by Sean Hinn
~But… but where—~
Cindra replaced J’arn’s hand on Shyla’s neck as he withdrew. ~Be still, child. We are safe for now.~
~Mawbottom, we are!~
Wolf nuzzled up against Shyla. She ran a trembling hand through his fur… too hot, too dry….
~Use yer Bond, Shyla,~ conveyed Cindra. ~He needs yeh.~
She did, and Wolf’s fear was palpable. He was not in pain, not anymore, but he had been. His paw had been cut badly; Cindra had healed it. His lungs had burned like Shyla’s; Cindra had fed him a drop of her own blood, and he had quickly learned to breathe. He was well physically, for now, but Shyla did not need to feel his heavy panting and trembling to know he was afraid. The darkness was too dark. He did not belong here. No one belonged here. This was not a place of life. This was not a place at all. This was noplace.
Shyla hugged Wolf close as she tried to make sense of it all. She had used her ring. She had named Cindra. They had all been taken up again into the empty space between moments, but it was not like before. They had crossed through something, a membrane of sorts, a chasm, and something in Shyla’s very soul knew: she did not belong on this side of that boundary. Shyla had resisted and thus arrived later than her companions. She wished she had resisted more.
This is the Mawbottom.
This is Fury.
“We hafta to get outta here! Now!”
~Silence, girl! They will hear you. Do not use yer voice!~
Cindra’s stern warning multiplied Shyla’s terror.
They?
~Aria, use yer ring! Get us outta here!~
~I cannot, Shyla.~
~What? Why? Never mind, Luc, you do it! Hurry! We canna stay here!~
Cindra replied for him. ~They canna do it, Shyla. Such magic does not work here. Listen, now. There is much yeh must know, and little time before they come again.~
~It hurts to breathe, Lady!~
~I know, child. Yeh will need to get used to it. Yeh have come to Fury, a bit later than yer friends, and Prince J’arn here told me much of what yeh faced on Tahr—~
~How much later?~
~A bit. Now listen, Shyla! There be things down here that yeh ain’t never seen, things yeh ain’t never thought of, big things, all tooth and claw. We ain’t supposed to be here, and they sense us. They can see yeh in the dark, and they wanna bring yeh to ’im. ~
~Him?~
~The Hand, child. They almost had me more’n once, but I… well, I bested ’em. But he sends more every time, and soon as he knows yeh all be down here, I s’pose he’ll send ’em all.~
~What are they, Lady?~
Cindra remained silent for a moment. Shyla pulled Wolf closer, listening to the labored breathing of her friends, waiting.
~Dead ones, Shyla. Mostly. Evil in life, worse in death. Dead as they are though, they still feed, and they still breed. I seen little ones, too. But never mind that. What yeh need to know is this: yeh canna fall asleep alone, or yeh’ll die. Someone needs to keep yeh breathin’. And yeh don’t wanna, anyhow. They sneak up on yeh when yeh rest, and then they get yeh.~
~But Lady, how did yeh get here? When?~
~I dunno when, Shyla. Many days. Maybe half a cycle. And I came through G’naath. The Elders opened a door, and I walked through it.~
~But… how have yeh survived? When do yeh sleep?~
~Hush now, child, I got more to tell yeh! Now this part is gonna frighten yeh, but yeh need t’be strong, hear?~
Shyla suppressed a cough as she shuddered. This part?
~Yes, Lady. I’ll be strong.~
~He can hear yeh think. Just like we can hear each other. He ain’t always listening, but sometimes he is, and he’ll speak to yeh. Yeh canna trust a thing he says! Not ever! Do yeh understand?~
A deep, malevolent voice replied in the minds of the companions.
~WHY MUST YOU SPOIL THE SURPRISE, WITCH?~
Wolf barked loudly in fright and snapped at the air. A chill crept up Shyla’s spine into her mind, freezing her good sense. She cried out, as did Lucan.
The voice laughed; a hateful, mocking rumble. Shyla tried to shut her mind against the intrusion. No! Yeh canna hear me!
