by C D Tavenor
◆ ◆ ◆
Wind rushes past my ears. I hear screams, but they’re not my own. They’re from above—from the Edge. As for me, I’m at peace. Somehow. Straight as an arrow, my body dives toward the rushing river kilometers below.
I have no fear. Strange. An indecipherable voice reverberates in my skull, its words echoing and pulsating and—
Ermo, my daughter, remember—follow the light.
A voice from my past—Mono. My father. Is he with me? No, that’s silly. He’s dead; I’m probably hallucinating.
From above, the Chasm makes the river look so small. As I near the torrent, it grows, revealing a dark expanse larger than I could have thought possible.
How could I be so stupid? I jumped from a bridge into a gorge kilometers deep, assuredly leading to my death. Nothing can save me now.
Follow the light.
I see no light. Only waves. Only darkness.
Follow the light.
“Stop telling me to follow the light!”
They’re the words I want to leave my mouth, but at the speed I’m falling, nothing escapes my lungs. My vision begins to blacken. Blur. Spots dance.
Child, follow my voice. I am the light.
I can’t. This is it. The end.
Before I hit the water, my mind slips into the void.
Interjection
Darkness surrounds. I’m outside time, beyond all experience yet experiencing everything at once. A faint sensation of murky wetness envelops me, but I can’t tell if it’s water . . . or something new. If I’ve entered the world of the dead, it’s different than I expected. Though, I don’t know what I expected. To meet my father, perhaps? To face the Creator, or The Lord of Light?
I try to lift my hands, but it’s like sliding through molasses. Nothing moves. Eyes. Toes. Fingers. Ears. Nothing moves.
Opening my mouth, a wet warmth floods my throat. I choke. The darkness rushes, not just around, but into me, it’s trying to destroy me, make me its own.
Follow.
I can’t. I have no strength. All will left my soul when I leapt off the Edge, stupidly defying my father and the other elders. I should have listened.
No. Follow.
The damned voice won’t stop. It’s probably death taunting, telling a story to trick me into letting go. Embracing hell.
No. Look. I am here.
Breaking through the darkness, a spark of white emerges. It’s tiny, no more than a single star striking through an otherwise cloudy sky. Yet, it is there. For me.
My daughter, I am here.
“Where?” To my surprise, words leave my mouth, foggy mist escaping purple lips.
You took the first step on your own. You can take the next, too. Follow the light.
I focus. With a guttural scream, my limbs break free of their invisible bonds. My fingers grasp in the darkness, and I fall to my knees, but the light doesn’t waver. My hands find something solid—metallic. Grasping it, I don’t let my eyes break from the light.
You are the light. They were the light. They are the light. You are all the light. Will be the light.
The light grows. No—it’s not growing. I’m getting closer to it. Ripples of blue and grey flutter beneath the white. The light takes form. The sun, shining through waves of water. Mind, soul, and body thrust me back into the world of living, and in my hands, I hold a spear. It’s . . . the spear is pulling me toward the light. Or am I telling the spear to draw me upward? Crashing through river’s surface, my body explodes in pain.
XI
Something wet licks my cheek. It’s coarse, and rough, and it’s . . . a tongue.
Eyes fluttering open, I’m greeted with the floppy smile of a water-wolf. The mongrel-brown creature lazily stares, as if I should expect it to be there. With my left hand, I push its snout away, and then the memories flood my perceptions.
I’m pretty sure I died. At least . . . it was something like death. It’s impossible to survive a three-kilometer fall, but here I am, lying . . . somewhere.
Every inch of my body aches. I remember bone-crushing pain from the fall, but it’s fading, replaced with a dull throb, like I’ve gone for a long run and now I’m recovering the next day.
Sand surrounds me, and a few meters away, the Caris River flows. Sitting on my haunches, I look up and down its banks, but in neither direction are the walls of the Chasm. I must have floated kilometers down river before washing ashore, reaching the wider portions of the canyon.
