by T J Marquis
The gremlin drummer had a flare gun clipped to a leather sash it wore as a belt. Jon sheathed his sword and pointed to the flare gun, then to the surrounding hills, and made a motion like a cut across his neck. He wished for the gremlin to signal an end to the incantation, and he thought the creature understood. It shook its head frantically, pleading with him in its own language, but went quickly silent when Jon raised a fist of erupting white fire. He wasn’t sure if he’d really kill the thing if it didn’t comply, but the gremlin didn’t know that.
The gremlin whined and unfastened the flare gun. Hesitantly it pointed the gun upward and fired off two flares. Within seconds the sensations of vertigo began to abate, and soon Jon felt almost normal again. His head continued to hurt as if his body still believed it had been aching for a legitimate reason. Jon held his fiery fist in the air as he stooped down to draw in the dirt at his feet. He poked out a hole with one finger, then indicated himself and the gremlins. He swept his hands around to suggest the surrounding hills, then held them up in a questioning motion, and pointed at the gremlin to draw.
It whined again, but obeyed, poking holes in the dirt at various distances to reveal the approximate positions of its comrades. The staff-wielding gremlin continued to weep over its ruined weapon, taking no notice.
Jon noted the crude dirt map as best he could, then mounted the air and cruised low between the hills to each position in turn. All of the gremlin shamans were in pairs, and all of them surprised at his appearance. None were willing to fight, now that Jon possessed his full faculties again. He confiscated all of their flare guns and staves and destroyed them, almost amused at how each staff-wielder seemed desperately attached to its implement of magic.
Once clear of all the shaman emplacements he’d been made aware of, Jon took to the air and continued on his way until he felt he’d gotten far enough away that the gremlins wouldn’t be able to find him. Although, how had they known his position with enough precision to cast spells on him in the first place? Was that part of their magic?
Jon stopped on a rocky flat to rest under a lonely tree and eat some of his rations. A clear stream tinkled across its stony bed nearby, and he took the opportunity to refill his canteens of water. He consulted the map Rae had given him, thinking he must be getting close to Soulspeak. There were no landmarks in this region, however, and the stream here wasn’t big enough to be shown on the map. He must be somewhere above those hills that marched away south and west of the mountain though. If he flew at terminal velocity again, he might make the mountain in just a handful of hours. Was it worth using up the extra energy, and would the mountain afford him any kind of cover or reprieve from attack?
He deemed it worthy. Battle was thrilling once he was engaged, but the lulls in between allowed indignation and frustration to set in, making him eager to complete his quest. The sooner he could reach his goal, the better. He would address issues of stamina later.
Jon took enough time to let his food settle and his headache abate, then launched himself toward Soulspeak at full speed.
He was spared harassment for an hour or so as the land sped below him, rising and falling, alternating from the rocky flats to stretches of grassy hills and small round lakes.
The next attack was only another set of snipers, more this time, stretched out over many miles. None of them managed to hit Jon, though many came closer - several times he heard bullets whizzing past his head. He wondered if these were some of the Nulians’ better shooters. Jon ignored them rather than stopping to fight, speeding his flight, and eventually, the encounters ceased.
Around that time, Jon passed over a river, and the northern mountain range came into view, Soulspeak squatting among its fellows like a weary giant, fat with folds and looking gnarly as a scar from an old wound. Its peak was white and misty, capturing moisture from the clouds that caught on its heights.
Rae had told him there should be a cave-like shrine near the peak, high up but not beyond the death zone. So the old legends held. Luckily for Jon, he had but to fly up to the heights - no need to climb to those frigid, snowy reaches.
Watching the old peak approach was rejuvenating, even as the air grew brisk, then freezing. Jon had taken no space in his pack for warm clothes, despite Rae’s indications that the mountain would be cold. Instead, he would trust to the light to warm him as he had done while scaling the Keep.
The last hour of his flight was long, but the cold air was pleasant after these many weeks of summer, and Jon basked in a sense of accomplishment. There were no attacks forthcoming, and Jon surmised the enemy was not willing to come to this enchanted place.