~OH YES, I HEAR YOU, WITCHLING. AND NOW MY LEGION HAS HEARD YOU. WE WILL MEET SOON.~
The voice withdrew. Cindra spoke aloud.
“They know where we are. Prepare to fight!” Cindra cast a glowing orb before her and allowed it to rise several feet above their heads. Shyla gaped in awe as her surroundings came into view. The companions, Wolf, and Cindra rose to their feet within a medium-sized cavern, perhaps two dozen paces in diameter. The walls were nearly solid iron, as was the floor, aside from blackened, jagged chunks of some other stone that jutted out here and there. They were surrounded on three sides by the walls of the cavity. The orb barely illuminated a large opening on one side from which two tunnels ran, left and right. Shyla looked up, seeking another means of escape, but found none. She could not tell how high the ceiling was.
She lowered her gaze to her companions. Each were covered head to toe in ash and soot. Twin streams of pale flesh lined Aria’s face, eyes to chin, channels washed clean by unwiped tears. J’arn stood at the ready, axe in hand, eyes darting left and right. When he met Shyla’s gaze, he quickly looked away. Lucan did not. He winked at Shyla and offered a crooked smile as he lit his own orb, adding more light to the cavern. Odd as his expression was, it was nothing compared to the sight of Lady Cindra.
As grandmother and granddaughter regarded one another, bright, young, silver eyes gleamed impossibly from within the elder gnome’s face… eyes that had been old, set in an old face. Eyes that had been red. Lady Cindra now looked to be Shyla’s age, aside from two streaks of white hair that cut through the red and framed her cherubic face. The expression on that face, however, betrayed her true age. Here was wisdom. Here was ferocious determination. Here was rage. Here was power.
Aria’s voice cut through the silence.
“How do we fight them, Lady?”
Lucan drew his dagger.
“No! Not with blades! If they bleed, yeh’ll burn!”
“How then?” demanded J’arn.
Shyla immediately understood. They were like the dragon.
“Fire. Ice. Wind.”
“Just so, Shyla,” replied Cindra as a skittering sound echoed throughout the cavern. “Quiet, now. They come.”
IV: WESTMORLAND
MILA RAN deeper into the forest.
She had been running for hours, sustained by her magic. The chill and the miles and the fear had begun to take their toll, yet she could not stop, for Kalashagon sought her, and he would not suffer her to live.
~I will find you, little witch. You flee me in vain.~
The voice of the dragon tormented her, taunted her, dared her to convey a reply. She could sense its source—somewhere to the west and south, a dozen miles, perhaps. If she could sense him, he could sense her… if she were to reply, Kalashagon would find her, and she would soon die burning.
Mila harbored no illusions as to whether she could defeat the great beast alone. Her power was not limitless. Nothing was. The best she could hope to do was hide, to find shelter where she could think up a plan. As it was, she could barely think at all. The dragon had begun harrying her at daybreak, and between his derisions and her own haunted thoughts, the sorceress could barely reason, certainly not well enough to formulate a strategy.
Kalashagon had been true to his word; he did not kill her the day before. Mila had been left alone to contemplate her actions, and she did.
She had killed Sartean. Avenged her parents. Achieved her life’s purpose.
In doing so, she had doomed countless others.
More children would be without mothers.
More would be without fathers.
The devastation of Kalashagon would, no doubt, exceed any evil ever committed by the Master of Kehrlia.
Yet, until Kalashagon had pushed his way into her mind at dawn, Mila had felt no remorse
. No regret. Only satisfaction that Sartean D’Avers’ sins had finally come back to drown him.
It had been easier the night before, as Mila lay within her tent, to assuage any feelings of guilt with the knowledge that such an evil had been removed from the world. She had not lied to herself: allowing Kalashagon to live was a horror. But the dragon was not a horror of her making. Neither was Sartean, but she had committed horrors at his behest, all in the name of someday being able to destroy him. If she did not do so when the chance arose, how could she justify all she had done?
The question of whether such justifications were sufficient had not mattered to Mila as she had lain in darkness, fatigued in body and spirit. Sartean was dead. She turned the sight of his demise over and over in her head, watching it unfold again and again until exhaustion finally claimed her for the night. Her last thought of the day had been her first regret: the wizard's swift death had been far too merciful.
