Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  They had fashioned a redoubt of sorts in a cliff side cave, reinforcing its protections with rocks and makeshift fencing woven from saplings. Just gathering wood, water, and food proved to be a life-or-death struggle. Rigan was glad that the small prey creatures proved edible, sparing them from trying to choke down meat from most of the monsters they killed.

  “There are more of them now.” Mir was on watch, looking into the valley beneath them.

  Rigan suspected that the longer they were in this realm, the more monsters would sense their presence and be drawn to their scent. It grew harder each day to fight their way down to the stream and to keep back the creatures that hunted them when they went to gather wood for the fire. Soon, they would be outnumbered. Sooner, perhaps, than Rigan could muster the magic to get them home.

  “I’d give a lot for some of the books Aiden’s got back at the monastery.” Rigan sighed. Without texts, he had only the spells and lore in his memory to draw from, and new as he was at magic, he feared it would not be enough.

  “Whatever you need, we’ll help you get it,” Trent promised.

  So far, Rigan’s attempts at blood magic had been unsuccessful. He had killed a couple of the rabbit-like creatures in a ritual he hoped would create ripples in the ambient energy like those that signaled the opening of a Rift. The exercise left him covered with blood and feeling as if he had tainted his soul, but drew very little energy to him, certainly nothing sufficient to tear the fabric of reality and open a door home.

  But it did call the presence in his dreams closer. Before he attempted to work blood magic, he only sensed a vague awareness in the darkness; now he heard murmured words too quiet for him to make out. He still felt the same dread and gut-deep fear of the thing in the darkness, and now that it felt closer and its awareness fixed on him, Rigan wished he could hide himself, or clean away the residue of corruption that hung about the presence like a cloud of flies.

  Rigan strengthened his mental protections as Aiden had taught him, and forced the disturbing memories away. He had work to do. Today, they had stumbled on some plants Rigan recognized, and he needed to try another working. Rigan disliked the feel of the power that came when he killed for magic, and he felt sure that the taint within the Rift was to blame for the persistent fever and headache he fought, like a slow poison. He hoped once they were home he might cleanse the stain, but right now he was resolved to do whatever it took regardless of the cost.

  “Cover me,” he said to Trent and Mir as he leaped across the fire and climbed over the protective wall of rock. They had argued all afternoon when Rigan had told them that he wanted to work this next magic outside the cave. He knew the risk, but he feared that being inside the rock might hamper the magic. An experienced blood witch like Blackholt didn’t seem to be hindered by being in an underground dungeon. Then again, I’ve got neither his experience nor his power.

  Rigan slit the small animal’s throat, clean and fast. For all that he desperately wanted to get home, he could not bring himself to torture. In the next breath, he brought the blade down across his left palm, letting his blood drip into the same vessel that rapidly filled with that of his prey. Maybe blood magic requires human blood, especially for a working this powerful.

  Rigan dipped two fingers into the bowl and painted sigils at the quarters of a circle around himself. He remembered the markings that he had seen in Blackholt’s workshop, and at least these runes he and Aiden had been able to translate, so he knew something of their intent. Magic was always rooted in intention.

  Next, he completed the circle drawing on the stone with bloody fingers, and then he turned back to the bowl. Rigan reached into his pouch with his right hand and withdrew the bits of plants he had gathered earlier. Then he lifted the bowl and closed his eyes, stretching out his power and trying to sense the currents of energy all around them.

  He focused on the blood and rooted his magic in it. He had been taught to anchor himself as if magic were one of the core elements. Rigan envisioned the power as red tendrils branching out, like the veins he had seen in bodies they had tended in their undertaker’s workshop back home. His mind’s eye saw the ritual blood run through these tendrils, stretching farther as they branched. Each tendril and its offshoots were exquisitely sensitive, practically humming with energy that thrummed like a heartbeat, growing attuned to his pulse.

  Now he could see the ripples, shimmers where the beat became erratic. He felt a tug, as if the shimmer called to him. Rigan stretched farther, endeavoring to grab hold of those shimmers and draw one to him.