After the challenges of the last few days, the cave below the Soul’s peak was surprisingly simple to locate. Jon curved around the peak to scan it, and found the cave, only slightly obscured by a drift of snow. He saw the remains of a path leading up to the shrine. He supposed it had been cleared so that blacksmiths or wizards could visit to harvest water for their blue steel. It seemed too easy.
Jon landed at the mouth of the cave, boots sinking into the snow. Idly he wondered how he’d replace his favorite footwear when it finally deteriorated. There would be no visiting a mall this time around.
He stepped into the cave, and immediately a sacred silence enveloped him. The walls of the cave glowed faintly blue, like backlit ice, and the light of day faded as he followed a short, curved tunnel deeper into the mountain. There was a drip… drip… drip that echoed off the cold stone hypnotically, and soon Jon found the source of the sound.
It was a pool of still blue water that emerged from under a low overhang and was dammed up by a low lip of chiseled stone. A lone stalactite jutted down from the cave ceiling, single droplets of water falling from its tip every few seconds to splash down and briefly ripple the surface of the pool. A tiny altar at the pool’s lip held a small plaque with an engraving that Jon could mostly read.
Find rest here, however long you stay.
Kings, brace your hands for a cold darker than steel.
The lower portion of the engraving had been damaged, and all he could make out was:
Death….when no soul dares....He keeps you….harms of….
Depending on the words Jon imagined in between, it could have been a foreboding message.
Jon set his pack and weapons down and knelt at the edge of the pool, not knowing what to expect. Would a voice speak with him, as in the dome of the light? Should he just reach in and take some of the water? He wasn’t even certain how he’d planned to transport it back to Centrifuge. The water looked cool and inviting, even delicious, but Rae had said it was salty. There must be a salt-water spring somewhere below, but as to how it came to be enchanted, Jon couldn’t even imagine.
Nothing, no one spoke, though Jon waited several minutes. Anxiety pulsed in his blood, apprehension at the unknown. He read the plaque again.
Kings brace your hands…
Before uncertainty could paralyze him, Jon dipped the fingers of his right hand into the water.
Immediately a heaviness fell on his spirit, and his eyes welled up unexpectedly. Vivid memories cascaded from his mind down into his vision, of minor guilts, from the thefts or disobedience of childhood, to his captured memory of the gremlin Nom’s last moments. Arrayed before him were all the images of poverty, war, famine, neglect, and hatred he’d ever seen, like screens on the wall of justice’s own war room.
The scenes of sorrow played out in front of his eyes, repeating as his soul was submerged in the frigid depths of each. Did he weep for the world, or for himself?
He swam among the memories, becoming certain this was a trap. He was to sink into this pool and never emerge, to be drowned as an offering to the world’s own misery.
It might not be so bad. He could see his parents again, see Cal. He probably deserved it anyway, for getting his friend killed, for murdering that policeman. How long had he wished to escape life anyhow, but just not had the courage to end it himself? That’s it, he breathed. Sink into
the dark and just let go.
Then would come peace. Then would come justice, as vengeance for the crimes of his own life was sated. This was desirable. This was good.
He’d begun to let go when a weeping apparition stole his attention. Other scenes faded as he focused on this one. It was an old lady. She looked familiar. She was pale and wrinkled, plump in a yellow polka-dotted moo-moo. She wept silently in a creaky rocking chair, pushing at the floor with her white cane. Afternoon light shone through the window past her head, its dusty blinds half-open. A tabby cat watched her impassively from its couch.
Jon knew this woman, though he realized he’d never known her actual name. To him, she was just Gram. Calvin’s grandmother.
Jon stopped sinking, kicking at the pool’s depths to rise up toward the image of Gram. He swam up to it, then into it, and stepped dry into her living room, as if he’d been present the whole time.
She seemed to hear his footsteps and caught her breath, sniffling lightly. Jon stood still, surprised.
