by Dan Rabarts
Akmenos spat ash from his mouth. “I needed you before now.” With an effort of both muscle and willpower, he pushed himself upright. “I needed you when we were young, to look out for me, not to beat me down.” He tossed the bloody scrap of stone onto his brother’s chest, causing Hrodok to flinch with the unexpected impact. “I needed you once. I don’t need you now.”
“Akmenos—”
But Akmenos had turned away, pointing his tail away from his nose, and was walking once again. He felt lighter somehow, even as his brother’s cries grew fainter behind him.
~
This time he was going somewhere, for sure. Rocks cloaked in black dust appeared, approached and receded. The profile of trees against the skyline changed. When he glanced back, his tail had cut a zigzag in the sand. He could no longer see Hrodok.
Akmenos bit his lip. What fate might befall his brother—blinded, bleeding, trapped on a different plane without food or water or a map home? Perhaps he’d been hasty, and crueller than he ought. But Hrodok had been cruel to Akmenos their whole lives. There was some measure of justice in this, however bitter it may taste. He paused, merely to draw breath, not at all because he might be considering turning back. The wind was rising, the sand flurrying in ghostly gouts across the broken landscape, obscuring his tracks from view.
And then he understood. He could still slip back. He had let go of the thing that was holding him down, the weight that’d been on his back, around his shoulders. The thing that had held him back all his life. Whatever this place was, the symbolic was as important—if not more important—than the physical. That must be the rule of this plane: its gravity dragged folk inward to the centre, to the pit of sand and ash at its core, and no-one could walk out of there as long as they clung to whatever held them down. Things like abusive brothers, and the guilt of leaving them behind. Even now, as he dared to contemplate giving in to pity, the sand rasped around his hooves, teasing him back.
It must be a part of the Holy Flame’s design. For a mere mortal like Akmenos to join the ranks of such vaunted heroes, one must resolve to cast off such earthly bonds. That made sense. Akmenos resumed his purposeful stride, away from the desert and the encumbrances of his past.
He retrieved the scroll case. Clearly, the reliquary was still the key to reaching his next destination. For perhaps the first time in his life, getting somewhere had become more important than finding something to eat. There must be another clue.
He turned the case over, studying the remaining sections with their indecipherable script. As well as the Hornung and Dwarvish texts, there was still the Elvish, of which he had a culinary smattering, and the Base, which he could probably read if he applied himself, though studying foreign languages had been far less important to him than studying foreign cooking styles. Then there were a couple more languages he could only guess at.
Experience told him this was more than just a mental challenge. He’d needed Hrodok to unlock the case’s secrets, and the dwarves to translate the next section. This was possibly not a puzzle with only one answer. This was a desert all its own, the solution as shifting as windswept dunes. How he moved from one stage of the makers’ design to the next depended on how he worked with the opportunities at hand. Here, in this place between places, only those who were worthy made it out. Those who didn’t not only failed to find The Holy Flame but would never return to reveal the Flame’s secrets. That thought brought him pause. How long would it take to starve to death? Sure, he had some reserves on board, but it still wouldn’t be pleasant. He didn’t like the thought of being hungry for a day or two, much less for so long that his body gave up around him. Should he make for the trees that skirted the horizon, to climb one and survey the landscape? Probably not. Whatever rules governed this place, what he could see was irrelevant. Like he had needed to want to walk away, he needed to know what he wanted to get out of here. He had to want his way out. However unlikely, it had worked for him so far. Of course, the same rule would also apply to Hrodok. He might never see again, but that didn’t mean he’d be stuck here forever if he figured it out. And Hrodok had no trouble deciding what he wanted, or how to get it. Akmenos picked up his pace. He didn’t want to be stuck here when Hrodok got his legs under him.
