediately. Nearing exhaustion, he knew he had one desperate chance left. He would have to do war with its mind. Preparing a mental attack meant to daze and confuse, he opened a connection to Hekka Dhron and unleashed it. The effect was immediate but short-lived. The linear march of the beetles suddenly broke, the insects running to and fro in a mad dash of disorientation.
Fool! Hekka Dhron roared into his mind, the impact staggering in its weight of ill will and singular purpose. The enslaving force was again reasserted, and the beetles regrouped, moving into the wood as one. The wounded and weary men who had been left behind began to scream as they fell victim to the vanguard.
Desperate, Gen struck again, but this time Hekka Dhron was ready and pushed back with the weight of an anvil and the force of a hammer. Gen reeled and nearly fell to the ground. Two beetles latched onto his legs and cut in as Gen tried to keep his focus and move toward the being attacking his mind. Again, the snaky tubules penetrated his flesh, but as he looked down to swat them off, they fell away dead.
The blood of the Millim Eri that ran through his veins was poison to them. He stowed that fact in his mind, trying to keep calm to let his mind work.
Resuming his sprint, he tried a new tack, sending the sharp, stinging emotion of fear into the intellect of the mind that sought to overwhelm him. He knew he could chance no half measures with something so determined and strong. He pulled on every last ounce of Mynmagic he could muster to inject terror into the thoughts of the enemy. As one, every beetle turned from its forward course and flowed toward a central point some fifty yards away. Like scared children trying to shove their way through a single door, they piled on one another, a black mound swelling, rising from the floor of the glade.
They are forming a shield around the one, Gen reasoned. The power of Trys was all that remained within him. He would form a large rock high above the pile and crush the beetles and, with any luck, the corporeal vessel of Hekka Dhron. Concentrating, the rock, large and flat, formed some twenty feet in the air, but just as it began to fall, the entire mass suddenly shifted and rose, powering at him. The rock fell uselessly behind it, smearing a handful of stragglers into the earth.
But what faced him now was not just a shambling mound of beetles. Thousands of the creatures clung to the carapace of a single, massive parent, pincers wedged within it. The tubules of the many injected their sack of blood into the chosen host, inflating it. As it moved, it swelled ever larger, the hides of its children forming a shiny armor. With the instinctive will to attack the enemy that had triggered its fear, it barreled at Gen with a ghastly hiss.
Magic gone, Gen fled, but only for a moment. At once he knew what his last chance would be, and he turned to the creature, letting loose a mighty yell and charging it without a weapon. The sudden assault brought it up short, and with another hiss it stopped, a tubule the size of Gen’s forearm snaking out between the mandibles. Gen raised his arm, and the hooks of the tubule enveloped his wrist and began their work, his golden blood pulsing down its length. He immediately weakened and fell, pain lancing up his arm and into his chest. Vision dimming, he watched as the first bulge of blood pulsed down the tubule and into the creature.
It staggered, the suction on his arm ceasing. The beetles along Hekka Dhron’s outer shell fell away limp, cracking and popping as they dropped to the ground in heaps. The massive beetle released the hooks of its tubule, stumbling drunkenly about as if trying to find somewhere to flee. With a final hiss, its legs collapsed and it crashed to the ground, the remaining beetles scattering in every direction. The powerful mind had gone. Hekka Dhron was no more.
Gen rolled over, weakened and weary. It was done. He felt far too dizzy and weak to even consider marching into the woods. From his supine position he watched the sky dim toward twilight, remembering Ghama Dhron’s first words to him: I am one of four fell servants of Mikkik. What were the other two horrors at Mikkik’s command? Ghama Dhron was still out there, too, and its poison was likely worse than the bite of the blood-harvesting beetles he had just tangled with.
After what seemed like an hour, Gen rolled and sat up, dizziness swirling his mind. Full dark had nearly come when he noticed Maewen approaching cautiously out of the woods. He raised his hand to signal his position and she jogged to him.
“Are you well?” she asked.
He briefly related the tale o
f his encounter and then asked, “Do you have any sunlock leaves?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
“No matter. In a couple of hours I’ll be well enough to heal myself.”
“Have you seen any sign of the Uyumaak?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ve been flat on my back for some time.”
“Stay here and rest,” she ordered. “I’m going to scout forward. With the beetles gone, they may yet pursue us.”
