Laria shied away from precisely what that might mean. Firekeeper had made it perfectly clear to any who came courting that she wasn’t looking for a partner—that Blind Seer was the one she loved. Beyond that, Firekeeper said nothing, and no one who asked ever got anything from her but a blank stare from eyes that looked darker than usual.
I’m distracting myself, Laria thought, thinking about stupid things because if I think about what we’re doing I’m going to turn tail—or “tailless” I suppose the wolves would say—and run back.
As the small group carefully picked their way forward, they were so alert for the ground to start shaking or winds to blast Farborn out of the sky, that they missed when the attack began. It was Farborn who noticed that the clouds were gathering, Firekeeper who realized that the grasslands over which they made their careful way were not the same as those through which they had made their earlier explorations.
“Look,” she said, plucking a stalk of grass. “This is wrong. The seeds are barely shaped, not autumn fat, but the sap is high. Early summer seeds in autumn?”
Arasan rocked back on his heels, craning his neck to better see the cloudy heavens. “The light’s wrong, too. This isn’t just cloudy weather. It’s later in the day than it should be.”
Laria didn’t waste time speculating, but knelt so she could press her palms against the ground. She quested after what memories the land held, expecting nothing more than the usual sleepy unawareness of growing things, the minute impulses of insects and small creatures. Perhaps because she was listening so hard, what she heard struck her with the force of a shout, sending her falling back.
These same plains but trampled beneath hooves and booted feet. There was no grass, neither energetic spring new or autumn seed fat and weary. Instead, there was mud mixed from blood and sweat and urine, infused with pain and terror and, most horribly of all, triumph.
This earth remembered past uses, past abuses. As the memories swirled up through Laria’s prone body, fragmented and out of sequence, the past erupted around their small group, becoming their present. This was not a vision, but a reality as certain as the grit that filled Laria’s mouth when she began to scream.
A rough hand—long fingers strong and calloused, yet still somehow delicate—wrapped itself over Laria’s lips, trapping the scream within. Firekeeper’s husky voice growled near Laria’s ear.
“Howl later, pup, else we may be eaten.”
Oddly, it was that single word “pup” that silenced Laria, for it showed that Firekeeper valued her as one of her pack, not—as Laria knew the wolf-woman did so many humans—as other. When Laria nodded to signal her compliance, Firekeeper released her with perfect trust that the younger woman would keep their wordless compact. Laria shoved herself to a sitting position but, when she noticed that the others remained crouched low, as if hiding, she did not stand.
When Laria peeked through the tall grass what she glimpsed was enough to tempt her to flatten herself belly down. They were definitely on the same plain as before. Ahead rose a mountain range—the Giant’s Last Stand that was their destination among them. Behind stood the hills that should hold the rounded elegance of the gateway building and its gardens. These hills bore no permanent structure. Instead there was some sort of barricade behind which cautious figures could be seen moving. That these figures had not seen the three humans, one gigantic wolf, and one small falcon was because the group was sheltered by a copse of trees—a copse that, as best as Laria could remember, had not been there when they walked down the slope and onto the plain a short time before.
Without needing to confer, the small band moved to take further advantage of the concealment offered by the trees.
“We seem to find ourselves between two armies,” Arasan commented too casually. “Or perhaps I should say two encampments—one on the hill where the gate building should be, one between us and the mountains that are our destination.”
“Armies, not just encampments,” Laria asserted, forcing herself to report with dry confidence. “I’ve seen them in the memories of this land. Even hundreds of years later, the destruction those armies caused is at the heart of the land’s fury.”
Had Firekeeper not been a wolf, she might have wasted breath asking what had just happened. This didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid, but she wasn’t a deer to let terror freeze her nor a human to begin babbling unanswerable questions. As she scanned their surroundings, making note of the changes, Arasan spoke.
“So the challenge begins. What do you people think? Is our goal the same as before? Do we still try to reach the valley between the Giant’s Last Stand?”
“I don’t see why not,” Laria replied. “I mean, that’s what they want us to do, right?”
Firekeeper nodded. “We have no other prey. They have surprised us sure. Instead of shaking earth and raging winds to stop us, there are these humans in their camps. Are they friends or foes?”
“Foes, I think,” Laria answered. “The land remembers bad things done here—both in the past and, I think, somehow, in the future.”
“I will scout!” Farborn shrieked, taking wing on the words.
“Let him,” Firekeeper said, when Arasan gestured as if to pull the merlin back from the skies. “We need to know more than we can see from here, especially if we are to find a sure trail to the Giant’s Last Stand valley.”
But the wolf-woman watched as anxiously as the rest, dreading the rise of a too strong wind that would buffet the bird from the skies. Just because a hunt after big game was rarely achieved without risking a member of the pack didn’t free the wolf from worrying about that pack mate’s fate. Yet, even as Farborn swirled wider and wider afield, no wind rose.
Firekeeper addressed Laria. “You say ‘foes’? One army or both? If only one, then this would shape our trail.”