He studied the case again, looking for patterns that defied language, like how he had figured out the code of the black and the white. He grinned. That had been a stroke of genius: salt and pepper to unlock an interdimensional rift. Brilliant. Or had there been another reason? What else might there have been about his brother and himself that had been black and white? He shuddered. How unlikely was it that an ancient secret order would make it a critical part of entering a rift that the quester be carrying condiments? Maybe it was something more fundamental; something by and large much more intrinsic to the character of the person involved. Or persons. Nothing about this whole messy affair had been black and white. It had been shades of grey, all the way. Symbols, then, like falling to the bottom of the universe. Was it possible that he and Hrodok were merely symbols themselves, one of them white, one black? Like opposing pieces on a game board?
But people weren’t that simple. As a son of Cursemaster Bane and a scion of the Hornung court, Akmenos knew there was no such thing as absolute. If the Holy Flame crafted their initiation quests on such flawed premises, then Akmenos wasn’t sure he wanted to find them at all. In fact, he had no personal desire to become part of the Holy Flame. He was only playing along with this insanity because of Scimitar pursuing him, and because of Hrodok, and only because he’d been framed for murder from the outset. Were it his choice, he wouldn’t be here, but rather back in his kitchen, running the cookery staff in the wake of Skerrl’s ignominious demotion from his undeserved supremacy of stove and scullery.
And there it was; that was what he wanted. If he could build a ladder of pots and pans, so he would. But there were no pots and pans here, no sacks of potatoes to climb on, no dishrags from which to make a rope to throw into the sky and haul himself heavenward. He stopped, breathing hard, and held out the scroll case in front of him. This thing had brought him here and it, too, was a weight around him. He wanted to be done with it, yet just throwing it away wouldn’t achieve anything. It must form part of the solution. Akmenos’ arms began to ache.
A weight around me.
It was the strangest sensation. The reliquary felt suddenly heavy, but gravity in this place was different, somehow. Rather than pulling his outstretched arm towards the ground, the case’s weight pulled his arm upward. He gripped it with both hands, finding it within him to hate it even more, how it had ruined his life, how it weighed on him. It drew his arms up, and he held tight as the scroll case fell up, into the grey. His hoofs and tail left the ground. He was falling.
Falling up.
Chapter Nineteen
Grebbeth sat back, drenched in cold sweat. Arah handed him a moist cloth and stalked to the window. The cool wind did nothing to alleviate the panic welling in her chest. “You must have cast it wrong!” she accused her son, though she knew that wasn’t true. Grebbeth never failed at scrying of any kind. As a young acolyte, he had tripped—and no doubt successfully cheated—any number of glyphs against mystic seeing in the female hornung dormitories, and that had only been the beginning. He’d mastered every known spell of farseeing, from cunning curses that started with marking a target with an invisible rune (such as the one he had placed on Hrodok before he had accompanied the Elvish company from Kriikan), to such broad-reaching magics that sought to catch a glimpse, a hint, of a known soul across vast distances. This last he had been attempting for some time now, across untold swathes of mountain and forest, seeking an echo of either of his brothers. To his own surprise as much as to his mother’s, he had sensed nothing, not for a thousand miles around.
“Had they the swiftest horses or ships, they could not have escaped so fast.” Arah’s tail thumped impatiently. She had merged her power with Grebbeth’s for the duration of the casting, seen what he saw, augmented his vision
, thrust their combined magic out further and more potently than he could’ve alone. “You’ve done all you can,” she said, striding across the scrying chamber. “Go, spy on the female bathhouse, or whatever it is you do to relax. I’ll leave you in peace.” She ignored his insulted protests. Her claws clacked regally as she left the room, tapping out the litany of her woes.
Two sons, missing. The empire on the brink of a war it probably couldn’t win. Her most talented child, revealed as a sneaky pervert. And the kitchens had run out of that lovely mint-and-chili dipping sauce Akmenos made up especially for her to accompany her bowls of live cicadas, which she would frequently enjoy of an evening on the balcony. Could it get any worse?
Probably. They could be out of cicadas altogether. She could do with something perishing noisily between her teeth right about now, but she would have to satisfy herself with ordering people around instead. Her family, in particular. Much as she needed to speak with Bane, he and Rathrax would be buried in damage control for several hours. Bane wouldn’t reveal it was Hrodok who’d slaughtered the elves—more to protect himself than Hrodok. Such a gem of information could drive a blade through the Hornung power structure. But to be sure, she needed to find Hrodok.