Next to me, sticking straight up, is a long, metallic shaft. At its end, an ornately curved blade forms a spear-point, almost like a pike. The weapon is . . . sunsteel and moonstone.
No.
I know this weapon.
Two memories flash. First, from the darkness, a spear in my hands, pulling me out of the void and into the light.
Second—an identical match, hanging in my father Mono’s war closet. Flame of Maripes. The weapon forged by my grandfather, the blade that ended the war and split the Bridge of our Lord in two.
Previously lost in the Caris River following my father’s death.
But here it is, waiting. Wanting me to wield it.
My weapon will reveal your path.
“I want to follow my own path.” I don’t know why I say the words aloud, but it’s better than thinking to myself. At least it feels like I’m speaking to someone. The dead voice of my father—or grandfather? The Lord of Light? My crazy mind?
And it will help you find it.
I push up from the sand, approaching Flame of Maripes. Even after the ten years since my father last held the weapon, it bears no scratches. Flawless carvings engrave its shaft, depicting religious prophecies etched by my grandfather. It’s at least a meter taller than me, if not more, but when I wrap my hands around it, energy flows from it into my fingers, into my arms, into my heart. It’s light. It’s mine.
“Ruff!”
I turn, the water-wolf sitting on its hind legs, barking. Not an angry bark, but one of joy, as if I made the right choice.
“We’ll see, friend,” I say. “But where do I go?”
I half expect the disembodied voice to reply. Instead, the tiny creature stares at me, wagging its tail.
“I’m leading then? All right. Well . . .” I study the river. The water’s flowing south, away from Lethotar, the narrower portions of the Chasm, and my people. I’ve started down a path away from home, so there’s no point turning back now. Spear in hand, I trudge through the sand, heading away from the river and into the forest beyond.
The water-wolf follows close behind, panting at my heels. “You’ll need a name,” I say. “Do you have a name? Of course. You’re a wolf. You can’t talk. Except I’m talking to you. What a way to start an adventure.”
Naturally, the wolf doesn’t respond.
“I’m going to need to call you something.” I pause, listening to the sounds of the forest ahead and the water behind. “River. I’ll call you river. I found you there—well, more so you found me. So you’re River.”
“Ruff!”
“You like the name?”
Pant-pant.
“Perfect.”
Up a muddy bank we go, stepping beneath the massive juniper oaks. Leaving the sand behind, I use the spear to brush bush and fern away, forming a makeshift route through the overgrowth. Before long, we stumble upon a dried creek heading slightly uphill and away from the Caris. It becomes our path, and periodically we discover small pools teaming with algae and fish. The water’s too dirty to drink, though every so often, we stumble upon a tiny waterfall, and I use it as a makeshift water fountain. It tastes despicable, but it’s hydration.
For hours, I trek side-by-side with River. When I’m hungry, I find mushrooms, nuts, or berries scattered throughout the forest. Sustenance is plentiful. As the sun starts to disappear deep behind the trees and the unseen horizon, we stake a campsite beneath a rocky outcropping shadowing the creek bed. I collect dried wood and a few rocks, forming a tiny fire pit.
I step toward the spear, pick it up, and approach the fire. My right hand holds the weapon, while I hold the other over the wood. “What do I do next? Father? You there? Any help?”
Silence.
“Great. So you only speak when it’s convenient to you?”
Silence.
Silence and—sparks.
“Ow!” Dancing along my arm, tendrils of energy sting and stab. “I need help here; I don’t even know what I’m doing!”
I drop the spear, and the glow fades. “All right. Progress. So the power is linked to the spear . . . but not entirely. Because the sparks formed before I touched it.” Kneeling, I pick the spear up again, the energy flowing back into my arm.
“Now . . .” I glance toward River. “Why didn’t this happen when I was walking? And just holding the spear?” The stinging continues, like my arm’s asleep. I’m getting used to its annoying presence. “Maybe . . .”