Laria’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Both, I think. It’s strange. The camps look very new, but the memories I touched were ancient.”
Softly, as if he feared being overheard, Arasan asked, “Then is this really here or are we being fooled with some sort of illusion?”
Blind Seer replied, “If it is an illusion, it is well done. I smell varied scents, including those I believe a human mind would have difficulty conceiving.”
After Firekeeper translated this, the Meddler said, “The finest illusions are not crafted, but turn the victim’s own mind to their use. So, keen as Blind Seer’s nose may be, if the spells work directly upon his mind, then he would smell what he expects to smell.”
“Illusion or something else,” Firekeeper shrugged, “this matters only if believing what is real is not real makes you careless.”
“Careless?” Laria asked.
“If you believe this is not real, you may treat what you see less seriously,” Arasan explained. The Meddler added, “The magic can take advantage of what you believe. That was part of the danger of querinalo.”
“So, whether real or not doesn’t matter,” Firekeeper stated. “We will treat as real. Here comes Farborn. Hold and I will tell you what he has to say.”
Farborn landed in the limbs of a chokecherry tree. Unlike the peregrine Elation, who would almost certainly have begun her report with a boast, Farborn moved restlessly back and forth on his perch, his slim body telegraphing anxiety.
“For the wingless, this plain is indeed a far-stretching net. Behind and before, as even you can see, humans are encamped. I can tell you now, those are no small groupings, but consist of many, many people, tents, and even some animals—burden bearers for the most part. Between the camps is this plain in which we hide. To one side of the plain runs a river, deep and swift, filled with rocks and foam. To the other is a burnt and broken land over which the air is hot and stinks with the reek of recent burning.”
“That burned area was destroyed by magic,” Laria added when Firekeeper had completed her translation. “The same fate is intended for this plain—with battle to be joined about this time tomorrow.”
“How d
o you know?” Firekeeper asked.
Laria said simply, “I read the earth. Remember how I was thrown down? That was because I was hit all at once with a memory. One piece of what I saw held the dread of the land, dread because, well, the land knew what was coming, but knew it could do nothing to stop it. When I read the land after we appeared here, I knew what the land was dreading.”
Firekeeper shook her head in open amazement. “You are well now?”
“I think so,” Laria answered, but her fingers rose to touch her hair ribbon as she often did when feeling apprehensive.
“The rules give us a full day.” Arasan was clearly trying to sound confident, but the phrase rose at the end, becoming a question. “Plenty of time for us to sneak away, especially with the wolves to guide us. Shall we wait until dark, then go?”
Blind Seer had been scanning the two armed camps, comparing them to each other. “Ask Arasan which route he thinks is best for us to take: violent water or restless destroyed lands. Or perhaps he prefers for us to go through one or the other of these walls of massed humans.”
Firekeeper translated.
“From what Farborn has reported,” Arasan replied, brushing a space clear, then drawing a map in the dirt, shaping heaps of soil to indicate rises, using bits of stone for major features, “the straightest route to the Giant’s Last Stand would be for us to go directly through the army that is massed across the plain between us and the mountains. Is that right, Farborn?”
The merlin glided down, landing on a lower branch, then leaning to better view Arasan’s map. “Shortest, yes,” he replied, ruffling his feathers so that even those who could not understand him could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea, “but those humans are massed almost as would be herds of cattle. Passing between them unseen would be difficult for those who cannot fly.”
“Well, I don’t fancy the risks involved in doubling back and then around the army behind us,” Arasan said—and the cadence of his voice indicated that he spoke for the Meddler as well, “but maybe that would be wiser. At least then we wouldn’t need to cross the open plain and try to avoid whatever booby traps have been laid there.”
Firekeeper rubbed her nose. “Farborn say that the army behind is as large as the one before. The ground on which they have made their camp is more uneven, so will be more difficult to pass over, even if we avoid the guards or traps.”
“So, should we sneak around a flank?” Arasan speculated. “If so, which one?”
“River,” Laria said immediately. “The other way seems scorched and barren, but I assure you, the land is both angry and hungry. We wouldn’t go unnoticed.”
“Because there was fighting with magic?” Firekeeper asked. “If this angry land always happened, we would not be able to live on the Nexus Islands.”
“Firekeeper’s right.” This time the speaker was definitely the Meddler. “I’ve seen many former battlefields turned to cropland or pasture, even to towns or villages. What aren’t you telling us, Laria, my dear?”
Laria’s gaze went wide and bleak. To give the younger woman a chance to collect herself, Firekeeper spoke to Farborn. A few moments later, the merlin launched into the air.
“He is going high to scout, first to see if the camps have changed, then to each side. He will especially scout the river better, so we can see if we might use those rocky banks for our retreat. While we wait, Laria, will you tell us what has made you so afraid? You are no coward. This you have proven before. Something that makes a brave one like you sweat is something we should know—even if we take your advice and avoid those angry lands entirely.”
