by Welcome Cole
“My gods,” Chance said as he stared into the light, “I think I understand.”
“What do you understand?”
“That it really is a circle.”
“What do you mean?”
Chance looked up at him. “The caeyl energy is decaying inward. I mean, it’s dying from the outer reaches of our world toward the center, like a bubble bursting in on itself.”
“Shrinking? What the devil does that mean? How can it shrink?”
“Like ring of fire burning its way toward the center and leaving nothing viable in its wake. And once the circle of fire meets itself in the middle...”
“Chance, you’ve known me for sixty years. Have I ever struck you as an astronomer? What the hell are you trying to say?”
“Don’t you see?” Chance said as he thought it through, “The deterioration of the world’s caeyl energy has suddenly hastened. It’s so weak beyond the edge of the circle that I can’t even make contact with mages who are only a few hundred miles away. It’s disappearing all around us. I fear we’re at the very center of the cause.”
“Maybe it’s not disappearing.”
“Of course it’s disappearing. It’s a well-documented fact. The caeyls have been dying for centuries.”
“Well, I reckon that’s one theory.”
Chance looked up at him. Jhom’s eyes were focused on the rolling hills, squinting into the wind as if scouting for words.
“What’s that mean? You think I’ve made up the decline of the caeyl energy for some selfish reason? Maybe it’s a fable? Maybe I’m lying to you? Maybe I’m mad?”
“No, I mean, maybe you’re wrong about it decaying.”
The conversation felt as unreal to Chance as a rain of frogs. “Why would you say something like that?”
Jhom shrugged. “I told you, I’m no astronomer.”
“Don’t be coy.”
Jhom fidgeted a bit, but then looked at Chance and said, “I mean maybe it’s not dying. Maybe you just can’t find it.”
“Can’t find it? I don’t understand.”
“Just because you can’t find the energy doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t there, yea? It just means you can’t find it.”
“Go on.”
“You describe it as a circle of fire burning in on itself and leaving nothing in its wake, right? Well, maybe that’s wrong. Maybe it’s more like a sinkhole.”
“A sinkhole?”
Jhom nodded. “I reckon. Something like that.”
Chance just looked at him.
“A sink hole,” Jhom said, throwing his hands up, “You’ve heard of them right?”
“Of course I have.”
“Well, have you ever seen one appear in the middle of a swamp?”
Chance shrugged and shook his head. “No,” he said, “But I imagine I’m going to hear about it.”
“A small sinkhole drains water from a swamp. It’s subtle in the beginning, especially if it’s a big swamp. It’s only noticeable because of the way the water declines along the outer shores, so that if you weren’t familiar with the swamp you’d never notice it. But as the sinkhole drains more and more of the water, the effect becomes more obvious. You can clearly see the water line withdrawing. The muddy bottom is exposed along the shore, the vegetation dies off. As the drainage progresses, the waterline drops faster and faster. Eventually a whirlpool forms directly over the sinkhole and the water is sucked away.”
“Go on.”
“Then, one day, it’s just gone. There’s no water, nothing but a big muddy ring with a slimy hole in the center where the swamp used to be.”
Chance stared long and hard at him, waiting for the line that would cap the story and pull it all together. When it didn’t come, he wondered if it was some bizarre attempt at a joke, maybe an attempt to distract him from the caeyl’s woes.
“The point,” Jhom said as carefully as if he were talking to the village idiot, “Because you clearly need to be led to it, is that the water doesn’t really disappear. It’s just gets relocated. The water’s still there, but it’s been sucked down into an underground hole. It’s been displaced. The point is that just because the swamp’s been drained doesn’t mean the swamp water no longer exists. It just means you can’t find it.”
Chance envisioned the dying swamp and tried to relate it to the caeyls. Something about that analogy made sense, but it had too many flaws.
“Jhom,” he said gently, not wanting to offend, “Energy can’t be drained into a hole or stored in some underground reservoir. You understand the difference, right?”
Jhom stood taller. He glowered down at Chance from the height of a tree. “I’m not an astronomer, but I’m no dolt either.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Caeyl energy can’t be stored in a hole, but it sure as hell can be stored in a caeyl. Isn’t that right, Chance Gnoman?”
