“You look like a drowned rat!” She grinned, splashing him again.
On the other side of the shell, Cress and Othello had entered the water, their happy cries out of sight. He knew they should be searching the horizon for a volcano, but at that moment he didn’t care. It could wait. All he saw were Sylva’s sparkling blue eyes. He splashed her back—and the look of incredulous outrage on her face as she spluttered made him laugh aloud.
“Right, now you’re in for it,” Sylva said in mock anger.
She ducked Fletcher’s head under the surface, only to find he had tugged her feet out from under her, dragging her beneath the water with him. They wrestled there, pressed chest to chest, her lean limbs wrapping around his own as they vied for position. Fletcher’s heart pounded as they tumbled on the soft sand of the lagoon bed, until the need to breathe brought them back to the surface.
They burst from the water and parted, catching their breaths as they took in the splendor of their surroundings once again. The sky was shining so that the water glittered like a handful of diamonds. Just for a moment, the fears of the past few days seemed insignificant in the face of such beauty.
Fletcher splashed Sylva again for good measure, then swam toward a gushing waterfall in the dark rock nearby. For a brief moment he reveled in the drumming of the water on his tired back. Then Sylva tackled him into the hollow cove beneath the ledge of pouring water.
He fell back onto a flat boulder, worn smooth and round by the water. She straddled his chest and pinned back his arms, the flowing water behind her like a wall that cut them off from the rest of the world, a glowing, undulating curtain that echoed in the dim chamber. The only sound was the rush of water and the ring of droplets falling from half-formed stalactites above.
She raised her eyebrows triumphantly, and then, as Fletcher began to heave her off him, she leaned down … and the room darkened. Othello emerged through the waterfalls, shaking his head like a wet dog.
“Hey, Sheldon’s on the move,” he said, sprinkling them with water from his long hair and beard.
Sylva sat up.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
CHAPTER
13
IT WAS NIGHT NOW, and they sat, miserable on the center of the shell, wrapped in the Catoblepas’s pelt. Their clothes were still damp from their swim, for the light of day had not been long enough to dry them. The only sounds were the gentle splashes as Sheldon swam through the lagoon. It was a slow, lazy pace, with no clear direction. He was waiting for something.
With no sign of a volcano, the mood had turned somber, even if they were clean once again. Even his mother was fresh faced—Cress had discreetly bathed her in the dim light of the evening while the others surveyed the landscape.
In the distance ahead of them, the jungles dwindled, revealing the deadlands, a desert wasteland of reddish sand. Beyond, the land fell away into darkness over the curved rim, where the disk that was the ether ended, and the abyss began.
“I’m leaving with Lysander,” Sylva said, breaking the subdued calm. “If I fly far enough I may spot a column of smoke from a volcano.”
She pushed her way out from the cloak of the pelt and stood, stretching. Lysander looked up as he heard his name and cawed mournfully. He had sensed Sylva’s intentions and didn’t want to leave the group.
“What … now?” Cress asked, alarmed at the sudden decision. “Right this minute?”
“We know the orcs don’t travel at night. It’s the best time to move. I’ll hide below the tree line when day breaks.”
“How will you navigate in the dark?” Othello asked. “Griffins have poor night vision. You’ll never be able to find it, let alone make your way back to us.”
“Fletcher…” Sylva paused, as if she wasn’t sure anymore. “Fletcher will come with me. Lysander can carry the two of us, and we’ll use Athena to see through the darkness. Her night vision is better than any of the other demons, even your Pyrausta.”
“We’ll find you by following the mountain range until we see the lagoon again,” Fletcher added. “Sheldon won’t be leaving anytime soon. It looks like he’s waiting for something.”
As the others mulled over their words, Fletcher couldn’t help wonder: Why had Sylva hesitated? Surely she wouldn’t want to go out alone. Was it about what had happened in the waterfall? Or rather, what hadn’t happened? Fletcher felt a pang of regret in his chest.