Laria forced a smile. “I forget how hard it is to hide fear from Blind Seer’s nose. I’ll tell you but, I beg you, please don’t stop me until I’m done. I don’t think I can bear to go through it twice. The land remembers the slaughter and devastation that happened here long ago. It also knows it’s going to happen again, tomorrow, with us caught in the middle.”
The sun was rising to noon when the competitors took their places, for this was not a battle as those of the modern world would know it, but a contest of power between two great mages and their allies. Or so this is how their assistants—those who would channel power to their masters—saw it. These stood to shine in reflected glory, never realizing that those they called “master,” “teacher,” “ruler,” viewed them at best as potential rivals, at worst as little better than the sacrifices who had been gathered to give their life blood on the day of contest.
The only two who mattered—not only as they saw things, but as most of the rest would agree—were sister and brother. Any who thinks this should have made the rivalry less fierce knows very little of families—especially families where the bond is ambition and pride, rather than support or that tenuous quality called “love.”
Each of the scions of this family had been born possessing considerable magical ability. The brother was the more gifted; the sister was the more tenacious. Through her efforts, she had made her power the equivalent of her brother, although he (perhaps alone among those who knew them) continued to scorn her, refusing to make similar effort as beneath him. So it was that neither sister nor brother achieved supremacy over the other. Their rivalry persisted over the years, fed by slights real and imagined, until there could be no resolution between them. Now, at long last, their parents had died and the question of who would inherit must be resolved.
Their ambitious parents had declared that the family lands, titles, wealth, and prestige would be given entirely to the one could decisively defeat the other in a fair and balanced contest. Thus, despite appearances, there were no armies gathered to either side of the plain. Other than a small group of assistants who waited upon the sibling sorcerers, the massed humans were sacrifices. Their number and type had been carefully negotiated in order to assure a fair contest. Other than that, their individuality mattered no more to the rivals than do the arrows in an archer’s quiver—less so, for an archer may have a favorite arrow.
In anticipation of this decisive contest, each sorcerer had prepared a special focus. The materials of each focus’s making had been carefully designated in advance, but its properties were only known to its creator. In what each created lay the first test of each sibling’s skill and power. When the sun reached its apex to shine with pitiless indifference over those who would contest and those whose deaths would be a barely considered consequence of that contest, the battle began.
The male, by virtue of his greater natural gift, moved first. His focus was a putrid green crystal sphere that fit snugly in his palm. The outward facing side of the sphere had been cut smooth and polished mirror-bright, but that shining surface reflected nothing but its creator’s desires. When he raised the sphere and incanted words of power, men groaned and fell, so much meat, not an iota of the power contained in their blood wasted by being spilled. The screams of those who knew they would die next muffled whatever words the sorcerer spoke, but his satisfied smile could be seen by all who risked drawing his attention by looking upon his face.
Unheard though those words were, their result was apparent to all. Spears of stone jutted from the grassy plain to meet lightning crashing jagged from the sky. This celestial barrage met the stone spears, then was channeled through the soil, racing like a many-legged creature intent on swallowing and searing the opposition’s human sacrifices before she could use them for her own attack. But the female was no fool. Moreover, she knew her brother of old, knew him as a stealer of sweets, a usurper of praise and prizes alike. Her move showed not a reaction to, but an anticipation of, his tactic.
Raising her own focus high in both hands, she shouted arrogant defiance. By agreement, her focus was a sphere as well, but hers had been hollowed to a grotesque parody of a gaping maw. What came from it was nothing—a void that engulfed the lightning-charged earth-born attacker as it raced toward her. The crystal maw stole the attacker’s energy from it between one leap and the next. She then channeled the stolen force through herself and
gave it back as a dark storm that animated the corpses of those whose lives she had stripped when she had created her mana-consuming void. Reborn with storm and hatred replacing their spent blood, the animated corpses raced forth, their limbs stretching inhumanly as they moved with incredible swiftness toward the opposite line.
The male did not hesitate to counter his sister’s attack, but one and all of his increasingly violent and aggressive strikes were swallowed by the dark void of his sister’s horribly cold, patient power. He who had scorned her as second best, a mere echo of his magnificence, felt for the first time the terror of that which lurks in the shadows as his own life was stripped from him to become one more mote of energy among those at his sister’s command.
What she experienced at his passing was not grief, but not precisely joy either. They had been in opposition to each other for so long that upon his death she was unbalanced, as one who has long pulled a line will stumble when that line goes slack. When she stumbled, she reached into her focus, grasping for something to stabilize herself, but what she had created was void, and no one can be stabilized by nothing. Instead, the void swallowed her as it had so many others.
Without the sorceress to provide direction, the void began to swallow all else: the remaining sacrifices, the shocked acolytes, the reanimated dead. Unsated, next the void stripped the life from the earth, from every tree, every blade of trampled grass, every late summer seed. It devoured the insects and field vermin. When it could find nothing else to swallow, it engulfed itself.
In the end, all that remained was a blackened strip of land near a riverbed mysteriously dry, that and the memory within the tormented earth of what had been done to it, a memory that settled with the dust into an inhuman desire for retribution.
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