  When his power touched the ripple, it felt as if lightning struck, burning through him and throwing him backward. His body broke the circle of blood, and his connection with the tendrils of power vanished.

  Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him back over the stone fence as a growl sounded too close for comfort.

  “Get back!” Trent shouted, letting go of Rigan’s arm and grabbing a torch, then thrusting it into the darkness beyond the wall.

  Red eyes glared, and the torchlight revealed the squashed bat-faced maw of a vestir, one of the black dog monsters they had hunted back in Ravenwood. Rigan had seen the damage one of those monsters could do, and he had no desire to become its dinner.

  “What happened?” Mir asked as they helped Rigan stagger into the cave and find a seat against the rock wall.

  Rigan told them what he had seen. “I had it partly right,” he said, trying to ignore the headache pounding behind his eyes, a side-effect of working magic without enough food or rest. “I saw the ripples, but as soon as I tried to touch one to bring it closer, the power threw me clear.”

  “Now what?” Trent asked, ever practical. The look on his face told Rigan that his friend felt the same keen disappointment, but refused to give in to despair. Perhaps it was bravado, but if so, Rigan needed the pretense to hold onto his waning hope.

  “I’m going to try something with the plants we gathered,” Rigan said, wondering if he sounded as tired as he felt.

  “I don’t know much about plants and nothing about magic, but I do recognize what you picked—and they’re poisons,” Mir objected. Since his small flask had run dry, removing his way of dealing with the loss he struggled to accept, Mir’s tone grew snappish, and he rarely spoke unless spoken to.

  “That’s one reason I didn’t try this first,” Rigan said. “I saw a recipe for an ointment that witches use to ‘see beyond.’ Some of the old texts claimed it made them fly, but newer books said that was poetic, not real.”

  Trent raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen some of the lads mix up a concoction and smoke it to put them out of their heads for a while. Is that what you’re aiming at?”

  Rigan frowned. “Not exactly—or at least, not for fun. If I do it right, I should be able to sense the world beyond the limits of my body. That would let me find the ripples and where the Rifts are opening, maybe learn more about how the energy works here.”

  “When you say ‘beyond the limits of your body’ do you mean you die?” Mir asked.

  “Not exactly,” Rigan said, “or at least, not permanently. More like being in a place between life and death, like a trance or a vision. And while I’m there, I’m going to try to see if I can get a message to Corran. Some of the lore suggested that witches who used the ointment could visit people in their dreams.”

  “None of that is reassuring, Rigan,” Mir replied. “And I do not want to be the one to tell Corran we let you get yourself killed.”

  Trent and Rigan exchanged a look, and Rigan did not need words to know the same thought passed between them. If I can’t get the magic to take us home, you won’t have to worry about telling Corran anything.

  “I don’t like it, but we don’t have a lot of options,” Trent said. “Do you have everything you need?”

  Rigan nodded. “I’m going to scrape up some fat from the carcass of the animal I used in the ritual. Which you can cook now since nothing I did should have made it bad to eat.”

&nbs
p; While Mir stood watch, Trent prepared the animals they had snared for dinner, being careful to save the fat. Rigan found a depression in the stone floor that would work for a bowl, and a rock he could use to grind the plants to mash. He wrapped his hand in cloth, careful not to get any of the mixture on his skin, and added the fat.

  “There. It’s supposed to sit overnight—lets the ingredients mingle, I guess. I’ll try it tomorrow when we have fresh blood to go with it.”

  After dinner, Trent took his turn at watch. Neither of his friends would permit Rigan to take a shift, declaring that he had done enough by working the magic. Much as he wanted to do his share, Rigan felt secretly grateful, doubting he could remain awake or alert.

  He fell into a deep, troubled sleep. Rigan saw himself back in the monastery. Corran and the others were there, but when Rigan tried to speak to them, they did not seem to hear.

