Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  An effort of will brought his focus back to scouting the territory. He soared above the tree canopy, scanning the dark horizon. He confirmed his suspicion that this realm had day and night, but the sun brightened for only a few precious hours, dawn and twilight lingered much longer than in the outside world, and night seemed to last forever.

  In the fleeting light of morning, Rigan had difficulty making out the shimmer of new Rifts by sight alone, but his magic pointed him unerringly toward their ever-shifting locations. Several glimmered and darkened not far from their camp, giving him hope of a way home, if only Corran and the others could find those nearby portals.

  Gliding over the tall trees or swooping above the ground, Rigan saw many more unfamiliar creatures that had not yet made their way through the Rifts, all of them worthy of the term “monster.” Despite the buzz of the ointment, Rigan shuddered, hating the idea of an ever-greater horde of attackers at the command of the blood witches.

  He felt the touch of the presence like a cold finger pressed to his beating heart, and Rigan’s flight faltered. The entity loomed too large to comprehend, too terrifying for his mind to grasp, and even those brief glimpses threatened his sanity. What he saw, he struggled to map, memorizing anything he knew or recognized. Some things were so alien that it hurt to think about them, or to keep the images in his mind long enough to process. Vast size. A huge, unhinged maw with suckers to draw prey in and rows of sharp teeth to mince it fine. Insatiable hunger, and tendrils of darkness to find and bind. Whip-like antennae and the slick ooze coating smooth black skin to begin digesting anything close enough to touch.

  Rigan dropped like a stone, falling through leaves and branches, his shadow-self too immobilized by the horrors he glimpsed to fully register the pain. Worse, the great dark eye of the presence saw him, and Rigan felt flayed to the bone, then unwound as the implacable orb stripped his mind away.

  Not just one presence; others lingered in the vast shaded moors and fens behind the first. Some rose from the foul water, others fell from the sky, while some assembled themselves out of the dead pieces of things forgotten and left behind, into a new abomination that woke ravenous.

  Rigan did not think he could survive if they all noticed him; he had doubts that even now he clung to sanity by more than a shred. As his shadow-self neared the ground, Rigan wrested his gaze away from the primordial horrors in the deepest corners of the Rift and summoned enough presence of mind to pull up, taking flight before he could slam into the loam and rock.

  The ointment’s power waned, and Rigan looked around, desperate and panicked, trying to find a way home. He searched for landmarks, but everything looked unfamiliar. Rigan had no idea what exactly might become of him if his shadow-self did not return to his body before the ointment lost its hold, but he could not imagine that anything good would come of it. He might die, or worse, be trapped as a wraith, far from his friends and forever lost to his home.

  Gathering all his waning strength and resolutely refusing to spare a glance in the direction of the dark entities that called to him in his dreams, Rigan closed his eyes and focused on the cave and the cliff ledge. He willed himself to find his body and sensed a thin, foxfire thread almost too fragile to notice in the gloaming, and he followed it with everything he had left in him.

  This time, when he fell, he hit the ground.

  Rigan’s consciousness crashed back into his body, overwhelming every system as his self, his soul, forced its way back into flesh, sinew, and bone. Muscles seized and his thoughts stuttered, as his jaw went rigid and teeth clacked in a terrible staccato. He could control nothing but felt everything, as his body bucked and twitched and his heart threatened to beat its way past his ribs.

  A sharp, foul taste invaded his mouth as his teeth ground down on seeds that popped and dissolved on his tongue. Rigan had a dim awareness of hands gripping him on his shoulders and ankles, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as his body fought them, shuddering and shaking. He gasped for breath, and he felt the throbbing of his heart in his ears and eyes. Everything was too much: sound, color, scent. Distant voices cried out, but their words could not penetrate the fog of pain. Finally, everything went dark.

  “… never get home with him dead!”

  “… we don’t know yet.”

  “… going to die in this godsforsaken place.”

  “… not helping anything!”