The grey dawn, however, brought with it a sense of emptiness. Yano was lost, as were many of the Incantors of Kehrlia. She had little love for her peers—Kehrlia nurtured few friendships—but he had been an ally, and the loss of life was disturbing, if not exactly saddening. Mila did not often indulge sorrow, and the sorceress would not allow herself to do so over the deaths of a few dozen of Sartean’s lackeys. She did, however, know sorrow that morning, and its name was Earl.
Mila knew the burly wagon loader would have seen her kill Sartean, subsequently freeing Kalashagon. He would have seen the wizards die in dragonfire. He would know Yano was dead, and he would know what havoc Kalashagon would still wreak on the world.
And he would hate her for all of it.
That, and only that, gave Mila pause, for she had known only one good man in all her life, besides her father, and that man was Earl.
If he hates me, I am truly lost.
Mila did not have much time to consider the idea when she awoke that morning. She had only just awakened and pulled on her boots when the voice pierced her mind.
~You die today, little witch.~
~I am no witch!~
She knew her mistake before the thought was complete. Her foolish reply had alerted the dragon to her location.
~Oh, but you are. Did you not know? Surely you knew. From where does such power come? You are cursed, Mila Felsin. Your blood is as vile as my own.~
There was no time to pack. Mila grabbed her pouch of gems and shoved them into her cloak. She broke east and ran flat-out for an hour as Kalashagon taunted her.
~I sense your fear, little witch. But why do you run? You cannot outpace me. I am the very essence of speed. You will only die exhausted. Why not face me? Why not die well?~
Mila ran, unwilling to die this day, well or otherwise. More than once Kalashagon flew overhead. The first time, she hid behind a fallen tree, but her hot, labored breath in the still forest air blew a thick cloud around her head. She knew the dragon would find her soon enough. When he had gone, she ran again, in the direction he had gone, assuming he would not double back over the same path. She was wrong. On his next pass, Mila concealed herself with magic. She regretted it immediately as the dragon pulled up near her position, hovering.
~You are near, little witch. I smell your magic. Such a sweet smell. Not unlike… burning meat. Perhaps it is your blood… does your magic burn you from within, Mila Felsin? You will burn from without soon enough.~
Mila watched through the canopy as Kalashagon circled her position. Discerning his pattern of flight was no difficult task; he flew mostly in circles to the left, his head cocked towards the ground. On one such pass, however, he changed direction, and Mila discovered why he flew as he did: a gaping, oozing hole sat where the dragon’s enormous, black right eye had once been.
The elf and her company! They must have harmed him somehow!
Mila took heart and quickly broke towards the northwest, in the direction he would be least likely to glimpse her. She ran on through the afternoon, making certain to stay on Kalashagon’s right side whenever possible. Eventually, he lost her scent and doubled back towards Mor, but Mila did not stop running. Only distance could protect her from the dragon, and she clawed at the trails she ran with animal desperation.
The day wore on. Mila tired. Her mind kept returning to the dragon’s declaration as she ran.
You are cursed, Mila Felsin.
Perhaps she was. Perhaps some vile blood did run in her veins. What other explanation could there be? I am not like others. Even my parents knew.
Yet Mila was disinclined to believe that blood could determine the course of a person’s life. Do not evil men sometimes father good children? Do not good, loving mothers give life to moral abominations? Above all else, Mila wondered at her own lineage: if her blood was tainted, from where did that taint come? Her memories of her mother and father had greyed over the years, but she recalled who they were. How they loved her. How they loved one another. No, whatever foulness coursed through her body, it had not come from them.
But there is a foulness within me, she admitted silently.
She had spent all her life blaming her sins on Sartean. But what had Darrin once said, the man who had taken her in after her parents’ death? Mila recalled the day she had first taken a life:
He leered at her. “You are unclean,” he said, the darkness in his tone reminding her of Sartean’s voice that terrible night. He reached around her, fingers grasping at the ties to her nightdress.