Chance froze. His mind raced through the constructs of Jhom’s allusion. The image of the half-breed’s Caeyllth Blade flamed through his mind. Beam’s caeyl wasn’t red anymore. The caeyl was as white as the sun. Maybe it was the source of—
A shout interrupted his thoughts.
For just a beat, he wasn’t sure where it came from, or if he’d even heard it at all.
Then an unmistakable peal of metal bellowed up from the hatch, and he immediately understood it for exactly what it was: the sound of swords clashing in the tunnel below.
∞
Mawby steadied himself against his cursed sentimentality. When he’d summoned the strength to face the heart-wrenching sight awaiting him, he bent down and crawled into the glowing tent and knelt beside Koonta.
He reached forward and tentatively probed the cold, clammy flesh of her neck with his fingers. After a moment’s panic, he found a pulse. Thank Pentyrfal, he thought. She still lives!
He unfolded a freshly wetted cloth on the bedding beside her head, but before he could apply them to her he caught the queer sight of the Parhronii moving.
The man had been on his back. But now he slowly pushed himself upright and turned to sit facing her, poised on crossed legs as naturally as if he sat before a campfire. Mawby’s heart was pounding. He’d seen the light-covered man in different positions before, but had never actually seen him move. And now he was sitting upright and watching Koonta. Then again, it would be hard to say what exactly he was watching with his features so perfectly cloaked. The bizarre white light swirled across his form like a skin of molten steel so that he looked more angel than man, a flaming golem of the gods.
Mawby wondered what was happening to the man beneath that unnatural light. Was he aware of his circumstance? Was he dreaming? Was he—
The taer-cael of approaching figures startled him from his thoughts.
He dropped to the marble and listened. The weight of the steps, the depth and prolonged rhythm of the gait generated the image of Baeldons. Three of them. They were armed, lightly armored, and approaching camp quickly.
He crawled over to the blankets separating him and their sick comrades from the corridor. He peered cautiously through the slits. There they were! Three Baeldons, exactly as he’d expected, approaching camp from a hundred yards farther down the corridor. They came from the darker tunnel beyond the hatch.
He cursed his stupidity! In his preoccupation with the Parhronii, he’d foolishly let his guard down.
Wenzil stood in the circle of light pouring down from the hatch further down the hall. He faced the intruders with his back to Mawby. He’d already drawn his sword, a sign Mawby didn’t take as anything like good, especially considering these were fellow soldiers. The mountain’s deep voice fractured the silence of the corridor, “Stop right there!”
The three men shuffled to a stop as Wenzil’s command echoed into silence. They stood a dozen paces beyond the hatch. There was a moment of silent evaluation on all parts.
Then a foreign voice called out, “Calina’s tits! Wenzil? Wenzil, is that you?”
A minute of stu
died silence passed. Then Wenzil called back, “Jaeg?”
“Yea, brother, it’s me.”
“Who’s that behind you?”
“Got Shelt and Hem here.”
Though Wenzil clearly knew these men, he hadn’t lowered his sword. Another bad sign.
The intruders were tall and slight of build for Baeldons. Each dressed their long, dark hair in loose braids. They wore black leather armor nearly identical to Wenzil’s, right down to the fingerless black gloves. The one nearest the leader stood with his sword drawn. Another stood a few paces back from the others with a loaded, but unspanned bow. The one called Jaeg kept his sword sheathed, though he was nervously drumming the hilt with his fingers.
The silence seemed unending as the mountains surveyed each other. Then Wenzil asked, “What are you doing in the tunnels?”
Mawby heard the mistrust in Wenzil’s voice. He wondered if the man had received some sense of the situation that led him to believe the intruders may be malicious. But even as he thought it through, he knew it was more than just the man’s Little Birthsight. Wenzil was Lamys te’Faht, and he would follow his oath true, Birthsight or no. He was protecting the Vaemyn in this company, even from friends.
