As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  Brother Three jabbed his clawed hands and stalked toward me, his voice rising in pitch until he screamed, too. The Voices shrieked through the passage and a violent wind sprang up, tugging at Brother Three’s hair and robes and making the flames of the torch I desperately gripped in my hand dance wildly. “The torch!” I hissed. “Don’t put it out…!”

  The pain bent me over nearly double, and it was a battle to shove myself upright again. Twisted nearly in half, my free arm clutching my tormented belly, I forced one step at a time, faster and faster, closing the space between us. The wind howled through the chamber, but barely touched me. Painful green lightnings flared across my skin, bright enough to penetrate my clothes.

  He did not pause in his incantation, but his own steps slowed, confusion dawning on his infuriated features. What was I doing? Why wasn’t I lying down and dying?

  In truth, I could not answer the latter except to say I was not just going to lie down and die for anyone, most particularly a hateful wizard posing as a priest.

  Good intentions be as they may, I didn’t make it all the way to my goal. Every step was more excruciating than the last and twisted my body in wrenching spasms of agony. I fell at his feet and lay there panting and making terrible noises in my throat.

  His expression shifted again, this time to victory.

  No. No, I refused to accept that. My lips curled in a snarl and I put everything I had into moving my arm. Just one arm. He laughed at my struggles, and the spell eased just a fraction. It was still harder than I expected to shove the torch along the floor in his direction.

  Brother Three sidestepped. “Oops, you missed,” he taunted. His talon-like hands jabbed more pain into me. I managed to roll away from the edge of the pit, but I could go no further; I couldn’t even crawl away to anything resembling safety, so I just huddled there sobbing for breath while he laughed and laughed.

  The voices of the Ancestors dropped to an ominous whisper, but Brother Three remained oblivious. His hands drew apart, and it felt like he pulled my innards with the motion.

  Then the light on the wall sprang upward suddenly. Brother Three’s laughter turned to screams. Light and the shadows carried out a tortured dance, dizzying me. I forced myself to focus on him. Thank the gods—all of them; the flames had touched the hem of his robes and sped up the fabric to light him like a bonfire. Unable to watch, I squeezed my eyes shut. I could not move, I could scarcely breathe or form a single thought.

  The light disappeared with a strange whoosh, and then it was silent but for the soft, anxious whispering that filled the passage. Does he live? Is it too late? What can we do? Who will help? Does he live? Does he live?

  And then even that noise faded away.

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  Consciousness returned in bits and pieces. I could not at once determine where I was, nor why I hurt so badly. Opening my eyes revealed only more darkness, and a tentative exploration with one hand gave me the knowledge of cold stone. I found the wall, too, and after some effort I managed to sit up enough to lean against it. The tools in my pack dug into my back. They were the least of my worries. Off to my right and up a little way the texture of stone walls revealed a source of light from higher up.

  The familiarity tickled my brain until remembrance flooded me. I lurched to my knees and retched violently, which did nothing at all to ease the aching in my belly. The odor of burnt flesh tainted the air I gasped, and I pressed my hand over my face and mouth, trying not to breathe it in, trying not to remember Three’s strangled, horrific screams.

  I could not stay here. Getting to my feet, I staggered up the steps and around the corner. The passage extended gently upward for another twenty or thirty feet, then took an abrupt turn to the right into weak daylight. Was it dawn, then, or had I laid there unconscious throughout the entire day, and into night?

  I stared at the splash of brightness for a long time. More than anything, I wanted to go up into the light and breathe fresh air, but at the same time I was in no particular hurry to go through the motions of another battle that would, given my current condition, likely end in my demise. Knowing the lay of the land—or cave, in this case—would be helpful, though.

  After another moment or two in which I could discern no obvious lessening of the pain, I forced myself onward. I didn’t want to contemplate what Brother Three had done to my insides, but having the wherewithal to walk heartened me, and even the ability to vomit gave me hope. If my innards had been utterly destroyed—well, to begin with I’d be dead, and I clearly wasn’t, and I didn’t particularly feel like I was getting any worse. All the way up the narrow corridor, I cursed the wizards for making my job even more difficult. They’d hurt me, and they’d taken my halberd and the torch as well. Interfering, no-good, black-hearted snakes.

