by Welcome Cole
He stood up and took a torch from a sconce mounted on the wall above them, then held it low over the dead Baeldon sprawled before Wenzil. The man lay on his back with his hands twisted agonizingly over his chest. His mouth was agape, as if he’d been in mid-shriek when he died. But as Chance inspected the body he realized it was more than just a postmortem scream. The lips were drawn back so severely that all the man’s teeth were visible, and the gums containing them were nearly white and shriveled back severely enough to expose the partial roots of the teeth. His skin was waxy and pulled too taught against his skull. His eyes were empty, the remnants of the organs now shriveled, pus-filled globs slopping over the rims of the blackened sockets. He looked as if he’d been mummified, that despite the fact he was lying in a pool of water.
“All clear,” Jhom whispered behind him, “There’s three of them, all runners, all dead. What the hell happened here?”
“I don’t know.”
Chance scanned the darkness and spotted another body laying a bit further down the tunnel. It was another Baeldon. He needed get no closer to know he’d followed the same fate as this one lying before him. A longbow lay beside the body. The pooled water beneath the corpse simmered eerily in the greenish torchlight.
“Chance, there’s more.”
Chance looked up at Jhom. He followed the Baeldon’s pointing arm back toward the tents. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Then it hit him. The caeyl light was gone!
He walked carefully toward the tent. Or what had been the tent. The blanket walls slumped across the floor like fallen sails, and the poles and rope tackle that’d supported them were scattered angrily about. As he moved closer, he was relieved to see the dark form of Koonta’ar lying exactly where he’d last seen her. The dark bedding beside her, however, was empty.
“What… what happened here?” he whispered.
“What do you think? The rogue happened.”
Chance looked around the corridor. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know. He’s not in the vicinity. Maybe he took off into the tunnels.”
Chance approached the fallen tent. The body of the third dead Baeldon lay several feet beyond it on the other side of the corridor. It was in an identical state to the others, complete with shriveled skin and a thin pool of water beneath it. As he moved closer, he spied Mawby. The tracker lay slumped against the corridor wall beneath the feet of a sarcophagus. He was unconscious but breathing. His legs stretched out into the corridor, his feet resting in the thin pool of water. His boots and breeches were soaked to the knees.
Chance stepped carefully over the macabre corpse and squatted before Mawby. He was surprised to find the Vaemyn wasn’t unconscious after all. A quick exam revealed that he bore no wounds other than a swelling lump on the back of his head and some bruising around his neck. But the look of horror possessing his eyes was most disturbing. He was staring past Chance into the shadows where the tent had stood.
Chance placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mawby, are you hurt?”
Mawby looked at him. Then he seized a wad of Chance’s shirt and dragged him closer. “He’s here,” he whispered, nodding toward the fallen tent, “Right now. I can’t see him, but I can hear him!”
“It’s all right, Mawby. Everything’s—”
Mawby pulled Chance roughly closer. “No! No, you don’t understand. He’s here! He’s standing right over there, right next to the tent, back against the wall. You can’t see him, but I can sense his taer-cael! I can feel his heartbeat!”
Chance experienced a surge of fear so primal, he had to actively will back the urge to run. He peered back over his shoulder. There was nothing to see, other than the corpse, the remnants of the tent, and Koonta. She lay in near darkness, though the air around her was oddly hazy and out of focus. He pried Mawby’s arm from his shirt, then willed himself to his feet. He steadied his grip on his staff and moved slowly forward. He was just within an arm’s span of her when Beam materialized.
Chance’s heart nearly jumped clear of his chest.
The half-breed seemed to have walked out from the wall itself, as if he’d passed through it from the other side like a wraith. He was naked and unarmed. He paused over Koonta’ar’s prone form, then knelt beside her. For a moment, he just seemed to study her. Then he placed one hand carefully on her brow and the other he spread open against her bare chest. The Caeyllth Blade materialized on the marble beside him. The caeyl’s white eye burned brilliantly.