  “… you won’t accept it, but we are never going home!”

  Voices woke Rigan, and he swam toward them. A part of him felt a twinge of concern over the heated argument, but his blurred thoughts could not grasp why it might have anything to do with him.

  What he did know was that he was terribly, painfully thirsty. “Water,” he croaked, and everything around him went silent.

  “Rigan?” Trent loomed over him, eyes wide with concern. “Oh, gods. Rigan!”

  “Water.” It took all of Rigan’s will to force the word out past a dry tongue and parched lips. Trent vanished from his view for a second, and returned to spill water from the wineskin over his lips, slowing the stream so Rigan could swallow without choking.

  Trent turned away. “I told you not to give up so fast,” he chided Mir. “Rigan’s tougher than you give him credit for.”

  “He died,” Mir argued, sounding petulant and frightened. “We couldn’t feel breath or a heartbeat. How do we know it’s really him?”

  Trent’s patience reached a breaking point. “Gods, man—what is your problem? Must you make everything worse? Go take watch, and stop inventing more trouble than we already have.”

  Rigan heard the reluctant footsteps as Mir trudged to the front of the cave. Trent turned back to him, managing a shaky smile. “We thought we’d lost you,” Trent said quietly. “You were in the trance for a day and a half, and then you had a seizure, and everything stopped.” He swallowed. “Except apparently, it started back up again while I was arguing with Mir.”

  “He’s afraid,” Rigan managed.

  Trent muttered a few curses under his breath. “You don’t know the half of it. I thought he’d completely unraveled with the idea that if you were dead, we were trapped here for good,” he replied in a low tone, glancing toward the cave mouth to make sure Mir wasn’t listening.

  “I didn’t mean to worry you,” Rigan said.

  Trent dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. “I’m just glad you made it back. You need to eat something and drink, and get some sleep,” Trent said. “Then I want to know what you found out.”

  “Rifts are close,” Rigan murmured as Trent helped him sit, holding a cup to his lips while he drank, and tearing off small bits of cooked meat for him to eat. His entire body ached, and his head throbbed, reminding him of his early training when he had pushed his magic too far without proper anchoring and nearly died.

  “Then we have to get them open,” Trent replied, supporting him until he waved away more food or drink, then easing him back down to the cold cave floor. “You don’t have to tell me now.”

  Rigan grabbed Trent’s arm, clenching tightly with his fingers. “A horror lives in the shadows,” he said, as his mind cringed away from the awful glimpses. “It saw me.”

  Trent frowned, patting his arm and gently removing his hand. “Sleep, then tell me more. There’s nothing to do about it tonight.”

  Rigan wanted to tell him that the presence could find him in his dreams, but as it turned out, he was far too tired to dream.

  Rigan forced himself up and about before his protesting body had fully recovered, but the knowledge of what lurked in the recesses of the Rift would have made him rise from his deathbed. Trent had listened intently while Rigan recounted what he had seen. Mir huddled in on himself at the edge of the firelight, head down, arms wrapped around his knees.

  “We know more about what’s here inside the Rift,” Trent said after he had chewed on the information a while, “but not much to help us get out.”

  “I’ve got another idea,” Rigan said as they h
eaded out to replenish their supplies, something Trent had been loath to do while Rigan lay unconscious. From what little he could gather, Mir had not dealt well with the situation and now seemed utterly convinced that they would never return home. Rigan fought down his temper, grateful for Trent’s bloody-minded practicality, even if Mir had all but surrendered.

  “I need to find something bluish and something reddish,” Rigan told the others as they ventured out to get food, water, and wood.

  “Will those work?” Mir asked, pointing to a cluster of orange seeds dangling from a tree.

  “With luck,” Rigan said, gathering some of the seeds. He picked some red flowers also, just in case, then spotted dark blue berries as they neared the stream and tied them up in his shirt so he could leave a hand free for a weapon. They all had their swords, and Trent carried a lit torch although it was as bright as this realm ever got. Rigan and Mir each had an unlit torch, as a precaution.