  It struck me that I had just defeated not one, but two wizards, and something like hysteria overtook me. I sank down on my knees and laughed until I cried. I stayed there for a little while after I’d finally calmed myself, but sitting accomplished nothing. So I struggled upright again and made my way slowly to the opening, which was just large enough to admit an average-sized man, though anyone taller than I would have to duck his head. On the left a fairly large cavern opened to the sky, but I could not tell if it was dawn or dusk. Haphazard piles of whitened bones littered the floor around the walls, and I shuddered. I did not want to add my own to the count. Of the dragon I saw no sign, nor of the egg but, as luck would have it, another passageway led deeper into the mountain.

  Oh, the joy that filled me.

  Would there never be an end to horrible caves and darkness? This one no doubt led directly to the lair itself, or the nest, or however dragons made themselves comfy. Perhaps it had a hoard of gold as a nice bonus.

  I needed to go into that blasted tunnel, but not with the dragon inside if it could be at all avoided, so I chose a spot just inside the passageway from which I had come, and settled down to rest myself and wait.

  I jerked upright, instantly tense and wary. I must have fallen asleep, for the bright rays of the sun filled the entrance. The Voices whispered in my ear, ever so soft a warning, and a moment later I made out a shadow crossing the doorway and then a scrape. I held my breath when I heard a coughing noise, deep and rough, another scrape, and then the shadow disappeared.

  Rising carefully to my feet, I made my way silently to the doorway to take a peek. The chamber was empty. With considerable glancing back over my shoulder, I ventured out and to the ledge. The spectacular view revealed the moors spreading away to the southwest; a short, craggy mountain range extending a finger between them and the valley; and then the valley itself a patchwork of fields trimmed with trees and embroidered with ribbons of water. The dragon appeared from the west and circled back. I dodged to the edge of the opening and peered out, heart clattering wildly, but the beast only wheeled around the valley several times before beating its wings and heading northward to disappear behind the mountain it called home.

  Relief surged through me.

  It was tempting to sit there on the ledge and enjoy the view while I broke my fast, but hardly sensible. Back into the downward passage I went and took up a seat on a small outcropping. I pulled the antidote vial out of my pouch and shook it. Impossible to tell how much remained, but surely too little. The silver gleamed gently in the light. So pretty, so terrible. Apprehension sat like a weight in my aching belly as I tipped it up to take the day’s portion. Not much longer… I stowed the vial again, polished off the remains of my scanty supplies, and gave my oblations to the gods, praying sincerely that the trip back down the mountain would be quicker—and safer—than the one going up.

  Shifting my pack onto my shoulder, I reached into the pouch for one of the witchlights. I drew forth the Beisyth Web instead. It sent tingles up my fingers strong enough to make me wince. If I held onto it long enough, would the stinging stop, or might I somehow accustom myself to the sensation? I knew only one way to find out.
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  I held the thing lightly, turned it over a few times as I considered all of the gory details of what I might encounter in the dark, cursed Duzayan a time or ten, then started moving. As I walked, I breathed warmth on one of the witchlights. It seemed less bright than before, and for some reason that made me sad—a feeling completely apart from losing a very valuable item. It puzzled me, but I had no answer for it.

  The passage, polished smooth, dipped down rather steeply as I went and then, after about a hundred paces or so, ascended again. My light held high, I could make out the ceiling only dimly, which helped to relieve the dreadful sense of tons of rock pressing down upon me. Here and there I spied little nooks and even one or two deeper niches that might lead elsewhere. I could not tell for certain, but I had the impression the tunnel wound ever-so-slightly as it progressed. It was longer than I had hoped, and after some time I became aware of a noise. Just slight at first, a niggling at my senses, then it sorted itself out as the steady dripping of water. The instant I recognized it, I became aware of a horrendous thirst.