Gen put his back on the ground and closed his eyes, soaking in the rays of the radiant moons above him, their soft light slowly filling the wells of power within him. Maewen returned an hour later, face twisted in a scowl, and helped him stand.
“They are coming,” she said. “The Hunters will get here within the hour. Can you walk?”
He nodded and took Maewen’s proffered hand to help himself up. As he walked carefully through the wood, following Maewen’s lead, his strength slowly returned, and he healed what he could of the beetle bites on his legs, hoping the blood would ensure that no grotesque insects were breeding within his skin.
The main party had continued on into the night hours, and by the time he and Maewen caught up, the night was deep. A single lantern burned to provide some light for moving about, but the tree boles cast wild shadows everywhere.
“How long until we reach the ridge?” Gen asked Maewen as she prepared to leave to report to Lord Kildan and Ethris.
“I gauge it at two days with a steady march,” she replied. “You and I could make it in less than a day, but with the wounded in the party and the difficult path, two days may be an optimistic guess. I hate to say it, but as much as I love the woods, it will be nice to get somewhere where we can have a clearer vision of what’s around us. Once we get to the ridge, we’ll need to take a short jog to the east to catch a sheep track that leads to the other side. It will be treacherous going for those with unsteady legs.”
Gen nodded, and Maewen turned away. He needed sleep. He could sense the Chalaine nearby but stayed out of sight, curling up on the forest floor with little care for any kind of protection.
For the next two days, they rushed to stay ahead of the Uyumaak army. Gen kept mostly to the rear away from everyone, and only Maewen knew that he was to thank for their remaining just out of reach of their pursuers. While the company of soldiers rested, Gen would perform his healing on whom he could, and when they marched he would turn back and deal as much death to the Uyumaak as possible to keep their pace cautious.
But the more they marched, the more Gen worried for the Chalaine. From his discreet vantage points, she appeared almost as an old woman, thin, weak, and hunched over like a small tree in a stiff wind. Through the brand he could sense her physical exhaustion and the discomfort of her raspy, peeling skin. During his ministrations to the soldiers, he would hear the men comment about how she was cursed for displeasing Eldaloth. Even worse, many began to wonder if they were on the wrong side of the battle, if Eldaloth had truly won and if they should have returned with Athan to Echo Hold after all.
“The Uyumaak will catch us in the morning, Gen,” Maewen told him as the exhausted and demoralized camp settled in for the night. “We’ve about two hours before we reach the ridge line, but the Uyumaak may catch us before then. I would push us through the night, but we’d lose half the army if we did.”
Gen leaned against a tree, watching the sky darken with a summer storm. “I’ll do what I can tonight to fortify the men. For all my forays and ambushes, I still can’t get a solid idea of how many Uyumaak are out there. I think they at least double our number.”
“We need your leadership, Gen,” Maewen said.
“I’ll be exposed if I do. Most of the people in this camp think I’m the Ilch. Well, I am—or was—but they won’t listen to me.”
“With the Chalaine’s endorsement. . .”
“They think I put the Chalaine and the First Mother under my power,” he replied. “I must stay concealed. I can work through you. If we are to have a fight with the Uyumaak, then we must do it on our terms. We can’t just let them fall on our rear while we run. Have the men take shifts. We need to build choke points with the forest detritus to inhibit the movement of the Uyumaak, particularly the Bashers. If we can get them entangled and stymied, we can hit them hard with bows while their own Archers will be practically useless. Let’s scout the points together. But this is the most important thing: when the morning comes, the Chalaine and the Dark Guard need to proceed toward Rhugoth. Whether we win or lose, she must get free.”
Maewen nodded, and they walked the length of the camp, Gen marking the points for the men to work piling brush and trees and placing crude traps. After reviewing the placement of men, Maewen returned to the camp to speak with the generals while Gen walked among the soldiers, using the power of Trys to sharpen swords to rival the blade of Aldradan Mikmir that he had wielded. He reinforced armor, created bow tips that could punch through armor with the same ease with which would pass through flesh, and healed what wounded he could. A light rain fell for about two hours during the night, eliciting curses from the men who were still awake.
As he rose from healing a man with an infected cut, he heard a familiar voice. “Excuse me, Amos?”
Gerand Kildan.