  “Watch out! We’ve got company!” Mir shouted moments before half a dozen of the crab-monsters clattered up from the edge of the stream. He dropped the wood he had gathered and lit his torch from Trent’s flame, as did Rigan.

  “Swords don’t work well on those shells,” Trent reminded them. “Go for the joints, and finish them off with a big rock.”

  The three hunters formed a circle to protect their backs, and the higani closed the distance. Their carapaces clacked and their strange chittering noise made Rigan’s hackles rise. At first, the hunters kept the creatures at a distance with the torches, but soon there were too many, and all Rigan and the others could do was make some back off while they engaged others. The creatures were fast, and Rigan remembered too late how sharp the pointed and barbed ends of their long, jointed legs were when one sliced into his calf.

  “Damn things have knives for feet,” he swore, getting his vengeance as he brought his sword down hard on the joints of the creature’s front legs, slicing two from its body. That slowed the higani but did not stop it. A second monster skittered closer, but Rigan wasn’t sure whether it was more interested in him or its wounded comrade.

  To his relief, the second higani set upon its companion as an easy meal, ignoring Rigan until he brought his sword down on it as well, taking out all the legs on one side. He slammed a heavy rock down on the two damaged monsters with all his strength, cracking open their tough shells. The smell that rose from their innards reminded him of fish left out in the sun.

  By the time he looked up, Mir and Trent had hobbled or killed their share of the higani. All of them were bleeding from where the sharp shells had sliced through cloth and skin.

  “We’d better move fast,” Trent cautioned. “If the monsters couldn’t smell us before, they’re sure to scent blood.”

  Trent hurried to fill the wineskins while Mir and Rigan grabbed wood for the fire, and Rigan snatched up his parcel with the plants.

  They heard noises in the brush as they headed for the cave, snuffles and grunts that told them creatures followed, looking for an opportunity. Trent had both hands free with the wineskins on straps slung over his shoulders, so he kept a sword and a torch ready. Mir and Rigan had their hands full carrying wood.

  The three men made it back to their shelter, winded and bleeding. Along with what he had gathered for the magic, Rigan had also picked some medicinal plants, and he made a paste out of them to keep their wounds from festering. The only thing worse than being trapped in this nether realm would be for one of them to get dangerously ill.

  The higani or other predators had raided the snares down by the creek, but the traps Trent set on the rocks yielded three of the small furred animals, enough for each of them to have a decent portion. While Rigan had found plants for magic and medicine, they had found nothing that looked trustworthy to eat.

  When they finished their meager supper, Rigan prepared what he needed for the working that night.

  “What now?” Trent asked, watching Rigan get ready.

  “I’m going to try some grave magic, see if there are any human souls—ghosts—here that I can communicate with,” Rigan replied as he gathered his things. “If there are, maybe we can learn something from them.”

  “You’ve barely come back from the dead. Do you have the strength to do another working?” Trent challenged.

  “Do we have the time for me to wait?” Rigan snapped. Trent sighed and shook his head. “I’ll be careful,” Rigan added, softening his tone. “But we need to get out of here. Maybe the ghosts can show me how.”

  Trent raised an eyebrow. “If they’re still here, then they aren’t going to lead us to the way out.”

  “Maybe not,” Rigan conceded, “but they might tell us what doesn’t work.”

  “Seems like a long shot,” Mir said.

  Rigan glared at him. “Got a better idea? Getting out of here at all is a long shot. I’ll take any help I can find.”

  He moved to the protected area of the ledge, outside the cave but within their stone wall. He had crushed the plants and hoped that the color of the strange berries and seeds would be close enough to the pigments he had used back in their workshop. As he painted the familiar sigils on the rock, Rigan felt a stab of concern for Corran and Elinor.

  I’m doing everything I can to get us back home. Whatever it takes. Gods above! I don’t want to die here.