  Ssshhh… the Voices warned, shivering uncomfortably. Sshhh, make not a sound! Do not go there. Dangerous, it is! Go back, go back…

  “Hush yourselves.” I would go back as soon as I had the egg.

  I came out of the passageway above an underground lake. A floor as smooth as glass led down to the black water, and around the edges as well. Further back, the walls arched steeply high overhead. My little light shone upon a marvel of tapering columns rising from the floor and, where the ceiling came down low on one side, more columns grew downwards from overhead. In some places they had connected. They gleamed with water and with glittering minerals, and I could only stare for a time in amazement before going on.

  Down to the stony shore I went and bent to drink, laying the Web aside as I lifted a handful of water to sniff, then carefully taste. It was tepid, but sweeter than any water I could remember, though that might have been because I was so thirsty and because the only water I’d consumed for hours, perhaps days, had come from a leather flask. I drank my fill and felt considerably refreshed. Even my aching belly seemed somewhat improved, though I continued to feel faintly nauseous.

  I refilled my flask, then rested another moment. Flexing my hand, I considered the Web where it laid, a pale knob by my knee. My fingers burned, ached. Moving them relieved the discomfort, though my fingernails glowed green. I tucked the witchlight away so I could judge the brightness, and was satisfied to watch the glow fade away as I continued working my hand. Collecting the Web again, I held my light aloft and looked about. One direction seemed no more obvious than the other, and for all I knew I needed to go straight across the water. I wasn’t going to swim unless absolutely necessary, so I turned right to make my way around the shore.

  A broad path carved the space between the columns, and the air was moist but comfortably warm. Comfortable enough, in fact, that I wished I could doff my coat, but I didn’t want to carry it, as it might hinder me at the most inopportune time, and I couldn’t just leave it. I would need it again on the journey back to Marketh. How far I walked I cannot say with any reliability, but my light grew more and more dim and I grew more and more troubled with its passing.

  I was pondering this rather odd situation when a musky, bitter stench hit me. I had to press my coat sleeve against my face to breathe, lest I lose all the water I had recently consumed.

  The whispering of the Voices picked up again, and little panicked zephyrs wound about me. They ruffled my hair and tugged at my clothes, shocking me into a surprised little dance step. “Stop that!” I hissed, but they moaned and shivered and kept up with their eerie plucking.

  There you must not go, friend! they cried mournfully. Danger, so much danger. Come back! Come away!

  “Will you be quiet?!” I admonished them between clenched teeth. Goose flesh crept over me in waves. From all around came the steady, drip, drip, drip of water. Had I heard something else? A scraping sound? I hid the witchlight beneath my open coat, then eased toward one of the columns and the uncertain shelter it offered. I waited. It was not the first time I’d been startled during a robbery, and experience had long ago taught me that I needed to remain calm and in control of myself, if nothing else. My breathing eased, my heartbeat steadied, and I didn’t hear anything—not even the soft, worried whispers of the Voices.

  After a while, I withdrew the light and advanced a little further. The nest was impossible to miss. Enclosed among a circular grouping of the tall, upward-pointed columns, bones comprised the outer layer and, woven between them, twigs and little branches and smaller bones. I stopped and stared. The light trembled violently, though whether because of the shaking of my own hand or the result of the wind-inducing Ancestors I do not know. I looked all around again, but everything beyond my faint circle of light was pitch black except for the gleam here and there of light upon sparkling stone. Some of those lights moved, else my imagination was getting the better of me.

  I held still again, and when nothing dire leaped out of the shadows I advanced upon the dragon’s nest. As high as my shoulders, at its widest it was perhaps half again the height of a tall man, and the supporting columns forced an irregular shape upon it. Bracing against one of the columns, I stretched up to get a better look. A layer of bracken and bits of fabric lined the inside, the latter of which made me curious, but I refused to dwell on where they’d come from. Right in the center of the nest the softer inner lining had been gathered and carefully arranged around the egg. It didn’t seem like much. It was about as large as my head, irregularly shaped, and an indeterminate dull color that didn’t cast back so much as the slightest gleam. Nowhere, alas, did I see any sign of gold or jewels.

