Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I’m still not sure about that part,” Corran said, running a hand through his hair. “I mean some of them, yes. There were witnesses, according to Mahon. But the ones who came out here alone—how do we know they didn’t fall in by accident? Or decide to cool off with a swim and go down with a cramp?”

  The longer they stood by the lake, the more uncomfortable Corran became. Kell’s absence loomed large in his thoughts, the grief strong and tangible. Many nights he had lain awake, his own voice a tireless accuser, faulting him for having let Kell down, having paid too little attention to their younger brother, not protecting him enough. All of his reasons and protestations died in the face of those accusations, and he knew them to be the awful truth. He’d let Kell down the same way he had failed to protect Jora, the way his mistakes had cost the lives of the friends and hunters who died in the city.

  Corran stared at the glitter of the sun on the water and thought about the blessed silence he might find if he let himself sink beneath that rippling surface. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t be absolved of his mistakes, but he could make a sacrifice—

  “Corran!” Aiden’s voice sounded distant, but something in the tone made Corran hesitate. A sharp pain in his upper arm brought him out of the daze.

  “What in the name of the Gods did you do that for?” he snapped, seeing a bloodied knife in Aiden’s hand and realizing the blood came from his bicep where Aiden had cut him.

  “Look where you’re standing,” Aiden said, and Corran glanced down to see that he had moved almost to the edge of the lake from where he had been several feet away.

  “It had you,” Aiden answered his silent question. “Whatever was going on in your mind, it had you, and it would have pulled you in. I had barely stopped Calfon from doing the same, and turned around to find you ready to take a dive.”

  Calfon had retreated from the water’s edge, but he eyed the lake like a viper, and his face looked pale and drawn.

  “Guilt,” Corran said thickly. “Mistakes. Things I didn’t do, could have done better—”

  “Lies,” Aiden countered. “Blown out of proportion, calculated to do damage.”

  “Why aren’t you affected?”

  Aiden reached beneath his shirt and lifted a variety of bone, silver, and iron charms. “I wear them all the time. Looks like I should make more.”

  “They came because they thought they had to.” Rigan’s voice sounded strained and oddly distant. Corran glanced at him sharply. Rigan’s eyes were open but staring glassily at the lake, as if he were locked inside his head instead of seeing what lay before him. He held one arm out in front of him, focusing his magic.

  A chill went down Corran’s spine, remembering the last time he had seen Rigan like this, just before they both almost died in the battle against Blackholt.

  “Rigan?” Corran called in a quiet voice, afraid to startle his brother.

  “It called to them, and they came.”

  Aiden gasped, and Corran shifted his focus from Rigan to the lake shore. At least a dozen ghosts stood at the edge of the water. Adults, children, young and old, all of them perhaps claimed by the lake’s curse. The apparitions looked like their corpses must have appeared to those who dragged them from the water, bedraggled and bloated, garments plastered to their skin, lank hair in their eyes. The ghosts stared at the hunters, and Corran felt his heartbeat speed up at their accusing gaze. The air around them had been pleasantly warm, but now the temperature plummeted until they could see their breath.

  “Why can’t I hear them?” Corran asked.

  “It’s taking all my magic to help them manifest, and they’re only strong enough to speak in my mind,” Rigan replied.

  “Let me help,” Corran started, but Rigan cut him off.

  “No. I’ve got this. Save your magic. We might need it.”

  “Ask them,” Corran managed to croak the words through his dry mouth. He knew Rigan could not maintain his link to the dead for long. “Ask them what killed them.”

  “Cold and strong,” Rigan relayed, his voice taking on a dreamlike sing-song. “Dark. Fast. Too big to see, or… too much churned up from the bottom.”

  “Did they mean to kill themselves?” The urgency was clear in Aiden’s voice. He looked at Rigan worriedly, watching for signs that the magic that enabled Rigan to hear the confessions of the dead might be taking a toll on him.

  “Yes,” Rigan said, his eyes narrowed with concentration as if he were straining to hear the responses. “It called to them. They had their reasons. All of them had… reasons.”