Whatever the reason, she was already taking her share of petals from their dwindling supply, dividing it into equal piles of five. Fletcher stuffed handfuls of jerky into his backpack and refilled his flask from the lagoon.
Having secured his sword, bow and guns, he hugged his mother tightly, wishing the limp arms at her sides would wrap around him.
“We’ll get you home, Mum,” he whispered, kissing her on her forehead.
An awkward handshake with Othello turned into a bear hug. Cress bussed him on both cheeks, and he felt the wet of tears on her face. It was all too quick, a decision made without warning. Their time was running out.
He brushed Athena with his scrying crystal and affixed it to his eye, his view tingeing purple as she scampered onto his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, he pointed his palm at Ignatius, and the Salamander dissolved into his palm in a flush of white light.
Then Fletcher was hauling himself up Lysander’s side, the ridged spine and feathered fur sliding uncomfortably beneath his thighs as the Griffin’s musculature shifted and flexed.
“Petals, water, food, weapons,” Sylva muttered under her breath. She ran her fingers along the bow and falx scabbarded on her back. The sword’s handle blocked Fletcher’s view, so Athena leaped into Sylva’s lap, jarring with pain as her wing splint knocked against the elf’s shoulder. Her vision was bright in the pink-tinged crystal, as if the world were lit by the light of a dozen moons.
“We’ll be back,” Sylva said, though she spoke so quietly that Fletcher wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself.
Then, as Othello began to speak, Lysander leaped. The dwarf’s words were lost as they hurled themselves into the sky, ascending in great thrusts from his powerful wings.
Fletcher’s hands were wrapped around Sylva’s midriff, but it did little to anchor him; she was balanced as precariously as he was. He tilted left and right with every wing beat, and his thigh muscles ached as he desperately gripped Lysander’s sides. It was only when he glided on the wind, high above the jungle, that Fletcher’s heart left his mouth.
Beneath, the lagoon had shrunk to the size of a silver shilling, with a thin line denoting the wending river that poured into the vast ocean to their west. The mountain range behind them curled in a quarter circle, with the dark stain to the south where the swamplands began. Fletcher knew that the orc’s territory lay somewhere beyond, and there was likely a source of Euryale flowers there. Even though the Wyverns had already gone past them, it felt wrong to backtrack so far and enter a territory where other shamans may still be searching for them.
“We head east,” Sylva said, her voice barely discernible against the gusting wind.
So Lysander turned, his wings tilting and they with them in a stomach-churning swoop. Soon they were following the rough arc of the sierra, the world beneath rolling away in a rough carpet of treetops.
Fletcher scanned the horizon, desperate for the telltale pinnacle of rock in the distance. He even watched the mountain range, hoping against hope that a column of smoke would appear. Instead, they flew on into the night, the range curving away behind them until it faded into the distance. Below, the jungles seemed endless, broken only by the red-sanded desert of the deadlands on their left and the abyss looming on the far side of it.
Fletcher shuddered at the sight of the endless dark in the distance, remembering the tortured, tentacled creatures that lurked there. The Ceteans.
“Anything at all?” Sylva shouted, her words whipping over Fletcher’s shoulder.
Nothing. Nothing but the steady brighteni
ng of the sky above. He yelled his answer in her ear and he half heard her growl with frustration.
On they went, with Lysander climbing higher and higher in a bid to see farther afield. The temperature fell until the air misted with every breath, puffs of white that were snatched away by the wind. Still they flew, shivering together as they scanned the landscape. Fletcher wished he had Cress’s pocket watch—only the light above told him how long they had searched. Two hours? Three?
Sylva kept on until the last vestiges of the dark sky had turned to the honey glow of dawn. Then, finally, they began to spiral down into the wet heat of the jungles below.
“There,” Fletcher called, pointing as Athena’s sharp eyes focused on a gap in the canopy. It felt better to choose a clearing, where they would have a line of sight in case of approaching predators when they landed. It was not unknown for hunters to lie in ambush within the undergrowth.
Yet, as the hot air wafted over them and their destination neared, Fletcher saw a flash of white in the glade they were headed for. White stone, bright in the morning light.