  I eased back down so I could search out a practical entrance. Picking my way over a rough portion of the floor, I glanced up now and again to survey my choices. I had gone perhaps a quarter of the way around when a noise came to me. It was that same hissing slide I thought I’d heard earlier, and it brought the distinct sensation of being watched. Slowly, slowly, I turned around, and in spite of that inner knowledge telling me I must remain calm and composed, the lingering belly ache increased until it had a stranglehold on my throat. The Ancestors held their collective breath.

  — 23 —

  Beloved of the Gods

  What would Tanris do, I wondered, if faced with a dragon? I chose to scream, but the sudden advent of bile strangled it. The witchlight cast the beast in shades of dark amber tinged with green. About the size of two or three horses, thick overlapping plates protected neck and chest; its long snout beaked at the tip, and from it protruded wicked canines both top and bottom. Sharp, bony ridges started atop golden eyes and turned into two sweeping, curled horns at its crown. I took several hasty steps backwards and the dragon gathered itself.

  Think! Think! Think! I tossed the witchlight one direction and dove in the other.

  A roar of flames followed the little light. Much to my astonishment, and probably the dragon’s as well, the witchlight exploded. Violently. Chunks and shards of rock flew every which way, light arched outward in a thousand tiny flashes, and the dragon—Well, I didn’t care what happened to the dragon. I ducked around behind the nest and threw myself flat.

  No! I had no time to waste and I would never come up with a better distraction. Shoving myself to my feet, I vaulted into the nest, tucked the egg under one arm, and jumped right back out again to run like fury toward the exit.

  The Voices screamed at me. What are you doing? No! No! You cannot steal a dragon’s egg! Give it back!

  The dragon’s roar brought more light—which was both good and bad. I could see ahead, but the dragon saw me. I dodged to and fro between the columns and did not look back. Did not dare. From behind me came the scrabbling of massive claws on stone, rocks grinding and breaking, and a hideous growling. The entire cavern shook as the dragon threw itself after me, and I was hard put to keep my feet under me. Fire lashed out, and I skidded behind one of the upward
rising columns. The heat singed my clothes.

  Run! Run! the Voices shrieked, apparently having a change of heart.

  “I am running! Do something useful!” I hollered back.

  Whatever they might have done, it didn’t impress the dragon. Its roar shook the stone and it crashed after me, periodically belching fire. I didn’t waste time sheltering behind pillars that were just going to get flattened, but I did try to keep them between me and the flames. I crossed the distance between nest and lake in record time, leaped like a gazelle over a pile of still-settling rubble, and ran to the entrance of the tunnel. With any luck I could hide behind some of the protrusions and rock formations or—maybe—duck down one of the little side tunnels, though gods alone knew where they led. I skidded inside one of them just as another burst of fire toasted the place I’d occupied. That gave me a few seconds, as it appeared the dragon couldn’t breathe fire continuously. I wondered what fueled it and desperately hoped it would run out quickly. I hoped, too, that its mate wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

  The dragon bounced off the passage walls as it came bellowing after me. Rocks fell from the ceiling. Tripping over one likely saved my life. The heat of flames scorched the air as I twisted to protect the egg. The dragon bounded toward me, and the only weapon I had was a lumpy whitewashed knob. I threw the Beisyth Web as hard as I could and hoped, without much conviction, I might knock the dragon senseless. I have a superb aim, but my opponent was a dragon and the knobby bits on the outside of its head probably indicated some considerable bone structure on the inside.

  To my astonishment, and I spent an awful lot of time lately being astonished, the Web thunked into the mailed skull and burst into scores of long, sticky strings. Some of them wound around the dragon’s head and others attached themselves to walls and ceiling. The dragon went down in a pile of screaming, steaming fury. A burst of flames freed its mouth but not the rest of its head. It flailed back and forth wildly, tangling itself further. Thank all the gods of web things and distractions…