  He could not hear them, either, but he did not need to know what was going on. Corran looked like he had not slept or eaten in days, haggard and hollow-cheeked. By turns, he raged and then withdrew as if he neared the breaking point. Calfon and Ross comforted, advised, and cajoled, but nothing stopped Corran’s restless pacing.

  Elinor and Aiden worked in the room they had claimed as a library-workshop and looked little better than Corran. Dark circles under their eyes and rumpled clothing suggested they were pushing themselves hard. Where Corran showed his fear with anger, Elinor barely spoke, pausing to blink back tears now and again. Polly drafted Calfon and Ross to fetch food and help with chores since the others would not leave their tasks.

  The monastery vanished, and Rigan stood alone in the darkness. The presence had drawn closer, and he imagined he felt cold breath against his skin. It watched him, calculating, ancient, and dangerous. Panicked, Rigan struck out around himself to drive the thing back, but his blows met only air. Perhaps it did not need to be physically nearby to project its awareness. His heart pounded, and sweat slicked his back. Or maybe the presence truly was nothing more than his imagination.

  Rigan woke with a start. The fire at the cave mouth had burned down, telling him he had been asleep for a while. Trent glanced at him when he startled awake.

  “Vision or dream?”

  Rigan shook his head. “Can’t tell. I saw the others back in the monastery, but I couldn’t communicate with them. They didn’t seem to see me. Maybe it was just a dream. Doesn’t take magic to guess they’re worried sick.” He almost told them about the presence, but at the last minute, changed his mind. If it’s my imagination, there’s no need to worry them. If I’m going mad, they’ll see the proof of that for themselves soon enough. And if it’s real… gods, if it’s real, there’s nothing we can do about it.

  Trent looked back into the night. “This mixture you made, you telling the truth about surviving it? Because not only would Corran kill us if we let you do something stupid, but we won’t get home for him to have the chance.”

  Rigan drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them. “I have every intention of surviving. The texts Aiden and I read certainly made it sound like many witches had lived to tell the tale. We discussed it quite a bit. Aiden thought that combining the poppies with the belladonna was the key—kept it from being too toxic.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “I guess I’ll find out.”

  “Will it really let you do magic, or just make you see things?”

  Rigan debated his answer and decided to tell the truth. “I don’t know, but if I couple it with the blood magic, I think it will be real. I have to try.”

  “Tomorrow, as soon as the sky lightens, I’ll get Mir to help me move the rocks out, so you don’t have to go on the other side of the wall. All the magic in the world won’t help if you get eaten.”

  “You look like you’re barely on your feet,” Rigan said. “I can take a turn.”

  Trent snorted. “You look worse. Save your strength and get some sleep. Even if this witch ointment of yours works, I don’t imagine it’ll go easy on you.”

  Rigan tried to get comfortable on the rocky floor, surprised that exhausted as he felt, he still had trouble falling asleep. His thoughts raced, replaying his dream. Rigan did not doubt that their friends were searching for them. Nothing Corran could have done would have prevented them being pulled through the Rift, but Rigan knew his brother would blame himself anyhow.

  Aiden and Elinor at least could lose themselves in searching old texts and lore, and trying to open the Rift from their side. Corran might help them dig through the books, but he had only his undertaker’s magic, which seemed of little use now.

  I can’t leave Corran, not after we’ve lost Kell.

  Rigan could not forget how wrecked his brother looked in his dream. Whether or not the vision was magic, he doubted it was far from the truth. He fell into a fitful sleep, but the dreams did not return, and for once, neither did the presence.

  Rigan woke slowly, frustrated by the inability to tell day from night. He shook himself awake, and put out a meager breakfast of berries and nuts, rationing the servings for himself and the others. Trent roused shortly after Rigan, but Mir continued sleeping, tossing and murmuring in his sleep.

  “Are you still going to try the ointment?” Trent asked. “Because I can help you move those rocks so you have a bit more room.”

  Rigan finished the handful of food that was better than nothing and washed it down with a few swallows of water. He glanced again at Mir. “I’m worried about him,” he murmured.