“Is that Jon?” the blind old lady rasped, turning her face towards him. That seasoned southern accent was so comforting. “I know those boots. This ain’t a safe place for you, you know...” She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief and straightened a little in her chair. Jon took a step toward her, and the tabby cat retreated to the top of the couch. “Not that I’m gon’ tell.” She waited, but Jon couldn’t find any words.
“Oh come on, son, you was never shy with me,” she scolded gently. “It ain’t gotta be different, now Calvin James is gone.” She almost always called him by both names, or at least his initials. “You the only family I got left.”
Jon looked around Gram’s little house, trying to figure out how real this was. Was he truly present? He sniffed. It was there, that smell of oft-cooked macaroni. A faint hint of cat and litter box. The dust of a house cleaned only by a blind woman. Well, real or not, he should speak with her.
“Gram, I…” Jon started.
“Oh, there he goes! I knew it,” Gram slapped her thigh, interrupting him.
Jon smiled despite himself. That a single gesture could bring normality to the world…
“Gram, I’m sorry about Calvin. It was my fault,” he said.
Gram scoffed. “I knew you ain’t been behavin’. But that grandson of mine didn’t have to do what he been doin’. You the one that shot him?” She defied Jon to blame himself again.
“No,” Jon said.
“You the one bought a car you didn’t need? Got me to sign for it?”
“No.”
“And you the one speedin’ on drugs?” She didn’t let him answer this time. “No. C.J.’s choice. C.J. Now you, you gotta face God for shootin’ that policeman. They know it wasn’t C.J. did it. I say it’s not safe for you, but they ain’t even got a picture. Nobody knows it was you in that car, boy. But God knows. That’s what you gotta face, Jon, not my little boy’s death.”
“But if I hadn’t taken him with me on the deal,” Jon protested. “If I hadn’t let him drive home even... It’s just what we always did… But, he might be alive!” The tears were welling up in his eyes again. “I shouldn’t have shot the officer, I know that. But I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know if he’d shoot me too, and he murdered Cal!”
Gram held her hand out to Jon, and he took it. She squeezed surprisingly hard.
“I… wanted him to die,” Jon admitted.
“We never know what we gonna do ‘til the time comes, boy,” she said. “That’s what forgiveness is for.” She smiled sadly. “Don’t think I’m lost in these tears, son. Don’t think you can stop ‘em. This is what I got to do right now, so you best leave me to it.”
“Anyway,” she gave him his hand back. “You always stuck by my C.J. And you might not be my grandson, but you know I love you.” Gram gripped the armrests of her chair and took several moments to stand. She braced herself on her white cane. “I thank you for your visit, Jon. It means so much. But I think you better be goin’.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jon. “Is… is this another vision? Is it real?” She didn’t answer, but took his hand again, put it up to her warm, wrinkled face. A tear rolled onto Jon’s forefinger and he pulled it away. It was ice cold. When he looked for Gram’s face again, she was gone.
He knelt again at the edge of the pool, something cold in his upturned palm. It was not Gram’s little tear, but a large globule of the pool’s blue water. Some otherworldly force kept it contained. Jon breathed in deeply - what felt like his first breath in minutes. It was disorienting to be back in the cave. Had he really gone to see his homeworld? It had certainly felt real.
Gram’s words rang in his memory. They didn’t solve all his problems, but something about that visit, or dream, or vision, cemented his resolve. He felt he’d been right to move on from the old life. Following Mr. Bear across the worlds hadn’t merely been a decision of survival or convenience. No, something about it was good. Pure and good.
He had a thought and balked at it. Is this what the Enkannites of ancient times had to go through every time they came to harvest these cold tears from the pool? He’d seen enough tear-steel swords to know their forging hadn’t been a terribly rare occasion. It said a lot for the fortitude of the weapons’ blacksmiths, or whoever’s job it had been to harvest the tears.