  “Why? What reasons?” Aiden pressed. “Why did they think they needed to kill themselves?”

  Rigan’s face tightened, lips thinning as if concentration had turned to pain. Rigan flinched, and his whole body tensed, snapping his head to one side as if slapped. His outstretched hand clenched, curling the fingers in until they became a fist.

  “Lies… failures… mistakes… disappointment… different for all of them—”

  “That’s enough!” Corran grabbed Rigan’s outstretched arm and felt how tense his muscles were. “Let it go, Rigan. We’ve heard enough. Let go before you hurt yourself.”

  “So much pain,” Rigan murmured as if he had not heard Corran. “They were all in so much pain—”

  “Rigan!” Corran moved to stand in front of his brother and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a shake. “Let them go.”

  “I’m not sure he can, Corran,” Aiden said quietly. “Has he ever tried to confess a crowd of spirits all at once?”

  Corran shook his head, staring at Rigan and feeling fear rise in his throat. “No. Not to my knowledge. Just calling one at a time usually knocks the wind out of him.”

  “I don’t know much about grave magic,” Aiden said. “But it has to be draining his energy quickly, dealing with so many spirits at once.”

  Confessing the dead wasn’t regular grave magic. Their mother had Wanderer blood, and this was part of Rigan’s legacy from her, something he and his brother did not share.

  “There are at least a dozen ghosts on the shore,” Aiden replied. “And if they all want to unburden themselves to him, it’s going to drain him dry.” He licked his lips nervously. “I think he’s created a bond with them somehow. They’re holding on to him, even if he’s trying to let them go.”

  “Do something!”

  “I don’t know what it will do to Rigan if I break the connection,” Aiden snapped.

  “We’re pretty sure it’s going to kill him if you don’t.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Calfon said from behind them. “And I don’t want to have to get through the woods when we can’t see what’s out there—in case the monster in the lake doesn’t have to stay in the water. So make up your mind, but do it soon.”

  “I think—” Aiden said before he got a far-away look in his eyes that spoke of anchoring and concentration, and he reached out and clasped his hand around Rigan’s outstretched fist. Then he pulled out an iron knife from his belt and sliced it across Rigan’s forearm in a shallow, bloody cut.

  Immediately, the ghosts on the shore vanished. Rigan gave a muffled cry and collapsed.

  Aiden staggered and came back to himself. “I think… I think we should get out of here,” he said, planting his feet wide to keep himself upright.

  “Rigan?” Corran bent over his brother and felt for a pulse, relieved when he felt the beat beneath his fingers. Rigan did not stir.

  “We’re losing the light,” Calfon cautioned.

  “Calfon’s right,” Aiden said. “We need to get out of here. We still don’t know enough about what the monster can do, but I think I’ve got some new leads. I think I saw something in the lore books that might help. Right now, we have to get Rigan back to town. We’ll sort the rest of this out later.”

  Corran got Rigan up over his shoulder, grunting with the effort. Rigan might be slender, but he was all muscle, and heavy. “Got him,” Corran managed. “Let’s go.”

  Th
e trek back through the woods seemed to take forever, and Corran swore Rigan grew heavier with every step. Together, he and Aiden could handle Rigan’s weight easily, but the thick underbrush would make carrying him between them impossible. Corran took comfort in the steady in and out of Rigan’s breathing, assuring himself that the drain from the magic had not been too much.

  “Almost there,” Aiden said, leading the way. Calfon trailed behind, weapons ready as if he expected the ghosts to follow.

  The walk back to the village seemed much longer than it had on the way out. After the second time Corran stumbled and nearly fell, Calfon wordlessly stopped in front of him and transferred Rigan to his shoulder for the remainder of the trek.

  Mahon had arranged for them to have a room to themselves upstairs at the local pub. When Corran opened the door, he found a lantern already lit. A single bed sat up against one wall, but Mahon had seen to it that the innkeeper dragged enough straw-stuffed mattresses in so that each of them had a place to sleep with pillows and rough woolen blankets.