“Beam,” Chance said, lowering himself cautiously to one knee, “Is it you? I… I mean, are you all right?”
Beam didn’t reply and he didn’t look up. He didn’t even seem aware that Chance was present. He only knelt there with his hands locked on the Vaemyd and a look of feral terror in his eyes.
Chance glanced up at Jhom, whose only advice was a shrug. Then he turned back to Beam. “Beam, it’s me. It’s Chance. Can you hear me?”
This time Beam stirred. He looked down at the floor before Chance and drew a stuttering breath. He appeared for all the world like a man who’s just woken up from a long winter nap and isn’t quite sure where he is or why he’s there.
“Beam, can you hear me?”
The half-breed’s eyes finally rolled up toward him. For several beats, he only stared at him. Then he whispered, “Chance Gnoman. Water Caeyl Mage. Not in the Caeylsphere.”
There was a strange wildness in the man’s eyes, like the look of an animal that’s only just now laid eyes on its first man and doesn’t quite know what to make of it. It wasn’t aggression or malevolence, but something wilder, something more akin to fearful curiosity.
Chance crawled closer. He stopped directly across Koonta from him. At first, Beam didn’t move. His attention was again locked on Koonta. Then he slowly looked up at Chance. As he did, his face filled with the light of the Caeyllth Blade.
Chance’s breath locked in his throat. This wasn’t the Beam he’d last seen, the Beam from before the prode attack. This was a man reborn. His wounds were completely healed, his flesh full and robust. There weren’t even any hints of scars. His hair draped his bare shoulders, falling nearly to his waist now. And though it was still dark, it was finer than before, more Vaemysh in texture now.
Strangest of all were his oteuryns. They’d not only grown back, but they were unlike any horns Chance had ever seen on a living creature. They weren’t the usual pearly pink like the lining of an oyster shell. These horns were as pure and clear as crystal. And they were much longer than an ordinary Vaemyn’s, curling an easy three inches up from under his ears. They were lovely and magnificent and utterly terrifying.
“Beam,” Chance said, keeping his voice as calm as he could manage, “Beam, I beg you, talk to me. Are you all right?”
Beam’s gaze again shifted. His eyes grew dark and seething. “Chance Gnoman,” he said carefully, “Water Caeyl Mage, Na te’Yed.”
“Yes, Beam. It’s me. Are you all right? How do you feel?”
“How do I feel?” Beam said in a low, tentative voice, “How do I look like I feel? How do you think I feel?”
“I... I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve worried for you. Surely you—”
“What timescape is this?”
The question was so bizarre, so sharply out of context, Chance wasn’t sure what to make of it. He looked up at Jhom, who again only shrugged.
“What timescape is this?” Beam said more urgently.
Chance looked back at him. “Timescape? I… I don’t understand what you—”
“Goddamn you! It’s a simple question! What timescape is this? When is this? What time am I in?”
“It’s… it’s the same time as...”
“How long was I gone?”
“It’s been… it’s just nine days since the prodes, no more.”
“Nine days?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? Nine days? Nine mortal days?”
“Yes, nine days and some hours, I guess.”
&
nbsp; Beam’s eyes drifted down to Koonta. He still held his hands over her brow and chest. “Nine days,” he whispered as he studied her, “Nine days and a hundred centuries.” His face dropped to his chest. His shoulders heaved. He released a low groan.
A pang of grief seized Chance so completely, it nearly took his breath away. His eyes washed hot. His stomach knotted with sorrow. His gut felt hollow with grief and loss. He had to fight to remain upright, to resist the overbearing urge to just lie down on the floor and sob. What was this horrid sensation? Where did it come from?
Then he understood. These terrible emotions weren’t his at all. They came from Beam. The half-breed was projecting the emotion the way a fire radiates heat.
“Beam,” he whispered as he struggled against the grief, “Please… talk to me. What’s… what’s happened to—”
She’s dying.
A surge of vertigo seized Chance. It was incapacitating. He threw his hands down to the marble to avoid falling.
She’s dying.