Jon breathed out wearily and sat back against the near wall of the cave. He could feel the cold stone through his thin aura of white, but it was somehow refreshing. A heavy feeling still sat upon him, like the haze of solemnity after a loved one’s funeral. He needed to just sit and process for a bit. This was a safe place, right? No one had come to accost him yet. He could just lay his head back against the coolness of the mountain and…
Chapter 19
A Mage's Blade
Jon started awake, reflexively looking down at his bare left wrist.
Stupid. You never wear your watch to a deal.
But wait, why was it so cold?
Jon’s mind caught up to his surroundings. The cave, the pool. That endless dripping of tears. His hand lay open in his lap, the blue globule both fluid and solid in his palm. His initial instinct to check the time came back around, and he wondered how long he’d been asleep. He hoped it hadn’t been the same kind of sleep he’d suffered after the battle at Otu. There was not an hour to spare.
He’d slumped while snoozing, and his legs were stretched at an odd angle. Little aches gripped his muscles as he stood and fetched his travel pack and weapons. Despite the stiffness of an awkward sleep, and a faint softness in his mind after that supernatural plunge into sorrow, Jon felt physically refreshed. Was that from a long sleep, or some effect of the magic of the tears? With a last glance at the pool, he followed the short curve of the tunnel back outside.
He could see far from this high peak, and the earth to his left still lay in shadow. To the east, dawn was breaking. Dawn? Had he been in that cave all night? The morning was clear, the air up here still cold. Everything was just as he’d left it before entering the cave, except the position of the sun. Below lay the stone ruins of an old city. Perhaps its ancient residents had once been the harvesters and purveyors of the tears of Soulspeak. He wondered if Rae had conducted one of her digs there.
It was time to set out. He didn’t want to go about holding this globule of tears in his hand though. It was quite light but would sit awkwardly in his pack if it fit at all. He had an idea, something he hadn’t tried yet.
All the times he’d used telekinesis, it had been in short bursts, pushes or pulls. Now he wrapped the icy orb in white light and set it in place, in midair, above his right shoulder. He thought an order at it in the same way he’d been commanding the bloodlight - to stay at his right shoulder until otherwise directed. When he turned, the orb followed. That might come in handy.
He ducked back into the shrine of tears long enough to eat some jerky and hardtack before setting out for the day. He was about ready for some more of Rae’s steak, but it would have to wait
.
He had just begun to lower his altitude, following the long slope of Soulspeak downward, when he saw a gleam of light in the sky above. He glanced toward it, caught a blur of motion, and saw nothing more. He thought the anomaly had shot off to the north, perhaps to get behind him. Jon rose farther up in the sky and doubled back to inspect the area.
At first he saw nothing and thought it must have been a trick of the light. These last few days had been harrowing - his eyes and mind might be suffering a fatigue that even twelve hours’ sleep couldn’t cure. Then he saw the gleam again, and again it shifted away, back to the east. He guessed its approximate location and maxed out his velocity to dash toward it. For a moment, he thought he’d got it, but the gleam rotated away and he lost it. Clockwise… Jon dashed up and left, saw it clearly at last. It rotated to hide, tracking him, just barely too late, and he closed the distance, hands suddenly ignited with gauntlets of white fire, digging into the thing so it couldn’t escape again. It tried anyway, and dragged him with it, careening to the south at least as fast as Jon had ever managed to fly.
Even trapped between his arms, the thing was hard to see, so reflective was its surface. Not just reflective, though, it was like the orb’s surface bent light around it from every direction. The glint of light that had given it away came from a lens of glass covering a black circle like the pupil of an eye. The thing bobbed and weaved in its course, attempting to shake him off, but Jon channeled strength into his arms, and his fire-clawed fingers kept their purchase.
Jon’s flight was not governed by thrust, but by thought, so when he willed himself to fly straight down at the ground below, the thing in his arms had no recourse and was pulled along. He held it before him, hoping it wasn’t some kind of living thing, feeling fairly certain it wasn’t. They crashed together into a ridge of the mountain. Jon let go of the thing an instant before he would have smashed into its wreckage, nearly blacking out as he shifted his own velocity drastically upward.