Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Look at the bright side,” Rigan said as they left the dead vestir behind them and headed for the stream. “Two big carcasses nice and bloody might distract a lot of things that would have tried to make us their dinner. Even predators usually take the easy meal.”

  Nothing else bothered them, and they were pleased to find the snares full and a fish on the line. “Well, at least we’ll have choices,” Trent said. “Although none of them look like anything I’ve ever seen before.”

  After what they had already experienced, Rigan had concluded that all the creatures on this side of the Rift were likely more vicious than anything similar back home. The fish had razor-sharp scales and fins and wickedly-curved nightmarish teeth. The snares held two animals the size of large rabbits, but with wide maws sporting two rows of sharp teeth, powerful hind paws with inch-long claws, and reflexes fast enough to make stabbing them a real challenge.

  “Should I let one of them go?” Trent wondered. “I don’t know if we can eat all of this, and it won’t keep.”

  “We don’t know if we can eat any of it,” Mir pointed out. “And I’m starving.”

  “If we don’t need one of the rabbit-monsters, I could use it for some magic I want to try,” Rigan replied.

  “Can’t guarantee how anything will taste,” Trent said, improvising a handle for the two snares from his belt to avoid losing a finger to the creatures. The two rabbit-things hissed and snapped at each other, striking out any time the snare-cages got close.

  Rigan and Mir lit torches for the return trip. The clouds had thickened, turning the sky darker than expected for the time of day. The sounds and sense of being stalked on the way back confirmed Rigan’s suspicion that the larger predators came out in the evening. Carrying raw meat, a fresh fish, and two squabbling prey creatures no doubt enhanced their attractiveness to other monsters that might want to feast on all of them.

  Rigan and Mir had knives and swords ready. Trent was hampered by the burden of the awkward basket and snare-cages, but he could get to his weapons in seconds if he dropped what he carried. As a precaution, Rigan stretched out his magic, trying to anchor himself in the air this time instead of the ground. It felt less polluted, though the whole place had the heavy, thick climate of a swamp on a hot summer night. When his magic touched something that sparked in response, Rigan projected a warning, sending an aggressive mental image that might cause an attacker to choose easier prey. Several times he heard snuffling and heavy paws or hooves in the bushes, but felt the creatures turn away.

  To Rigan’s relief, they reached the cave without incident. Mir and Trent stoked the fire in preparation for dinner. Rigan used magic to pin one of the rabbit-creatures long enough for him to slit its throat without getting a nasty bite from its sharp incisors. Trent skinned and gutted the carcass, then chopped the head and tail from the fish. Mir had fashioned a grid of wood over the fire to keep their food out of the flames. They had nothing to flavor the meat, but by that time, they were all so hungry that Rigan doubted they would notice.

  “It doesn’t smell bad,” Trent noted once the meat began to sear.

  “Do you think it’s safe to eat?” Mir looked unsure at their bounty.

  Trent shrugged. “Most things are if they’re cooked well enough. And we can die of starvation as easily as by poison. The creatures here eat each other, and they eat humans, so maybe it’ll all work out.”

  “Not sure I follow that logic,” Mir noted, “but I’m hungry enough to test your theory.”

  To everyone’s relief, the meat proved edible, though tough and gamey. The fish tasted slightly better, though it, too, had a strong aftertaste. After going all day on what little they had in their pockets, Rigan thought food had rarely tasted so good. They had no way to boil the water from the stream, but Rigan checked it with his magic, working a purification spell Aiden had taught him.

  Night deepened, and the sounds of creatures moving through the underbrush seemed louder and closer despite the fire. Nothing came near enough to test the barrier of salt and flame, but Rigan sensed the presence of several beings he thought might have been ghouls and spotted the reflective eyes of things that reminded him of large cats.

  Mir sat with his back against the cave walls and his knees drawn up to his chest. From time to time, he took a sip from his flask. “If we don’t make it back, will our souls still go to the After?” he blurted.