  Rigan set his jaw. They were not going to die in this godsforsaken realm. No matter what the cost, he intended to get them home.

  When the sigils were drawn and the circle complete, Rigan knelt and closed his eyes, gathering his magic. He drew from the runes and let his power flow along the familiar paths. This magic came as effortlessly as breathing.

  Death was no stranger in this realm. Rigan’s magic was not attuned to monsters, but the sheer amount of carnage pulled at his power, though there were no souls for him to pass to the After. He let his magic sweep as far as he could cast it, listening for a response. When nothing stirred, he despaired, until finally, something surged toward him in answer.

  “Who are you?”

  I don’t remember.

  “How did you get here?”

  It was so long ago; I’m not sure.

  “You were human?” Rigan pressed.

  Yes. At least, I think so.

  “How long have you been here?”

  How would I know? Who is the king?

  “Rellan is King of Darkhurst.”

  I do not know of Darkhurst, the ghost replied.

  Rigan‘s heart sank, but he pressed on. “How did you get here?”

  I walked across a field, and the air changed. I woke here.

  “How did you die? How did the other ghosts die?”

  So many ways. A growler killed me and ate my flesh.

  Rigan tried a different approach. “The big, powerful presence in the darkness. What is it?”

  Old and hungry. Flee from it.

  Either the ghost died before he could learn much about this realm, or it had faded too far to care. Rigan tried again. “My friends and I were pulled through a Rift. We’re trying to get home.”

  You can’t. At least, we couldn’t.

  Rigan’s heart sank. “What did you try?”

  We chased the ripples. But we couldn’t get pulled into the current.

  “Current?”

  If you’re close enough when one opens, it’s like a river moving very fast. It pulls what’s nearby into it. I can remember that much.

  The connection with the ghost began to fade. It took all of Rigan’s concentration to hold it steady for one last question. “Were any of you witches?”

  It took so long for a reply Rigan thought the spirit was gone. And then, he heard the reply. No. And maybe it will help you. But don’t count on it.

  Rigan sat lost in thought after the ghost vanished. Talking to the spirit had tired him, but he had enough in him for a second attempt. This time, Rigan sent his anchor down into the rock beneath him, and cast his power into the air, seeking the ripples he suspected were thin s
pots between this realm and home.

  He had no clear idea of how to do this, only a vague sense that he should try. Gathering his grave magic, Rigan pushed out toward the ripples, calling to any lost souls who might hear.

  Ghosts often learn things after death that they didn’t know when they were alive. Maybe I can make contact with a ghost on the other side of the ripple—back home—and see what I can learn about crossing the threshold.

  It occurred to Rigan that opening a door into another realm was something he was intimately familiar with as an undertaker when part of helping “stuck” souls move on involved opening the portal to the After. Rigan had no desire to go to the After any sooner than necessary, and he felt sure any path back to the world of the living that wound through the After would be equally fraught with peril as what they faced here beyond the Rift. But if my magic can open one door—and such a big one, to Doharmu’s kingdom itself—surely I can open a small one to get us home.

  He felt a tug on his magic, faint and tentative, but unquestionably real. Rigan reached out and willed the ghost closer.

  Where is this place? The ghost asked. Rigan found himself looking at the spirit of a man in his middle years, bald and pudgy, who glanced about himself in wonder and fear.

  “I’m not completely sure. I’m lost, and I hoped you could lead me home.”

  That might not be a good idea. I’m pretty sure I must be dead.

  “You are. I’m an undertaker. That’s how I could draw in your spirit.” Rigan tried to be as reassuring as he could, though he had no idea how to handle this conversation.

  Oh gods, am I stuck here? Send me back!

  “I will send you back—and if I can’t, I’ll send you on, into the After. But show me the path you took to come to me, so I can follow.”

  The ghost turned, looking behind him. There. Can you see the lights? Like the insects that fly at night and glow. That’s the way I came.