The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4)

by Garrett Robinson

  I stood there for an eternal moment, unable to understand, unwilling to believe. The only sound was the rain slamming into the muddy ground all around us.

  I almost ran forwards. Oku wavered, looking between Mag and me, waiting for the command to attack.

  But those claws … Mag’s blood ….

  Never had I seen a weremage in their hellskin form, but I recognized it from the tales I had heard. And if Kaita could do this to Mag, I stood no chance. I hated myself for it, but something kept me from flinging myself into certain, pointless death by Mag’s side.

  I threw myself behind a nearby boulder, where I waited, panting from my desperate run. Oku darted into hiding beside me. Gritting my teeth and squeezing the stitch forming in my side, I edged out around the boulder far enough to see.

  Kaita had Mag pinned to the ground. Blood flowed out of her, turning the mud into a dark slush. I could see it was not her first wound. Her lip had split, and a deep slice ran down the length of her arm.

  None of it made sense. It was impossible. In more than two decades, I had never seen anyone so much as break her skin. And now she …

  She is dying, I thought.

  I did not want to believe it, but it was true. Any fool could see it. And Mag had to know it. But still her face was impassive, expressionless. She had her shield on her arm, and so she reached up to slam it into Kaita’s twisted face.

  It was like striking a mountain. Kaita did not even flinch. Her left hand was still plunged deep through Mag’s body. Now, with her right, she snatched the shield in her massive claws and crushed it. The wood shattered to kindling. Shards of it plunged into Mag’s flesh. Kaita’s claws constricted further, and I watched them sink through Mag’s skin, into the muscle, threatening to cut the arm off. Mag’s blood flowed into the mud like a river.

  The whole time, Kaita never stopped looking straight into Mag’s face. She snarled and growled with every new cut. But Mag remained stone-faced. She did not flinch as the raindrops fell right in her eyes, as another blast of lightning tore the sky in half above her.

  With her left arm in Kaita’s claws, only her right arm was free—the mangled, sliced arm that had been wounded before. But one hand had been enough for the bear or the lion. So she formed her fingers into a knife, and she jabbed it towards Kaita’s eye.

  Kaita was too quick. She twisted her neck, and Mag’s fingers struck her cheek instead. The bones snapped like twigs. Kaita’s spikes gouged Mag’s palm.

  Kaita grinned, though it was more of a hateful snarl.

  She released Mag’s shield arm. All her fingers curled into a fist except the forefinger, leaving one great, razor-sharp claw extended to a point.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, she drove the claw through Mag’s throat.

  Mag’s lifeblood bubbled out, gushing around the claw. Her shield arm fell to the ground, and then her spear arm. Her feet slid through the mud as her legs relaxed. But her eyes never left Kaita, even as the light inside them dimmed.

  Forever.

  Kaita waited a long moment, as if to be sure. Then she straightened. She looked as though she could not believe it was over.

  I had almost forgotten myself as I lay hiding behind that boulder. It was as if I was not even there, as if I had become disembodied, floating over the scene like a moon in the sky, observing but unable to intervene.

  But now I had a horrible thought. What if Kaita sensed me? Smelled me? Heard me?

  Yet as moments kept stretching, nothing happened. If she had been the lion or even the bear, she might already know I was here, despite the rain. This creature, this hellskin form, seemed to be built entirely for strength, speed, and invulnerability. Its senses were not keen enough to detect me.

  Kaita stepped back and resumed her human shape. She turned and walked away. And now I saw that the brute woman stood nearby. I had been so focused on Mag that I had not noticed her at first.

  The two of them embraced. Kaita took one last look back at Mag’s fallen form. And then finally, they both turned and strode off west, to where I knew the rest of the Shades would be waiting.

  Steady tears poured down my face, and I could not restrain my deep, sobbing breaths, though I tried to keep them quiet. Oku kept whining softly. I held a steady hand on his head, my fingers deep in his sodden fur, though I could not tell you whether it was for my comfort or his.