  Without a word, Calfon crossed to the bed. Corran helped steady Rigan as Calfon gently eased out from beneath his weight. “Did he come around at all?” Corran asked, feeling for a pulse again.

  “Not that I could tell,” Calfon said.

  “Let him sleep it off,” Aiden advised. “We’ll make sure he eats and drinks before we try to do anything else.

  “Is he hurt?”

  Aiden stretched out his hand, fingers splayed, palm down, and let it hover over Rigan’s chest. After a moment, the healer shook his head. “No. Just exhausted. Although I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I hadn’t been able to break the bond.” He looked ruefully at Rigan’s injured arm and pulled some linen bandages from his bag, wrapping the cut after he had cleaned and treated it.

  Corran stared at Rigan lying motionless on the bed, and the sight brought back too many memories of other fights, other injuries, times when Rigan nearly did not make it back.

  “Don’t,” Aiden said as if he could read Corran’s mind. “That was then; this is now. He’s tired. There’s no internal bleeding; no significant drain on his life force—”

  “No significant drain?”

  Aiden gave him a patient look. “When you wear yourself out until you can barely stand up, what do you think you’re draining? The energy to move and think and breathe is part of your life force. He’s pushed himself as if he ran ten miles. He needs to sleep it off and eat. That’s all.”

  Even after nearly a year of knowing about Rigan’s extra abilities, Corran still had difficulty wrapping his mind around the magic. What they did as undertakers, the chants and songs to help souls pass to the After, even Rigan’s ability to hear the confessions of the dead, those he understood. But the other uses, like summoning fire or force, seemed foreign. That alienness did not make him afraid of Rigan; he knew and trusted his brother. It made him afraid for Rigan, that one day he would push too far and not recover.

  Kell and their parents were dead. He could not lose Rigan, too.

  “How do we fight that thing?” Corran asked.

  After depositing Rigan, Calfon had gone to fetch food and drink, leaving them alone to get him settled. Corran could tell that Calfon still chafed about not being the one in charge, and that accounted for his surly mood. But right now, hurt feelings seemed the least of their concerns. Or perhaps Calfon’s sour mood stemmed from whatever visions the monster in the lake had drawn out of his head, the fears and insecurities that made sliding beneath that dark water seem like a good idea.

  The dinner hour was long past, and if not for his worry about Rigan, Corran guessed he might be hungry. Now, all he could think about was the battle that still loomed, and how they might be able to win without destroying themselves.

  “There are some references in the books Rigan and I brought with us,” Aiden said, moving away from the bed. “They’re old histories and some bestiaries. Pretty sure some of the stuff is pure legend, but then again, most stories have a kernel of truth in them.”

  Corran saw weariness in Aiden’s face and realized they were all tired, frightened, and worried. “You think there’s a way to kill that thing, without burning yourselves up?”

  Aiden ran a hand back through his hair. “Yeah. Rigan and I both did, or we wouldn’t have agreed to take the job. But we know a little more about the creature now, how it works, and that might narrow down what’s in the lore, help us get it right the first time.”

  “I’ll sit with Rigan,” Corran said. “Go do what you need to do. Let’s hope Calfon brings back something good to eat and some ale to wash it down with.” And fixes his attitude. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.

  A few candlemarks later, they sat around a small table covered with old manuscripts. “I think it’s a nokk,” Aiden said and glanced at Rigan for confirmation. Rigan nodded. “Odds are good it came from one of the larger lakes upstream, and got carried down here by the big flood Mahon mentioned.”

  “The nokk feed on emotion,” Rigan continued. He looked drawn and tired, but after sleeping for most of the evening and eating his dinner, Rigan refused to stay in bed. His eyes were haunted and held a pained look that worried Corran, making him wonder what dark lies the creature in the lake had whispered to his brother, what reasons it might have supplied to draw him below the water. “That can be something as simple as the fear of an animal being hunted by predators. Up in the high country, these things probably don’t have much contact with humans, so terrified deer will do. This one—”

  “Got swept downstream into a damn banquet,” Calfon finished for him. “But how does it target its victims? Do that many villagers want to kill themselves?”