Mila’s magic had not suffered from misuse. Darrin died before taking his next breath, his heart imploding as if Mila had reached into his chest and squeezed the life out with her own fingers.
She climbed over Darrin’s corpse, stood, and dressed. She was not angry. She was not afraid. She felt neither guilt nor remorse. But that realization—that she had just taken a man’s life without a second thought—that idea horrified her.
“What am I?” she asked herself aloud.
Over the years, Mila had reasoned that she was justified in taking Darrin’s life; he had, after all, intended to violate a young girl he had taken in as his own daughter. When, in her musings, that excuse wore thin, she reminded herself of the loss she had endured at Sartean’s hand. Surely his evil deed had scarred her… who could find fault with her instinct to defend herself against evil men?
Yet as Mila ran deeper into the forest, Darrin’s ever-haunting final words mingled with the dragon’s observations—
…unclean…
…cursed…
…vile…
…little witch…
—and the strength of her justifications gave way to a growing realization: she could not recall a time when she could call herself good.
And then, of course, there was the magic.
Mila ran on, her heart and mind dueling for the right to name the color of her soul. While the war inside the sorceress was an old one, neither side ever truly managing to gain ground against the other, the events of the previous day had tilted the scales. Her foe was dead, but in its place, another had arisen, one who breathed fire, one who spoke into her very mind with revolting intimacy. Mila could not decide which she dreaded most about the mighty Kalashagon—his fire or his familiarity—but there was no doubt: he would be dead and gone but for Mila’s appetite for vengeance.
The ash of Fang was less thick in the forest where Mila found herself, but the snow was not. Only a widening gap between the trees on either side of her gave clue that she had run onto a path, one that had become a trail. Overcast skies made it difficult to tell direction, but Mila realized she had been going mostly uphill. As Mor sat within a deep valley that extended west past the farmlands but rose steadily in elevation as one traveled north or east, her climb could only mean that she had turned north at some point.
The trail was not well-traveled; it had not snowed here recently, but only a single rider’s wind-swept tracks were visible. A rider returning home, she reasoned. No man with a choice would ride into Mor these past days. She was not excited about
the prospect of meeting strangers, but she was quickly becoming exhausted. Her gems could sustain her body at a run almost indefinitely while her concentration was strong, but it most certainly was not. The sorceress needed shelter and rest, preferably before nightfall. She dared not camp again. A fire might warm her bones, but it would also attract attention, particularly from a flying beast with an overhead view.
An hour later, Mila stood before the door of a small cabin in a wooded cul-de-sac. Lantern light shone through filmy glass. She decided against knocking; an unwelcome knock would seem far more threatening than a young woman’s voice.
“Hello? Is there anyone there?”
Mila heard shuffling noises, a bar thrown against the door. A woman’s face peered through the small window.
“Who goes there? What do you want?”
“I am alone, ma’am. And cold. I mean no harm.”
V: THE TEMPLE OF KAL
DAUGHTER NIA REMOVED HER crimson robe and laid it across the foot of her cot. The cool, damp air of the temple raised bumps on her exposed skin. She glanced at the grey shift hanging beside the entrance to her stony chambers. The woolen cloth was terribly uncomfortable; better to be cold, she decided, than to suffer the incessant itching caused by the hateful garment. The very thought of it made her skin crawl. She repressed the urge to scratch herself; a Daughter of Kal would not indulge such trivial wants of the flesh, lest she face the Mother’s wrath. Not that it mattered today.
She had done her duty well. Well enough, she had hoped, to at least avoid punishment. It was an honor, the Mother had said, being trusted to carry the amulet to Sartean. Certainly, many of her sisters agreed, jealous twisting warping their faces when Nia had been chosen. Yet, even on that day, Nia suspected the true reason for her selection: she alone among her sisters would not be tempted to steal it. The magic would not work for her. She had not given herself wholly to Kal, and she suspected the Mother knew it. Now, as she awaited her summons after three days’ solitude and fasting, she had no doubt. She was not due to recite her second Oath for two more years, yet the Mother had called her. Her deception had been discovered. Soon she would be exposed… and punished.