“What the hell is that?” Sylva said as Lysander swooped toward it. He landed in a skitter of scraping claws, slipping over smooth marble.
Fletcher tumbled to the ground with a hard thud, the flat rock bruising his knees. He struggled to his feet and looked around him.
Pale stone pillars stretched up to hold a roof that was no longer there, turned into humps of shattered rubble on the cracked marble floors. Broken statues, worn by years of neglect, stood arrayed in a crescent before them. Creeping vines cascaded from the edges of the jungle, curling around the columns and ruined walls toward the meager light that filtered through the broken ceiling. There were sweeping symbols engraved upon an arch that curved between two pillars, but they looked like nothing he had seen before.
“Who built this place?” Sylva whispered. “The orcs couldn’t have done this. Could they?”
Her voice echoed around them. It was deathly quiet, the walls seeming to block the noise from the jungle. It felt like a sanctum, built for long-forgotten gods.
Feeling vulnerable, Fletcher summoned Ignatius. The violet light flashed eerily in the dim temple, and the Salamander appeared on the ground.
Ever curious, Ignatius scampered ahead of him to explore. Fletcher followed him, until they neared the half-moon line of statues. The light streamed in from the canopy to illuminate them, acting as a natural skylight.
There were ten statues, standing upon pedestals. Each was a different size and shape. Fletcher approached the five on the far left. All had the upper bodies of a human—two women and three men. Instead of legs, the first man had a finned tail of a fish, complete with carved scales and barbs. The woman beside him was similar, but with the flippers and lower body of a seal. They were beautiful to look at, and each had a crown of shells on its head.
A slit-nostrilled female followed, her legs like a snake’s tail that curved around its pedestal. She wore a crown in the shape of a coiled serpent, and the hair beneath was thick and lustrous. Her steely gaze made Fletcher shudder and move on to the next.
It was a man with the horns of a goat poking from his head, with the same cloven feet and hairy, strangely jointed legs. Beside it, a long-haired male with the lower body of a horse, and a human torso erupting from above the animal’s front legs. Both had crowns of thorned branches.
“Are they … demons?” Fletcher whispered.
There was a huge statue beside a tiny one in the center, the first the great, hulking figure of a giant with a misshapen, ogre-like face. His arm had broken off, lying on the floor like a felled tree trunk. Beside, a tiny woman stood proudly on the pedestal, with minuscule features and the wings of a butterfly.
“I know what these are,” Sylva breathed, pointing along the line of the statues Fletcher had examined. “A Merman, a Selkie, a Lamia, a Satyr and a Centaur.”
“That’s a Giant, and a Fairy,” Fletcher added, nodding at the two in the center, though he had never heard of the creatures Sylva had just named. The two he knew were from Berdon’s childhood stories. What were they doing here, in the depths of the ether?
“They’re from my people’s folklore. My mother used to tell me about them, but they were never supposed to be real,” Sylva said, her eyes wide with surprise. “Do you know what that is?”
She pointed at a large humanoid, standing as tall as an orc. It appeared as a long-haired gorilla that could stand with the posture of a man. The creature’s eyes were gentle, and it wore no crown.
“No … but that … that’s an angel, right?” Fletcher said, peering at a statue on the second-to-last pedestal. It was a man, but this one wore a skirt and breastplate. His crown was studded with what might have been jewels. But what stood out were the enormous wings that erupted from his back, with long, elegant feathers like that of a swan.
“From the creation story of your religion,” Sylva said, raising an eyebrow at Fletcher.
“Nobody remembers that stuff anymore,” Fletcher said.
Indeed, the religion of Hominum was little more than a shadow of its former self, the old stories faded from memory to leave a vague concept of heaven and hell. The priests preached, and the old flocked to their congregations, but the intricacies of the sins and covenants that the holy men laid out were beyond Fletcher’s comprehension.
There was little that remained of the final pedestal. All had gone but the misshapen lumps of what must have been two feet. Something or someone had hacked at the statue, and the fragments that lay on the floor had been broken again into gravel.