“Yes?” Gen answered, thankful for the concealing dark and his wide-brimmed hat.
“The men have told me you’ve demonstrated a great deal of skill at healing.”
“I do what I can,” Gen said, trying to keep his sentences short for fear the prince of Tolnor would recognize his voice.
“Then I wonder if you might aid me,” he said. “An Uyumaak arrow grazed my shoulder a few days back. It was nothing, but it’s turned swollen and painful now.”
“Come near one of the lanterns and let’s get a look,” Gen said. “You’re Lord Kildan’s son and a Dark Guard, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You fight well,” Gen said as they neared the lantern at the center of the camp where Maewen was the hub of the preparations against the Uyumaak. “Let’s take a look. Uyumaak arrowheads are unsavory things.”
Gerand removed his shirt, revealing a wicked, infected gash. Gen went through the motions of his worthless herbs, binding the wound and using Duammagic to heal the cut to where it would no longer fester or hamper Gerand’s movement.
“There. What I gave you will numb it and heal it quickly. Get what rest you can.”
Gerand grabbed his shirt and began to pull it on as Gen turned to leave. “Wait a moment, if you will. I would speak with you about another matter.”
Gen turned, keeping his head low. “And what is that, sir?”
Gerand glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “It is the Chalaine.”
“I can see that she is suffering.”
“Yes, in mind and body, I fear.”
“I have heard the men speak of her skin,” Gen said, “but what of her mind?”
Gerand sighed. “It is the loss of her baby, the absence of her mother, and the death of her Protector, Gen.”
“Most believe him the Ilch,” Gen said.
“I do not and neither does she,” Gerand stated, bringing Gen a sense of relief. “She cared for him a great deal, I think. I wondered if there is some remedy for her mind or her body that you can conjure. Ethris and Maewen have both tried their arts and failed. It is as if, well, I hesitate to say it.”
“As if she is cursed.”
“Yes, though I cannot believe it,” Gerand continued. “I cannot see what fault was hers. To me it seems a dark hopelessness and lack of purpose gnaw at her. It has robbed her of her gifts and her beauty. I cannot think of what might help but hoped you might have some cure.”
“You are a true friend to the Chalaine,” Gen said, proud of his once-faithful comrade in arms. “If the arts of Ethris and Maewen have failed to heal her body, then I doubt I can be of much use. But you are wise to see that it is the heart and mind that may be the seed of her sickness. While she
may not be able to heal as she once did, she can bind wounds and speak words of comfort. Remind her of her trips to the Damned Quarter, and what she did for the children there. Remind her she is free to love whom she will now. She lacks a sense of her own strength, but it is there. Remind her.”
“You seem to know her better than I would think a wayfaring woodsman should,” Gerand said, Gen fearing the searching gaze now directed at him.
“I don’t spend all my time in the wild,” Gen answered obliquely. “Remember what I said, and be ready to leave this camp with her when danger arrives. It is clear the enemy still wants her.”
Gerand nodded, and Gen retreated into the night to rest and regain his strength. He slept for two hours once the rain stopped, rising in the dead of the night. A second shift of workers labored to fortify the positions he had marked earlier, the snapping and popping of deadfall dragged from place to place swallowed by the abyss of the forest. Gen found Maewen and let her know he was leaving to scout behind them.
The infusion of Millim Eri blood had improved his eyesight in the dark, and, with the help of damp ground, he passed stealthily toward an Uyumaak army he knew could not be far behind. Choosing every step carefully, he crept into a thicket some two hundred yards from their camp. He paused and waited, listening. Amid the sounds of trilling night birds and the occasional drip of water, something moved. Gen held perfectly still. A breeze brought in the sour smell of an Uyumaak cookpot, and he realized the their pursuers were closer than anyone thought.
A mighty Uyumaak bow creaked as an unseen Archer pulled it back. Gen dropped hard to the forest floor, the missile caroming awkwardly through the branches of the thicket. It had come from somewhere in front of him, but a second arrow from the side sank into the ground near his leg, and he rolled away and crouched, springing forward. The familiar thumping from the Archers broke loose, and a volley of arrows slashed through the night from three sides. The heavy shafts drilled into wood and branches, one tip slicing his cheek before embedding itself in a tree just ahead of him. He had walked into their trap.