  Aiden leaned back. “No, at least, I don’t think so. I don’t know how it picks its prey, but I doubt all those people intended to commit suicide when they got lured to the lake. For all we know, it fed just fine on their fear when it drowned them.”

  “It likes guilt.” They turned to look at Rigan. Calfon paled, and his jaw set, but Corran saw fear glint in the man’s eyes. Corran forced his mind away from the poison that had slithered through his mind and guessed from Rigan’s shadowed gaze that he had experienced the creature’s lure himself. “Guilt, uncertainty, insecurity—the dark emotions feed it.” Rigan shivered and rubbed his hands on his forearms to get warm. “It’s good at finding weaknesses.”

  “So how do we kill it?” Corran asked. He felt too edgy to sit still, and his left leg bounced up and down hard enough that he realized he was shaking the table.

  “Anointed steel,” Aiden said, pointing to a paragraph in one of the yellowed manuscripts. “It kills the prey before eating it. Blood from a living person on spelled steel weakens it enough that we can take it down the regular way—chop it to pieces.”

  Aiden reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of amulets on leather straps. Some were crystals, while others were bits of wire and bone or sigils made from bent iron nails. “Elinor and Mir made these,” he said. “There’s enough for each of you to wear several like I do. I figured we’d need them before we go back. I’ll be damned if I’ll let that thing get into your heads again. I should have thought of this beforehand.”

  Corran reached out to clap Aiden on the shoulder. “I think we’ve had enough of guilt. Not your fault that you can’t foresee everything.” Aiden managed a self-deprecating smile.

  “You know how it is with healers,” he said. “We don’t take the advice we give to everyone else.”

  “The sooner we get rid of this creature, the better,” Calfon said, and Corran guessed he was channeling his fear into defiance.

  “Sounds good to me.” Corran reached for his tankard of ale and took a long draught. “Any particular time of day that’s especially good for nokk hunting?”

  Aiden managed a tired smile. “All the books say is ‘after the sun has hit its zenith,’ so not in the morning.”

  “What sort of ‘blessing’ do the blades require?” Ca
lfon asked.

  “Everything we found suggests a prayer to the Elder Gods and a request for their favor in the hunt,” Rigan replied. His gaze slid to Corran. The night Kell died, they had called on Eshtamon, one of the Elder Gods, for vengeance and sworn their souls and service to him. Their battle against Machison and Blackholt had been successful. Corran strongly doubted they had discharged their oath so easily. A god’s favor was rarely so cheaply bought.

  “Can’t say I’m a praying man myself,” Calfon admitted, “but this sounds worth the effort. Any suggestion on which of the Elder Gods might be inclined to care?”

  “I doubt it would be Colduraan,” Aiden replied. “He’s partial to chaos, and the monsters are definitely chaotic. Ardevan and Balledec haven’t been prominent in a long while. That leaves Doharmu—god of death, Oj and Ren—the Eternal Mother and Forever Father, and Eshtamon—bringer of vengeance. Take your pick.”

  “As an undertaker, I can tell you that it’s never wise to approach Doharmu outside his temple,” Corran cautioned. “He can be… unpredictable.”

  Calfon rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “All right. And I’m not keen on bothering the two most powerful Elder Gods. But Eshtamon sounds like a possibility. What do I have to do?”

  “Spill three drops of blood on the blade you plan to fight the nokk with, and ask Eshtamon’s favor in the hunt,” Aiden replied. “And hope for the best.”

  Later, after they had asked the ancient gods to bless their weapons and shuttered the lanterns, Corran lay awake on his pallet, listening to the sounds of the night. Calfon snored and rolled over. Aiden lay still as a dead man on his belly. In the cot next to him, Rigan moved restlessly before settling into a new position and quieting.

  He had wondered when he and Rigan asked Eshtamon to bless their swords and knives, whether the god would speak to them again or show himself as he did that night they swore their oath in the graveyard. But when they worked the ritual tonight, Eshtamon did not appear to them. Nothing happened.