“Got attacked by a mob of prodes yesterday,” Jaeg said, “We was patrolling southeast of here, a couple miles past the next hatch. Bastards killed Traen. Got his horse, too. Thank Calina for the hatch. Made it downside before they could do any more of us. Lost our horses and gear to them, though. Hell, barely made away with our asses intact.”
Wenzil didn’t say anything. He also didn’t relax his guard.
Jaeg took a couple steps nearer. The Baeldon with the drawn sword followed in tow. The archer stayed back.
Jaeg nodded toward Wenzil’s shaved head. “The skull sign,” he said carefully, “You’re grieving. Need I ask where Hec is?”
“We met up with the prodes as well,” Wenzil said. He slid a hand back over his smooth head.
“Damned sorry to hear that. Good man, Hec. Best archer I ever seen. We had no time to show our respect for Traen. Didn’t even get to bury the poor bastard.”
More silence. Mawby carefully drew his sword. It felt miserably small in his hand as he considered the mountains beyond the blanket. When he peered out again, the front two had moved deeper into camp. The archer still hadn’t advanced.
Mawby didn’t like it. There was too much suspicion filling the air out there. He suspected this wasn’t going to end well.
Though closer now, Jaeg was still on the far side of Wenzil, who had moved back ahead of them. The strange runner had clearly seen the caeyl light. How could he have missed it? As if on cue, he jabbed his blade toward the tent, saying, “What the devil’s that?”
Wenzil eased over some, blocking the path between Jaeg and the tent. “Jhom found your horses. He’s topside with Chance Gnoman. You ought to go on up, all of you. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“You didn’t answer my question. You drying those blankets off or what? There ain’t no smoke.”
“Never mind the blankets. Your supplies are with your saddles up next to the hatch. We have everything you lost, even the horses.”
Jaeg finally looked over at Wenzil. He gave him a long, considering stare. Then he walked toward the blankets.
Wenzil quickly backed toward the tent, his sword held out like a gate blocking Jaeg from advancing. “Forget about the tent,” he said, seriously, “What’s there doesn’t concern you.”
For a moment, they just glared at each other. The smell of distrust was strong. Then Jaeg raised his hand and slowly pushed Wenzil’s sword back. The other Baeldon now had his own sword leveled at Wenzil. The archer remained back near the hatch, but he’d half-spanned his bow, arrow at the ready.
Wenzil wasn’t dissuaded. He quickly backed a couple more paces. He leveled his sword point at Jaeg’s sternum. “I told you to leave it. What’s there ain’t none of your concern. It’s the mage’s business. Don’t press it. I’m asking you nicely. Not going to ask again.”
Mawby sat back on his heels and offered a silent battle prayer as he prepared himself for what he was pretty sure was going to be a bloodbath. Still, no matter how bad it might get, he vowed to die before he’d let any of them near Koonta. The rogue inside the caeyl light, however, was on his own.
“What are you hiding back there?” he heard Jaeg ask Wenzil.
“Nothing. You leave it now, hear? I damned well mean it, Jaeg. We’re under instruction from Gran’ghant’r Bender. This here’s a need-to-know situation. You and your boys there just don’t need to know.”
For several beats, the two mountains faced each other. Then Mawby caught the taer-cael of the one called Jaeg moving again. In a heartbeat, the mountain had slipped past Wenzil and was standing close enough to the tent that Mawby could see his face up through the slit between the wall and ceiling blankets. Thankfully, the man’s eyes remained fixed on Wenzil.
“That right?” Jaeg said as he glared at Wenzil, “Top secret business, eh? Reckon it must be real important stuff then, yea?”
Mawby saw Wenzil’s sword tip rise up into view. It was now leveled at the runner’s neck, just a breath away from touching his skin. “Back away from the tent, Jaeg. I’m serious as the grave. You just back off right now, you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Sure, I do. Need-to-know situation. I understand.” Then he knocked Wenzil’s sword out of the way and flipped back the ceiling blanket. The rest of the tent immediately collapsed as the blankets slumped to the marble with practically no sound.
For a heartbeat, Jaeg and Mawby just stared at each other. The strange runner wore an expression like he’d just swallowed a burr, like a big-ass Vaemyn was the very last thing he’d ever expected to see down there.