I probably look absurd, but I bend my knees, point the spear at the dried wood, and shout, “Fire!”
Nothing.
“Ugh! What do you need from me?” The forest is already starting to chill after hours without the sun. In my anger, I envision the comfort a simple fire would bring. As the emotion builds, the knives in my arm dig deeper. From my hand, an arc of yellow light branches toward the wood, enveloping it in an inferno of crimson flame.
Anger shifts into surprise, and the pain in my arm fades. “Okay, okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Not sure how, but it’s something.”
I sit down in the dust, enjoying the flames. River struts to my side and places his head in my lap. Magic. We’ve always had legends, stories of wizards and sorcerers capable of incredible feats. Of course, we’ve all heard what my father did above the Chasm. But this . . . it’s something new.
I scratch River’s forehead, and beneath a canopy of rock and wood, we drift to sleep.
XII
I wake. In pain. Terrible pain. My stomach, my mouth, my head, my freaking tongue. It burns. All of it.
To top it all off, it’s raining.
We’re beneath the outcropping, but the torrent periodically blows a wave of mist and salty water onto my face, even as I lay writhing in pain. I moan, trying to move and scoot further back and away from the storm, but I can’t move. Legs lock, arms dull. I can barely open my eyes. River, for his part, curls closer to me, whimpering.
My brain, trying to break through the hammer pounding my skull, contemplates the sickness. Is it because I used my new power? Or something I ate? There’s no way to know. I’m immobilized, acid welling in my throat.
The storm fades, but the eternal agony continues. I lay in my own oral excrement, hyperventilating. It’s as if my skin is on fire. Fading in and out of consciousness, I vaguely recognize the shape of dead rabbit dropping into the dirt before my eyes. River curls up next to me. He hunted. I can’t move to eat, but he hunted.
Light turns back to dark and dark back to light. I plead for the pain to end—anything, to save me from endless torment. When my eyes are open, they deceive me. Shapes drift amongst shadows, dancing on the mossy rocks and trees. Creatures, immeasurably large and impossibly shaped, drift, dart, and evaporate in smoke. Fear grips my soul. I just want it to end.
At some point, my fingers manage to grip the spear, as if my new power can heal me. I try to will the energy to kill whatever afflicts my body—or, in the alternative, to kill me, ending the pain—but the spear doesn’t respond. It can’t hear my plea.
Here in a ditch, lost in a forest, the People of Light’s chosen one will die. I’ve failed them.
◆ ◆ ◆
I awake again. The pain is gone. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I’m alive.
Hungry—and thirsty, but alive.
As I sit up, River bounds into the clearing, a squirrel in its mouth. The fire from a few nights ago is an ashy soup, drenched by the rain. I can’t remember if it stormed more than once. Everything blurs together. Dripping from the outcropping above, though, is crystal clean water. I stand beneath the droplets, quenching my thirst. I collect another round of wood from the brush on the other side of the creek—which now flows freely—and ignite it, just like last time.
“Here’s to hoping I don’t get sick a second time,” I mutter to River. After skinning it with my spear, I stab the squirrel with a sharp stick and cook it over my second fire. Breakfast. Or lunch? Dinner? More like all three at once.
After finishing the meal, I strip and bathe in the creek. I’m filthy, vomit and other bodily fluids are everywhere. It’s disgusting, and I wash my clothes too, both the grey tunic top and the leather, parted dress. While they dry on warm rocks, I drift lazily back and forth in the water. It’s refreshing for both my skin and mind. River dives into the water too, floating about on its (his? I’m not sure) back and squirting streams of water into the air, reminding me of otters in the aqueducts of Lethotar.
Afterward, while donning the now dry garments, I wish for something other than a ceremonial outfit to wear. Picking up the spear, I kick sand about the campsite to eliminate traces of the fire. “It’s time to go.” I motion for River to follow, and we continue upstream.
Curving along the edge of the outcropping, a small path leads up and above the creek. Stepping over boulders and blasted tree roots, we swiftly ascend a ridge. At the top, a ghastly sight awaits.