Another overwhelming bout of dizziness. He fell forward to his forearms. But this time he understood. The words hadn’t come from Beam’s mouth. They were inside his head.
We need her. She can’t die.
His voice reverberated through Chance’s mind like a hammer blow, intense and sickeningly physical. For just an instant, he thought he was going to vomit.
She’s filled with so much poison.
Chance heard himself cry out. He grabbed his head. The voice filled his skull. He couldn’t contain it. His head was beginning to throb.
She’s in such pain.
“I... I tried to help her,” he forced himself to say, “I… I’ve done... I’ve done all I can.” The pressure continued to swell. It was unbearable.
The caeyl in Beam’s sword abruptly flamed, again filling the corridor with blinding light. In the same instant, a white glow issued from his palms as thick and physical as milk. It poured into Koonta where he touched her, spreading through her face and chest, seeping into her head and rushing down through her trunk. It swam through her limbs until it consumed her entire body, until she was lost within the light exactly as Beam had been.
In the same instant, the pressure faded from Chance’s skull. He could breathe again. He pushed himself back to his knees and dragged the sweaty hair back from his face. The sense of relief was almost painful. He looked up at Beam, looked at the thick, brilliant light rushing from his hands into Koonta’ar.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then she seized. Her back arched so dramatically, Chance feared she’d snapped it. She released a primitive, guttural cry as she seized again and again and again. Chance covered his mouth as he watched her body convulsing. He wanted to intervene, wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do, nothing except embrace his faith. He had to trust Beam.
Finally, she collapsed back into the bedding. The light possessing her receded back into Beam’s hands, and his caeyl faded to silence, and they were once again left to the darkness.
Jhom’s voice erupted behind Chance. “What the hell’s he doing to her?”
“Quiet, Jhom. I think… I think he’s healing her.”
“Healing her? Looks more like he’s killing her.”
The sword’s caeyl had faded back to a pale white spark simmering gently against the dark marble. Beam pushed himself slowly to one knee, then rose to his feet. The Caeyllth Blade followed, drifting up into his hand as he stood.
Koonta was breathing more normally now. An oily sheen of yellowish fluid covered her skin. It was the poison, Chance was sure of it. Beam had used the caeyl to extract the gor’naeyd venom from her blood and organs.
Beam stood over her, naked in pale torchlight. He watched her carefully. He looked more vital now, more Vaemysh. There was a burdensome weight in his eyes, like the warriors of old who’d gazed into the eyes of the Dark Goddess Neergoth and been ruined by what they saw. His crystalline oteuryns sparkled in the torchlight, like a late winter’s ice lit by a setting sun.
Chance carefully pushed himself to his feet. The grief he’d experienced just moments ago, the grief projected by Beam, was gone, and he felt peculiarly hollow for its absence.
He stepped closer to Beam. “What is it?” he whispered, “What’s happened to you? Where have you been?”
Beam said nothing, but only stood there staring down at Koonta’ar.
“You’re frightened. I can feel it. What is it? What are you afraid of?”
Beam’s eyes slowly rolled up to him. “Ask me what I’m not afraid of.” The words were spoken now.
“I don’t understand.”
“The memories.”
“Memories?”
Beam ran his hand up over his skull, dragging the long hair back from his face. “I can’t fight them,” he whispered, “They’re… bigger than me. They’ve imprisoned me. His memories own me now.”
“His memories? Whose memories?”
Beam said nothing.
“Whose memories, Beam?”
Chance moved toward him, but Beam threw up a hand. It took a moment before Chance realized he couldn’t move his legs. He looked down at his immobile feet and willed them into motion, but the limbs were deaf to his commands.
“What the hell is this?” Jhom bellowed behind him, “I can’t move! What’s he done to us?”
“I don’t deserve this,” Beam whispered to Chance, “They’re killing me. There are too many of them. Too much sorrow. Too much grief. Too much death. Hundreds of thousands of innocents, all dead. My family, my loves, all gone as I continue to go on. How can he expect me to contain that? How can I possibly live with that?”