“If we ever get back home, you can bet Dame Fairhaven would want to know about these,” Fletcher said, thinking of the kindhearted librarian.
“I think everyone would,” Sylva replied, tracing her fingers along the carved fairy. Though wind and rain had worn it away, the detailing was still fine enough to see her tiny fingers. She was so small, barely taller than a handbreadth.
“I say we rest here,” Fletcher suggested, pointing at the corner of the temple, where a piece of roof and the two walls still remained and the light was dim from their shadow. “It doesn’t look like any demons shelter in this place; there’s no leavings or bones on the ground. It’ll be safe.”
Sylva nodded absently, still unable to take her eyes off the statues in front of her.
“Do you think they existed?” she asked, nodding at them.
“Maybe. But this place hasn’t been touched in hundreds, maybe thousands, of years,” Fletcher said, thinking aloud. “Whoever built this place, they’re long gone now.”
They walked together to the corner and settled down, using the backpack as a makeshift pillow and draping their jackets over themselves like blankets. Lysander curled up at their feet, his large frame cocooning them in. Athena kept watch, her broken wing too painful for her to sleep.
For a moment Fletcher thought Ignatius would try and curl his now-larger body around his neck, but then the demon burrowed between him and Sylva, which annoyed Fletcher more than he would like to admit. He was keen to be close to Sylva, even if she was not as warm as the growing imp.
It was quiet and still in the temple, and Fletcher was glad for a sleep without the strange calls and hoots from the wild demons in the jungle, even if it was in the middle of the day.
The minutes ticked by. They lay there in a comfortable silence, warm and content. Or at least, what Fletcher had thought was comfortable. Sylva cleared her throat.
“Fletcher. You know, about y-yesterday,” she stammered, then paused awkwardly.
“Hmm?” Fletcher mumbled. He was half-asleep, but as his memory of their time in the waterfall swam to the surface, he found himself quickly awake.
Sylva seemed to think for a moment, then spoke again.
“In my culture … when a … if a high elf and wood elf marry, they’re cast out. Shunned by their people, even their own family. They’re asked to leave the Great Forest. Then told to leave. Then made to leave.” She
spoke in quick bursts, as if it was a struggle to get the words out.
“Okay,” Fletcher said.
“They don’t like the castes to mix,” Sylva said, and Fletcher could hear the shame in her voice.
“They sound like Jeffrey,” Fletcher said. “He didn’t want any mixing either.”
In the corner of his eye he saw Sylva’s face wince at the traitor’s name.
“Yes, like Jeffrey,” she said softly.
“Why are you telling me this?” Fletcher asked.
Silence.
“They don’t like mixing…,” Fletcher murmured.
He left his sentence unfinished. Realization sat like a cold stone in his stomach.
“I just … I can’t,” Sylva whispered, so quietly that Fletcher wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it.
Being with him could ruin her. That was what she was saying.
She turned on her side so he couldn’t see her face. He felt so stupid.
“I thought that’s what we were fighting against,” he said, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.
She didn’t reply. It was too painful to talk about it. He wanted to pretend that she had just been telling him about her culture, that it didn’t mean what he knew it did. But the words left unsaid seemed even louder than if they had been spoken.
He gathered Ignatius into his arms, leaving a gap between himself and Sylva. It was a long time before he fell asleep.
CHAPTER
14
NIGHT FELL, AND AS THEY FLEW into the dark skies, the cold and the wind became a blessing in disguise—they had an excuse not to talk. It felt awkward now to clasp Sylva around her midriff. He hated it. Hated it so much that he almost missed the smoke.
A wisp of black, far in the distance, appeared in the overlay of the scrying stone. Was that the shadowy outline of a mountain beneath? He spoke for the first time in several hours.
“There,” he said, pointing.
He knew Sylva couldn’t see it, but his stomach lurched as Lysander corrected their course. Minutes passed as they flew on, staring into the darkness. Already, the first tinge of light above signaled the approach of dawn. They were cutting it close.
The Battlemage Page 7