Slumped against a tree, a dark, morphic form lies, mutilated and deformed. It’s grotesque; its skin is jet-black, shades darker than my own, with white spots dotting every inch like inverse freckles. White fangs stretch over its lips.
Fortunately, it’s very dead. Its throat is torn out, a bloody and mangled mess. As we approach, River growls a low, rumbling moan. I step closer to the strange creature, and River barks, roars, darts in front of me, baring its fangs and blocking my path toward the corpse.
“Okay, we can avoid it if you’d like,” I say, stepping back. “But what is it?” A vengeful gleam flashes in River’s eyes as I say the question. “Did you do this?” I remember the shadows from during my sickness. The creatures I’d thought were hallucinations. “Impossible.”
I’ve never heard of any such creature. My entire life, Ero has drilled facts into my head, many of them useless about places I’ll never see. I learned about the digestive tracts of the Bolog, the hunting patterns of the water-wolves, the culture of the frost giants—a creature most consider myth—the strange “cacti” of the deserts far to the south, plants capable of living without water for years on end.
And yet . . . this thing . . . it’s something else.
Stepping away, we skirt around the dead, dark, demon-like corpse. “If you saved me from that, River,” I say, “I owe you more than my life.” As we travel further from the grisly scene, River’s kind demeanor returns, his (we’re going with his) tail wagging and tongue panting.
With every step, I expect my sickness to return. Yet, with every step, I feel stronger. I am stronger. It’s as if my body was fighting its new journey, but my will to create a new path won.
Perhaps I’m just imagining the metaphor. It was almost certainly something I ate. Nevertheless . . . I like the symbolism. If I’m the subject of prophecy, might as well give substance to every moment of my life.
Like the first day—after the beach—River and I trudge through the forest, finding a new path away from the creek. We’re slowly heading uphill, and if the dated and murky map in my head is accurate, I’m traversing the hills of the former Kineto clans. If I continued following the Caris River, I would have eventually reached the Emerald Falls, spilling over the cliffs for hundreds of meters before lazily entering the other valleys and the expansive plains beyond. The only real way down the immense cliff-face is . . . the Gates of Vicor. The final battle before my father’s death, wher
e he watched many of his brothers and sisters in arms fall. To properly reach Vicor and its nearby fortress, I need to veer away from the river.
I gulp. I’ve heard stories from the survivors of our final battle, especially those who also fought by Mono’s side at the Gates. They called it the bloodiest and longest battle of the war. I dread what I will find. But, seeing as I don’t know what I’m looking for, it’s the only destination I have available. If I’m to discover my own destiny, I must go somewhere.
“I just hope I don’t run into any more of those fiends.” River growls, somehow knowing exactly what I’m thinking. “You’re smarter than you let on, aren’t you? Well, with you by my side, no fiend can get me. I like that name for them, too. Fiend. I think it’ll stick.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Three more nights pass, and other than an upset stomach following poorly cooked rabbit, I’m sure my sickness has passed. On the morning of the fourth day, I crest a ridge. To my right, a little ways away, the Caris River reaches a massive cliff face and flows over the edge. Beyond, the vast plain and rolling hills of the Three Valleys spread in their glory. Joy wells in my soul as I witness a visage I never hoped to witness.
To the left—some three or four kilometers away by my reckoning—nestled between two giant, rocky monstrosities, sits the decrepit fortress known simply as the “Gates of Vicor.”
It’s occupied.
By now, I’d thought the Holy Empire had simply abandoned the Three Valleys. Since my father’s death, no one has seen evidence of their activity on the other side of the Chasm. As I traveled toward the Gates, I’d seen no traces of any people—anywhere.
Faced with the truth in front of me, it all clicked into place. If the Holy Empire held the Gates of Vicor, they would indefinitely trap us beyond the Chasm, even if we managed to somehow rebuild the bridge.