“Beam, I want to help you.”
“Help me?” Beam laughed and dragged his bare forearm across his wet eyes.
“Yes, help you.”
“You can’t help me. No one can help me. Not anymore!”
“I’m your friend. I can help you if you let me.”
No!
Chance winced as the words exploded through his head. He felt sick and unsteady.
No one can help me! Not you. Not the Vaemyn. Not your Baeldonian lackeys. No one can help me, and damn you all for it!
“You son of a bitch!” Jhom shouted at him, “You bloody well better free us or I swear I’ll hurt you in ways that—”
“No!” Chance shouted back at the Baeldon, “No, don’t antagonize him!”
It was too late. Beam was glaring at Jhom with murder in his eyes. “What did you say to me?”
Jhom’s brow collapsed. “You heard me well enough, half-breed.”
“I’d advise caution, Baeldon. That tongue may get you killed. Look at your comrades rotting in the corners.”
“You’ll have plenty more to worry about than my tongue if you don’t release us.”
“Release you?” A dark smile crept through Beam’s face. “Be careful what you ask for, boy.”
Before Chance could intervene, the white light again flared through the tunnel. He was blind. His skin was on fire. The heat seared his eyes and throat. He heard someone cry out. He heard Jhom groan, heard him collapse to the marble behind him. He tried to turn to him, tried to help him, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The world was spinning. He was falling!
XXI
THE COURIER
MAL STOOD ON THE CATWALK ABOVE THE MAIN GATE TO THE FREEHOLD.
He watched their newly forming army milling outside the compound. He had to admit it was pretty damned impressive. Well over six thousand men and women worked the camps or prepared for their late day departure. The hazy smoke of hundreds of campfires hung over the staging grounds like a protective blanket. The smell of coffee and bacon fat filled the cool, still air beneath it.
An army of six thousand and more raised in barely a week. Not a bad effort considering how unexpectedly their need had arisen. As he studied the scene below, he thought about the patchwork of oddities that composed their population. The makeshift troops were an astonishing mishmash
of ex-pirates, smugglers, thieves, cutthroats, and adventurers, mixed with a spattering of honest tradesmen, hunters, miners and merchants. They represented renegades from every race and nation in Calevia, a battalion of dirty loyalists breaking camps and making ready for the march that would begin this evening at sunset.
Much as it pained Mal to admit it, it truly was a testimonial to the stature of his brother’s leadership that so many were so willing to abandon so much for a five-day march beyond the eastern borders of the Nolands. Of course, the promise of a month’s officer’s wages for anyone who returned from the campaign was pretty damned good incentive as well. That and a cut of any loot they pillaged was more than many of these rogues made in a year. Add to that Luce’s assurance they’d be back in their own beds inside a month, and the deal was impossible to refuse.
He and Lucifeus had debated long and hard about what to tell the crew, the truth appearing simultaneously too terrifying and too unbelievable to be convincing. They had worked over several stories, each of which involved some variation on intercepting gold shipments and looting unprotected towns. In the end, however, they knew such a story would only motivate a fraction of the crew, and likely the greediest and least dependable among them.
After much debate, a variation of the truth seemed like the easiest and most motivating path: the savages were on the rise and readying to attack Mendophia, Parhron and Baeldonia. Attacking the Vaemysh western flank would tip the battle toward Allied victory. Such a selfless act would buy a miser’s hoard of goodwill from the Allies, and that goodwill could only bolster their ultimate goal of Nolandian independence. This was a story that would motivate both the gold seekers and the loyalists.
In truth, the story wasn’t much of a stretch. They’d been scheming for dominance over the Nolands for years now, a nation of cutthroats led by the Captains Fark. Still, he felt strangely ashamed that they had to dupe their crew into serving the Fark family cause, the cause of Lamys te’Faht, a cause he and his brother barely understood and could never explain. They were risking everything for a family heritage, for a bizarre vision inspired by a leather map and two caeyls hidden for uncounted centuries inside the strange Drayma.