  Finally, slowly, I stood from my hiding place and went to Mag. She still stared upwards, right where Kaita’s horrid face had been. Oku trotted around to her other side.

  I fell to my knees in the mud. Rainwater poured over me, soaking through my clothes, but I did not care. I could not deny what had happened, but neither could I believe it, and I would not accept it. Mag was never supposed to die. Eternal, Chausiku had called her, and he was right. She was too strong, too incredible—larger than life and certainly too remarkable for death. She was never supposed to go.

  Especially if it meant leaving me here on my own.

  I reached down and brushed her hair out of her eyes, and then I closed them. I fell forwards onto my elbows, my forehead planted in the mud, and my tears spilled to freeze on the ground.

  Oku whined and edged forwards. With his muzzle, he prodded at her broken fingers. When she did not move, he pushed harder, lifting her hand to rest on her lap, like he was trying to get her up. When she still did not move, he licked her hand, cleaning off some of the blood.

  “No, boy,” I said, choking on the words. “She is gone. Sky save us. I should never have taken her from Northwood. I wish I had never left Strapa. I wish I had never met—” I stopped, for I could not quite bring myself to say it.

  And then Mag’s body jerked.

  She gasped, the sound of her breath wet and bubbling through punctured lungs. Her back arched until I thought her spine would snap. Her head barely touched the ground. Every limb jerked and spasmed, her hand striking me in the chest. I could only stare at her in horror.

  “Aaahhh!” she screamed from her ruined throat.

  “Mag!” I cried.

  Dark below. I had been sure she was already dead. This was even worse. Now I would have to sit with her through her agonizing last moments, and I would have to watch. It was Sten all over again.

  And then I saw her fingers.

  With sickening, wet cracks and pops, they bent back into shape. I saw the bones sliding beneath the skin, muscles and tendons tensing, squeezing, twisting. In a few moments, the hand had returned to normal, though it was still covered in blood and cuts from Kaita’s bladed skin.

  Then her slashed arm began to seal itself together. Fresh blood poured from every wound, but slowly the flow was stanched as the skin rejoined, covering them over.

  I hovered my hands over her, wanting to help but not knowing how. My wondering gaze went from wound to wound, the gaping holes in her chest, the slit in her throat. All of them were healing. Her sealing wounds pushed out the splintered wood from her shield. Then the gaps closed to hide the blood and flesh beneath.

  Finally, the wounds were gone, leaving nothing so much as a scar.

  Nothing so much as a scar.

  And then, all at once, many things made sense for the first time.

  We were in the mountains of Tokana, and Mag and I had found our first troll. Dark take her, she had taunted it, accusing it of working with the Shades. The troll roared and slammed its hands into the earth before storming towards her.

  “No chance of peace, then,” said Mag. “I suspected as much.”

  “Mag!” I cried, but too late. She crouched and leaped towards the thing.

  It struck her a backhanded blow and sent her flying over a nearby house.

  She landed where I could not see her, among the debris of another destroyed home. Her spine snapped. Broken, jagged beams from the wrecked house pierced her side and her leg.

  Mag gritted her teeth and stifled her scream as best she could. Her arms were useless, and her spear and shield fell to the ground. For a short while, she sat there, h
eaving agonized breaths through her teeth.

  Then her spine cracked and popped, pushing itself back into place. Mag cried out as she felt her bones rearranging themselves inside her, her nerves reconnecting to flood her mind with agony.

  She could use her arms again. She reached up and seized the jagged end of the wooden spar. As she pulled herself off it, she whimpered at the feeling of the twisted wood ripping through her insides.

  The wounds were already sealing when she fell to the ground on all fours. Soon there was no hole in her side. The slices along her palms vanished.

  Shaking, she got to her feet and inspected herself. Scooping up some dirt from the ground, she scrubbed at the fresh bloodstains until they were dry. Then she snatched up her weapon and shield and ran back towards me and the troll. By the time she found me, there were no signs of injury. And in my panic at the troll, I did not notice the new bloodstains in her clothes.