  Rigan and Trent stopped what they were doing to look at him. Turmoil brewed in Mir’s dark eyes. “I don’t know,” Rigan admitted. “And it’s too early to think like that—”

  “But if we die here, will we go to Doharmu? Or be stuck in this… nowhere?” The urgency in his voice suggested that the question had tortured him for a while.

  “I don’t know much about how gods and Rifts work,” Rigan replied carefully, “but I would think that Doharmu would be the god of Death no matter where and when something dies. Maybe to the gods, this space on the other side of a Rift is like a spare room, a shed behind the main house, but it would all still be part of the same whole.”

  Mir chewed his lip. “I wondered, you know?” His voice trembled, and he turned his head so that the others could not see his face. “Just in case.”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to get us home,” Rigan reassured. “And I know Aiden and Elinor are working hard on the other side, too. Don’t give up yet. We’ve barely gotten started.”

  Mir nodded, but the certainty did not reach his expression, and Rigan wondered if their friend had really heard a word. Mir tightened his arms around his knees and folded in on himself, as Rigan and Trent exchanged a worried glance.

  “You said you wanted one of the rabbit-things for magic,” Trent said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Blood magic opens the Rift from our side,” Rigan replied. “Maybe it works on this side as well.”

  “I didn’t think ‘good’ witches used blood magic,” Trent said.

  “We don’t,” Rigan replied. “I’m not even sure I know how to call it, or what it’ll cost when I do. That’s why I want to see what I can learn with some grave magic and some scrying, and save the questionable stuff for a last resort.”

  “We’re depending on you to get us out,” Trent said, returning to watch over the mouth of the cave. “So whatever you need, we’ll back you up.”

  Rigan appreciated their faith in him, though it made the weight of their expectations that much heavier. He went to the mouth of the cave once more and looked out over the dark valley, letting his magic sense the energies and focusing on the colors and shifts. When he concentrated, he picked up flickers moving in the forest. From their motion, he guessed they were some of the larger monsters.

  That’s helpful. If I can sense them, we can keep from blundering into them. He wondered whether he would notice smaller creatures at a closer distance. Any help his magic could provide in avoiding confrontation was so much better than risking battles. Finding a way home was only part of the challenge; they had to survive long enough to make their way back.

  Once he identified the flickers caused by roving monsters, Rigan parsed through the overwhelming panoply of color and motion. Some areas glowed red. Rigan noted their locations, and from the lack of movement, surmised that they were places where magic might be stronger. Also good to know. Whether we’re fighting a monster or trying to work magic to get home, going to a spot where the magic is naturally amplified can’t hurt.

  Finally, Rigan focused on the shimmering streaks that appeared and disappeared without a notable pattern. He had heard one of the sailors tell tales of lights in the sky that he had seen on a sea journey to the most northern tip of the continent, beyond the boundaries of Darkhurst. Rigan had imagined the sailors’ lights as broad brush strokes of luminescent colors, folding and unfolding like ribbons. The streaks reminded him of the sailor’s story, though he feared these lights had a far more malevolent purpose.

  Are they weak spots, between here and home? And if so, are they all caused
by blood magic, or did some of them always happen? And the most important question: How long do they stay in one place? If we can find one, and it’s what I think it might be, can I open it from this side?

  That night, Rigan’s dreams were dark. Once again, he and Corran were in the cemetery where they had summoned Eshtamon, but this time, the Elder God stood against the flames of a burning city.

  You are my champions. My warrior and my champion mage. Your work is not yet complete.

  In his dream, Rigan tried to call out to Eshtamon to beg him to pull them out of the Rift. The words stuck in his throat and he had no voice.

  Corran looked haggard, eyes red with grief, features drawn with exhaustion and worry. He moved past Rigan as if he could not see him, and confronted Eshtamon.

  Where is my brother? We made a bargain, a contract. We’ve done everything you’ve asked, but I need him to come back to us.

  Eshtamon regarded Corran for a moment before he spoke. Your journeys are not always what they seem. The bond between you is strong. Let it guide you, and you may find the answers that you seek.