  Trent nodded. “Me, too. I was, even before we came through the Rift. More, now.”

  Only a few months had passed since their entire world turned upside down that night in Ravenwood City, and Rigan knew it would take longer—perhaps a lifetime—to fully recover from that kind of loss and grief. Each of them dealt with it in his or her own way, but mostly with hunting and silence and whiskey. Rigan suspected that the pain of what they had lost, or what had been taken from them, would linger like a wound that would not heal. Some of them would find a way to go on, while others went under.

  For all that Corran and Calfon argued with Ross about his reckless solo hunts, Rigan didn’t feel especially worried. Ross had excellent skills, and while anything could go wrong on any hunt, Rigan did not get the sense that Ross sought suicide by monster. Sometimes, Rigan knew, the pain and fear of a near-death encounter broke through the numbness, a reminder of being still alive, and in those moments, having a target to fight and kill helped to work off the loss.

  Mir’s silence and his withdrawal into a jug of whiskey worried Rigan far more.

  “What did I miss?” Mir sat, rubbing his eyes, damp with sweat from another night terror.

  “Nothing yet,” Trent replied. “Come eat breakfast, and then we need to help Rigan get ready for his latest magic.”

  With three of them moving the rocks, preparation for the working did not take long. Rigan had scooped out the “witch ointment” onto a flat bone and brought it with him into the circle he drew with soot and the sigils he had drawn onto the rock.

  “If this goes wrong, how will we know?” Trent asked. “What can we do?”

  “You’ll know something’s wrong if I don’t wake up, or if something else seems to… take me over,” Rigan said, noting the sudden alarm on Trent’s face.

  “Take you over?”

  “I don’t know what spirits or entities exist in this realm,” Rigan replied, trying not to think about the presence in his dreams. “I’ll do my best to stay away from them, but I can’t promise. Shit, I don’t even know if everything I see and feel will be real. But if it is, this might be our best bet to get a look around without needing to fight off all the monsters.”

  “How do we wake you?” Trent persisted. Mir said nothing but watched the others with dark, hooded eyes that flickered between despair and terror.

  “Throw water in my face. Wipe the ointment off with a rag, but don’t get any on yourself. Pinch me or cut me—pain might work. Put something that smells really bad under my nose.” He
withdrew a small cluster of strangely shaped beans. “If all else fails, put these in my mouth. If they’re the plant I think they are; three beans will counter the strongest of the ingredients in the mixture. Don’t use more, or you’ll kill me even if the ointment didn’t.”

  “I still don’t like this,” Trent objected.

  “I don’t either, but we don’t have a lot of options.” Rigan clapped a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “If Eshtamon meant what he said, I’ll come back.” Neither of them needed to say aloud how little they trusted in the promises of the gods.

  Rigan stripped off his shirt, revealing a lean chest with muscles strengthened by hard work and sparring, and seated himself in the middle of the protective circle. He used the flat bone like a trowel to smooth the pungent ointment over the pulse points on his wrists and throat. Then Rigan stretched out on his back, with his arms by his sides, closed his eyes, and waited.

  The smell tingled in his nose, strong enough he could taste it on the back of his tongue. Where he spread the paste, his skin burned, but not painfully. He focused on keeping his breathing deep and regular, and within a few minutes, his body felt lighter, as if his consciousness floated out of his physical form.

  Unlike in his dreams or his attempt to use blood magic, Rigan felt separate from his body but tethered to it, which eased his fear. The warmth from his pulse points seeped into his blood and bone, giving him a heady feeling as if he had drunk strong wine. His spirit-being stood, then stared down at his still, solid body before stepping out over the edge of the cliff and falling.

  He fell—then rose, and in a giddy moment of flight understood the appeal and danger of the forbidden mixture. He dove at the monsters, easily dodging their claws and beaks, not drunk enough with the ointment to forget all caution. Rigan laughed as the creatures that hunted them flinched away at his approach, or ran after him only to be left behind. He looped and rolled, losing the tension that had settled in his back and shoulders, free.