And cut out his black and traitorous tongue.
It was unlikely he and Akmenos had procured the services of a greater wyvern, but clearly, they had some means of travelling such a great distance in so short a time. Hrodok was a fine combat warlock, both tactician and silent killer, but his magics extended neither to long-range teleportation, nor to concealment from scrying. So, short of his having fallen in with some unknown ally with such skills, he must have gained knowledge of the blasted Eternal Stair and their power-crazed fantasies. That would both get the boy’s wild ambitions bubbling and explain his sudden disappearance. Fool child. If he’d somehow activated the plinth in the woods across the river, with the aid of the human wench Grebbeth had mentioned, he could be half a world away. How they’d unmade the wards laid across that section of the mountain valley to prevent the thing’s detection was a mystery, but the Coven would soon enough put them back in place—twice as powerful, this time. At least she knew where to start looking. But she needed to be miles away; she needed to be everywhere at once.
But she couldn’t, so she’d do what she was best at. Her powers in farspeech were formidable, and even more powerful when she was angry. Right now, her mood was souring, from polite restraint towards boiling rage. Servants scurried from her path, and she summoned her strength to call out to the one son she could rely on, he who both shared her knowledge in farspeech and would be willing and able to respond. If only Akmenos had mastered such magics, but alack, he truly was a disappointment. And Hrodok wouldn’t answer her, no matter how hard she called.
Versha!
There was a brief silence which spoke of the distance between them, then Versha’s voice crackled within the depths of her mind.
I’m a little busy right now, Mother.
Arah laughed out loud, causing passing courtiers to cast her puzzled glances. What could be more important than talking to your mother when she calls?
It’s complicated.
I need you to find your brother, as soon as you can.
Which one? I’ve seen Hrodok today, and I’ve heard tell where Akmenos is, but right now I’m trying to put down a revolt. The elves seem to think we killed their crown prince, and Hrodok tells me Akmenos was behind it.
Arah stopped. You don’t believe him.
Hrodok? I’m not that foolish. But they’re not here, and I’ve got the Silverblade Vistai mustering his Bladesingers to topple my standard, and the dwarves we’ve been trying to destroy are rallying to their call, not to mention that the taur are breaking their bonds and wreaking merry havoc, so really, I have to go. Give Father my love, will you?
Arah dropped the spell. There was only one thing in the dwarven stronghold Versha’s army was besieging that could be of any value to Hrodok.
She stood at a junction of the great halls, the one direction which would take her to the chambers of the Coven, the other to the Council. She turned to the Council chambers. If the elves under Versha’s command were already in open revolt, then it was too late for damage control. The Hornung Empire was collapsing, and her sons had found a rift. No amount of farseeing was going to find them now, if they ever returned at all.
~
Hal’alak strained against the moondogs’ will. With sunset, their strength had returned. Firelight bounced off the canyon walls from the cleft between the cliffs. Fearless as she was, she hadn’t survived this long by rushing into danger ill-prepared. She placed a hand on a moondog’s head, and spoke a word. Her senses rushed into the dog’s body, the world taking on a crisp grey tint. Smells assaulted her: salted leather, dry dust, raw beef. Snapping at three of the pack to remain and defend her deathly human form, she led the rest of the pack in a loping run across the desert towards the canyon. Their paws were silent as night’s shadow as they ran. Hal’alak revelled in the speed, the freedom of the hunt. The creature’s scent was thick now, and growing closer. Not even the shifting desert winds could hide its reek from the moondogs.
The village was little more than several overly tall huts of timber and dried palms arranged around a central firepit. Taur, more than she could count in the moments before chaos descended, stood and sat around the flames. Some were wounded, some bandaged. Hal’alak loosed the dogs’ restraint, and the spectral beasts leapt among the taur, teeth gnashing and claws raking. Amidst the bellows and screeches, Hal’alak concentrated on the scent of her quarry—the taur who had borne Akmenos away. She spied the beast, its muscles rippling as it turned to the attack.