  Rigan turned toward Corran, shouting his name. He tried to grab his brother by the shoulders, but his hands found only air. Corran did not give any indication that he saw, heard, or sensed Rigan, and he turned away from where Eshtamon vanished, muttering curses, his expression dark with anger and grief.

  Abruptly, Rigan stood alone in the dark. The presence he had sensed earlier felt stronger, closer and… curious. It might have barely noted his existence before the first dream, but apparently, recognition went both ways. Rigan sensed the utter wrongness of the presence as if it fell too far beyond the limits of his experience for his mind to comprehend, beyond simple, primal terror. Not exactly malicious, he thought, but corrupted, and he realized with a jolt that it stank of the warped energies of the taint. Rigan tried to shield himself; tried to make his presence small and easily overlooked, but he knew he had failed. Though he saw nothing in the darkness, he felt the presence’s notice, as if someone stared at him from afar and locked gazes. He shuddered. Nothing good could come of this.

  Rigan thrashed his way to wakefulness to find himself tangled in his cloak on the rocky floor in the pre-dawn darkness. Trent watched him with concern from where he stood sentry at the cave mouth. “Are you all right?”

  It took a few moments before Rigan’s heartbeat slowed and his breath evened before he could answer. Instead, he nodded, forcing himself to take several deep breaths. The panic eased but did not go away completely. Rigan doubted that it ever would, so long as they remained in this godsforsaken place.

  “Yeah,” he managed, though his dry mouth made it difficult to speak. He felt a little too warm and sluggish, like the beginning of a fever was taking hold, and blamed the taint. “Just bad dreams. I’m fine.” Privately, Rigan wondered whether what he sensed was merely a dream or something more.

  It would be like Corran to demand that Eshtamon find us. I wouldn’t put it past him to go toe-to-toe with an Elder God to get me back. Did Eshtamon have something to do with us being pulled through the Rift? Surely a god would know where I am, and if blood mages can open the Rifts, an Elder God can walk wherever he chooses. Or am I missing something important, something I need to figure out while I’m here? Gods above and below, my head hurts trying to puzzle it out. We don’t have time for me to be confused. Mir and Trent are depending on me. Corran and Elinor are counting on me. I’ve got to get this right because I have the feeling there’s more at stake than just our lives.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Rigan!” Corran looked around the field where they had fought the higani, desperate to find his brother. “Trent! Mir!”

  The shattered white-shelled carcasses of the crab-like monsters littered the ground, and Corran dodged the bodies as he ran toward where he had last seen the missing men. “Rigan!”

  They fanned out, lanterns held aloft, caring little that their shouts might attract more of the creatures. Voices grew panicked as they continued to search and no replies came.

  “They were right here,” Corran said, gesturing to the spot where Rigan, Mir, and Trent had been when they fought the higani. “How could they disappear?”

  “I couldn’t take my eyes of the creatures long enough to get a good look,” Ross said, “but out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something shimmer and flare. When I did turn, there was nothing.”

  Corran ran a hand through his hair. “That can’t be right. They must be here somewhere. Maybe… maybe while we were focused on the higani, something else carried them off.”

  The three men walked the perimeter of the clearing, growing increasingly frustrated and frightened as it became clear that their missing comrades were not anywhere in the field.

  “There aren’t any footprints, hoof prints, or claw marks except prints that match the higani,” Ross pointed out.

  “And there’s no evidence of anyone being dragged off,” Calfon agreed reluctantly.

  “Maybe whatever it was carried them—” Corran felt his heart pound and a knot form in his stomach.

  “The ground’s soft enough that anything carrying three grown men would have left marks,” Ross said. “And one of us surely would have noticed if something big enough to make off with an adult man flew in from the sky.”

  Corran swallowed hard. “That light you saw, the shimmer—could that be one of those ‘ripples’ Aiden and Rigan talked about?” As he spoke the words, he knew they were true, and he fought hard not to retch at the implications.