Unfortunately, his shock didn’t last. “A goddamned savage!” he yelled, throwing his sword point down at Mawby, “Holy shit, two of them!”
Time stopped as everyone present processed the information.
The Baeldon barely turned in time to parry Wenzil’s sword. The clang of metal exploded through the tunnels. Jaeg threw himself into Wenzil like his life depended on it. He slipped inside Wenzil’s sword range and threw him a kick that sent Wenzil reeling. Without a pause, Jaeg turned back to the tent, but froze before acting. The runner’s shock at seeing the glowing form of the half-breed was likely the only thing that saved Mawby. It gave him half a heartbeat’s time to ready himself.
The Baeldon’s blade struck his own sword hard enough to rattle his teeth. He recovered in time to block the next blow, but the force of it sent him stumbling backward. He tripped over the half-breed and landed hard on his ass. He barely made it to his feet in time to parry the next attack, which he only sensed through the taer-cael of the mountain’s movement.
The runner was unbelievably fast, throwing down strike after strike, driving Mawby deeper back into the tunnel. Finally, the Baeldon delivered a blow so fierce that it knocked the sword out of Mawby’s hand. In practically the same motion, the runner kicked him full in the chest. Mawby landed hard against the boot of a marble sarcophagus, landing him the worst kidney punch he’d ever suffered. He collapsed into the marble. He tried to push himself to his knees, but the pain was blinding. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even move.
He felt the Baeldon seize a wad of his hair. He felt a sickening rush as the mountain hoisted him into the air. His head slammed the marble on a burst of lights. Before he could recover, the runner’s hand clamped his throat.
He was suffocating under the man’s grip. The taer-cael of his own boot heels clacking against the marble felt like thunder in his head. A sword tip hovered before his face. He felt the last seconds of his life ticking behind his eyes. This was it. This was how it all ended. Everything he’d fought for, everything he’d lost, everything he’d ever held dear was about to fade from the memory of the world, and all he could do was curse his luck and brace himself for the killing blow.
But before the blade could
end his grief, a stunning pulse of light shattered the darkness. A wall of heat hit him like a desert wind. His skin was suddenly burning with the pain of a thousand hot insect bites. A rush of nausea seized him.
The iron grip squeezing the life from Mawby loosened just a bit.
Another burst of light. Another rush of hot wind.
Despite the sudden heat, the hand on his neck went as cold as ice and abruptly released him. Mawby landed hard against the floor. He scrambled back into the wall and braced himself for the next assault, but the attack never came. As he struggled to recover his breath, he realized he was sitting in a pool of warm water. His breeches were soaked along his right leg and his sleeve was wet at the cuff.
The huge Baeldon lay sprawled across the marble before him. The corpse rested in the middle of a thin puddle of pale fluid. At first, Mawby thought the man may have pissed himself when he went down, but he immediately knew it couldn’t be. There was far too much water for it to be urine and the smell was sickly sweet, like fresh rot more than urine.
He leaned cautiously toward the Baeldon. The man was facedown in the liquid and clearly dead. But before the cause of his plight made itself clear, another pulse of light exploded through the tunnel. The pressure in his skull surged and everything went dark.
∞
Chance dropped the last several feet to the tunnel, landing on his feet beside Jhom. He was crouched and ready for a fight, but quickly realized there was no longer a fight to be had. In fact, he was utterly unprepared for what he found waiting for them.
Wenzil lay at the feet of the sarcophagi across the corridor from them. He slumped on his side with a Baeldonian arrow in his thigh. Sprawled at his feet was another Baeldon, a dead Baeldon, a runner.
Chance eased forward with his staff leveled and ready, the caeyl held by the carved hand ablaze with blue light.
Wenzil,” he called tentatively, “Wenzil, are you all right?”
There was no response
He quickly surveyed the corridor, but saw no immediate threat. In fact, the hall was quiet as death. He knelt beside Wenzil and pressed two fingers into his neck. To his great relief, he found a strong pulse. Wenzil was unconscious but alive. He quickly assessed the arrow sticking out of his thigh. There was plenty of blood, but it wasn’t a life-threatening wound. It’d passed clean through the meat.