  We were in the mountains near Opara. Shades had ambushed Mag, Tuhin, and me. Mag had gone running off with Oku beside her, hunting the Shades in the dips and crags of the land. She had killed three already, and they were starting to figure out she was among them.

  A Shade heard her coming and drew. Mag rounded the corner, and his arrow took her in the eye.

  Her body went limp in an instant, like a puppet with cut strings. Oku howled in rage and leaped at the man. The Shade dropped his bow and drew a long dagger, trying to fend Oku off. They danced around each other, neither managing to land a blow. Oku paced around the Shade, growling, while the man tried to find a chance to plunge his blade home.

  Behind him, Mag’s body shuddered. Slowly, she got back to her feet. She gritted her teeth as she seized the arrow and pulled it out.

  Her eye was still healing when the Shade turned, too late, and saw her. His face filled with horror as she plunged her spear into his heart.

  She fell to her knees, shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear it of the pain. Tears poured from her remaining eye at the horrific feeling of her brain repairing itself inside her skull, and then of the bone growing back into place. As her mind started to clear, she probed the Shade’s body with shaking hands. Her fingers found a waterskin.

  “Thank the sky,” she muttered, voice wobbling. She poured the water over her face and head, washing away the blood as best she could.

  By the time she returned to me, I thought the blood covering her had spilled from the Shades she had killed. But Oku trotted by her side, looking up at her and whining, and I did not understand why.

  We were in Lan Shui, and Mag was alone, fighting two vampires in the burning house that had once been a Shade hideout. We had named one Shoulders. The other was the largest, so Mag had dubbed it King.

  She kicked Shoulders over a chair. Flames caught along its skin, and it screeched in pain as the fire consumed it. She followed up with her spear, impaling it against the wall.

  Shoulders lashed out in its death throes. Its clawed hands and feet raked across Mag’s arm, her shoulders, her neck. But Mag, secure in her battle-trance, did not flinch. She watched its body wither and die, vanishing in flames like parchment.

  King smelled the passage down into the basement with the magestone blood. He knocked her aside, breaking one of her arms in the process. Mag fell to the ground, impassive, silent.

  And by the time Yue and I found her, her wounds had sealed themselves, and her arm had returned to normal.

  “One left,” she said, pointing to the basement door. And we followed her down without question.

  Mag was in the woods outside Shuiniu. She was naked and alone. She could not speak, for she knew no words. And she was hunting dinner.

  A deer stood in the forest, a half-span ahead of her. In her hands was a sharpened stick—a poor substitute for the spontoon she would one day own, but still deadly in her grip.

  She stalked as close as she dared. When she could not draw any closer without the deer hearing her, she threw the spear. The instant it left her hand, she was already sprinting forwards.

  The spear plunged into the deer’s flank. The animal screamed, even as Mag leaped through the air towards it. Landing feet first, she bowled it over and seized the spear. She yanked it out, shoved it into the deer’s neck, and held the buck down while its body jerked in its final spasms.

  She had crouched down, ready to feast, when she heard a snarl. She whirled faster than blinking, but not quite fast enough. Her fingers sank into fur as she clutched the throat of a panther.

  It knocked her to the ground as she had done to the deer. But Mag was prey to no creature. Her hands became knives. She could not reach its eyes, but she struck it under the legs and in the jugular. It yowled in pain.

  But before she could drive it off, its jaws clamped down on her throat. It gave a vicious jerk of its head, and her neck broke with a sickening snap. Mag’s body went limp.

  The panther held her for a moment. Then it dropped her and padded over to the deer. For a moment, it sniffed, inspecting the corpse, before digging its fangs into the hide and beginning to eat.

  Mag’s body jerked.

  Her neck snapped back together, and she gave a strangled cry of agony. She closed her eyes, deep breaths forcing themselves in and out, while the wounds in her neck slowly sealed over.

  She rose.