Hal’alak snapped back into her own flesh with a sickening rush. She was running before the disorientation passed, sprinting across the sliding stones with her vanguard of three streaking ahead, all intent on the same target. One thin silver strand broke, then another, each one a dull ache against the shield of her psyche as the moondogs were torn limb from limb, had their skulls crushed between massive fists, or were eviscerated on bone-white horns as the besieged taur herd rose up to defend themselves from the attacking pack. Unfazed, she swept into the melee, a dervish of slashing blades. Leaving a trail of bloody carnage, she bounded over the fire to land directly before the creature she sought, while the pack distracted the rest of taur. Three moondogs continued to harry the ankles of the taur who smelled like Akmenos, blood soaking the sand where it whirled and stamped its mighty hooves.
She leapt, grappling its horns, swinging her legs around to straddle its rippling shoulders, crossing and locking her ankles around its neck, clenching her thighs. It was stronger than her, for certain, but everything needed air. She rode the creature as it bucked, her blade slashing at the huge hands that tried to cast her off. Distracted, attacked both high and low, the bullman stumbled. Its massive bloody fist snapped out, smashing away the last broken moondog.
Hal’alak spoke another word. A silver-blue thread shimmered between her hands, cascading up her fingers and along her blades. Shifting and sparking, the thread whipped around the taur’s neck, jerking its head backwards. The creature’s hands flew to the choking force, but scrabble as it might, it could find no purchase on the eldritch bond.
“Stand,” Hal’alak ordered, and the taur obeyed, staggering and flinching, no longer master of its own muscle and bone. The rest of the herd were rallying, her moondogs defeated, but she had what she’d come for.
Her captive rose, looming over the rest. Hal’alak drove it forward, her knees locked around the beast’s neck, blades shining to either side of its head, azure reins crackling. Its hooves kicked apart the fire and left burning confusion behind, as it thundered into the brittle cold of the desert night.
Chapter Twenty
Akmenos ascended through a fog of fear and nausea. Cold vapours caressed his face. His stomach turned. Gravity tipped upside-down. He was no longer falling up, but down. Somewhere in the envelop
ing mist, something presumably solid was rushing to meet him. He doubted the intersection would prove comfortable.
But wasn’t he a hero? Heroes didn’t just die randomly, falling from one alien plane to another, with no narrative drive or even ironic poetic license to be seen for miles. Therefore, it stood to reason that he must be able to survive this, like he’d survived every other catastrophe thus far. He wasn’t some side player in someone else’s epic. Things were moving, happening because of him. The machinations of the Holy Flame had led him here, and a sudden death by splattering didn’t fit the pattern. Best not to let things take control of you, when you’re the hero. Not even pesky forces like gravity, velocity, or inertia. No, he must take charge. No more would he be tossed around like a ball of dough.
Panic thus faced and defeated, clarity prevailed. The featherlight cantrip came easily. As his plummet eased to a drift, Akmenos smiled a grim, self-satisfied smile. Not so hard, this heroing business. So what if he had no idea which way was up, or where he was? He couldn’t see anything beyond his own hands, but that wasn’t so bad. A comforting hum pervaded the vapour, a gentle rhythmic sound that tingled his skin. A waterfall, perhaps? That’d explain the damp mist and the growing rumble, except it lacked the soft, reassuring pounding of cascading water. More of a rough, unnatural sound, like shredding air, and it was drawing nearer.
Akmenos’ freshly soothed nerves began to fray. He tried twisting about like he might in water, but the vapours gave him no purchase. He was drifting, devoid of any means to propel himself. He pumped his arms and swung his legs, like a beached fish, flapping around on a beach in a sudden effort to fly. A rush of wind, and the growl rose to a roar. Akmenos was sent spinning, head over tail through the mists. He glimpsed something large, all brown and black and fluted, and then it was gone, the mist folding around him as he hurtled along his new trajectory. He screamed, and might’ve thrown up a little too, but the mist also took that away. By the time he stopped cartwheeling, dizzy and disoriented, the hum, which had been receding, was creeping closer. Whatever it was, Akmenos hoped it wasn’t hungry.