  “Maybe,” Ross replied. “And if so, then a Rift opened—”

  “And pulled them into it,” Calfon finished.

  Corran turned away, feeling dizzy as the implications sank in. “We’ve got to get them back,” he said. “We’ve got to figure out how to open the Rift and get them out.” What if all Rifts don’t go to the same place? How do we find the “door” that leads to Rigan? What’s on the other side of a Rift? If that’s where monsters come from, can people survive? Oh gods, what if they’re already dead?

  Ross laid a hand on Corran’s shoulder. “There’s nothing else we can do out here tonight.”

  Corran shook his head. “No. I won’t leave him. What if—”

  “If it opens again and spits them back out, Rigan and the others will walk home,” Calfon replied. “We’ll come back in daylight with Aiden and Elinor and see what the witches make of it, and bring the boys home if they’ve come out on their own. If not, we’ll do whatever Aiden and Elinor say we need to do to get them out safely.”

  “We’re nothing but bait out here at night,” Ross pointed out. “And getting ourselves killed won’t help them. Let’s get out of here before something else either picks up our scent or comes to clean up what’s left of the higani. Calfon’s right. We’re done for tonight.”

  Corran wanted to argue and shout and curse, but he knew his friends were correct. They had been lucky that no other monsters had come along to see what the noise was about. He felt numb, far more than could be blamed on the cold evening air. Before they reached the horses, his stomach rebelled, and he fell to his knees as his supper came back up. He rose on shaky legs but refused help to swing up to his saddle. They each led one of the missing men’s horses, and silence stretched awkwardly as the three men made their way home. Everything around Corran seemed blurred and unreal.

  Rigan vanished, without a trace. He’s gone. They could be fighting for their lives, and there’s nothing we can do to help. They could die, and we’ll never know it.

  Eshtamon! God of Vengeance, Elder God, He to Whom We Swore our Souls—hear me! You promised us your protection. We’ve held up our side of the bargain—and we’ll continue to fight the monsters and protect our people and the Wanderers. But I need my brother. We’re in this together, and I can’t do what we promised without him.

  No answer came. Corran felt no surprise. He did not expect another vision of the cloaked, fearsome deity he and Rigan had seen in the cemetery the ni
ght of Kell’s death. Rigan’s the one with visions. I just bury the dead.

  A frightening thought occurred to him. What if Eshtamon’s done with us, now that Machison and Blackholt are dead? Maybe that’s all he needed us for, and his interests are elsewhere. Corran pondered that for a moment and reached a conclusion. No, it can’t be. Rigan and Aiden think that others besides Blackholt are conjuring monsters—and we’ve seen the proof of that in the types of creatures and the Rifts. The Wanderers are still as endangered as ever—they’re never welcomed, but they’re as much fugitives as we are now. So if they’re his sworn people, they’re hardly safe. And while the battle back in Ravenwood seemed huge to us, was it really big enough to warrant a god’s notice?

  Corran’s conclusions frightened him. If they had only uncovered and destroyed part of the problem, then blood witches and their powerful masters still threatened the Balance, and their monsters endangered all of Ravenwood. How can three witches and a half a dozen hunters possibly set things right? Even with the help of an Elder God? Worse was the possibility that if Rigan and the others did not come back, their chances for success fell even more.

  “We’re nearly home,” Ross said, nudging Corran’s shoulder to rouse him from his thoughts. Corran nodded in acknowledgment, but his mind spun with possibilities and questions. And beneath everything, a growing level of panic and grief constricted his chest and made him feel as if he were being crushed.

  He saw to his horse out of habit, removing the saddle and tack, fetching water and food, wiping him down and giving the gelding a quick curry. Afterward, he tended Rigan’s mount, as Calfon and Ross took care of Mir’s and Trent’s horses. Grooming the horses was a mindless chore so engrained Corran could do it without thinking. Usually, it provided a centering break that calmed him after a fight. Tonight, the tasks passed in such a blur that he questioned later whether he had really done them.