  The panther turned. It stared up at her, its amber eyes glinting in the sunlight that broke between the tree trunks.

  It must have known this was a fight it could not win, for it turned and fled deep into the woods.

  Mag heaved a sigh and returned to her deer. Once again, she crouched, ready to eat. But this time, she kept a wary ear out for any other creature approaching her.

  And then she heard something. Footsteps, coming closer.

  She went to investigate. And she stumbled upon Duana, out for a walk.

  It was the battle of Northwood, and the beginning of my long, long journey by Mag’s side, seeking revenge against Kaita.

  Sten had died. Mag had attacked Kaita with all her fury, but the weremage had escaped. Now the two of us stood against a fresh wave of Shades. But the people of Northwood had rallied around us, and there was a pitched battle in the streets.

  I saw Mag surrounded by her enemies. I saw her kill, but I also saw them cut and pierce her with their blades.

  A club struck me unconscious. And Mag saw me fall.

  No, she thought, in the part of her mind behind the battle-trance. Not Albern. Not him, too.

  She shoved through the crowd and scooped me up. Holding me under one arm, she carried me through the battle and to safety. Behind a building that hid us both from sight, she set me down and felt for a heartbeat.

  It was there, and it was strong, thank the sky. Her battle-trance fell away, and she breathed a sigh of relief. But it turned to a hiss of pain as her wounds started to seal themselves.

  When she was whole, she picked me up again. The battle was starting to wind down. She found Elsie and placed me in her charge, to be healed on the floor of the tavern’s common room. When I awoke and saw her, I stared at her in wonder.

  “Before I went down,” I said, “I saw you surrounded. I thought I saw you wounded.”

  (I had seen her wounded.)

  She stepped forwards and held out her arms. “They did surround me. I fought my way free. Do you see any wounds?”

  (At least she did not lie to me. Not then, anyway.)

  I did not see any wounds, and so I sighed. “You are frightening sometimes, Mag.”

  “Only sometimes?”

  She smiled, and it hid every bit as much sadness as the mask of her battle-trance.

  She was the Uncut Lady still. So far as any of us knew.

  Sun stared blankly at Albern across the bar. Surreptitiously, she glanced down at her mug. How much of it had she had? Was this her second drink, or third? Was the ale the reason the old man had ceased to make any sense?

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  Albern’s mouth twisted. And
though he had revealed the tale’s great secret to her, there was no joy in his expression, none of the restrained smile of a skald who enjoys the reaction of his audience. There was only a profound mournfulness.

  “I am saying what you think I am saying, but you are reluctant to hear it. Do you begin to understand now, Sun? That was the moment I learned a lesson I have been trying to impart to you all this time—not just today, but since we met in that tavern.

  “Mag’s story, the legend that surrounded her, the impossibly grand tale of the Uncut Lady … it was never something we were meant to believe. It was a good story. It bolstered the spirits of all who knew her, and especially those who fought beside her. It made our lives grander to hear it, even if we doubted it was true. Because deep in our hearts, we knew it could not have been. And as you will see, the story itself was a protection of sorts. It hid a truth Mag did not wish to reveal.”

  Sun felt lost in wonder. There were a thousand things she wanted to ask, but all her questions seemed limp and useless in the face of this knowledge.

  She was surprised to find that she believed him without question. Often before this, she had doubted Albern’s tale, even though most of it seemed possible. This new revelation seemed entirely impossible, and yet she did not doubt it for an instant.

  “Mag was never the person I thought she was,” Albern went on. “In some ways, she was less than the legends, and in other ways, she was more. Yes, she was an incredible fighter, but not as great as the stories made her out to be. She had suffered wounds. She had even died before. Many times. But she always came back. And with every death, she learned, and she became faster, and stronger, and even better in the next fight.”

  “But … but how?” said Sun, finding her voice at last. “How is it possible? Where did she gain such power? And why?”

  Albern fixed her with a look. “I know the answers to those questions. But I am not yet ready to give them. Can you accept that?”