by Thomas Locke
The monster resembled nothing Hyam had ever seen or heard of. The legs were barrel-like stumps that ended in fan-shaped claws. The hide was mottled and hairless, a crude pattern of orangish green. Its head was by far the most fearsome component. Six furious eyes rimmed a crown of thick bone. A trio of nostrils smoldered a putrid fume. The being had two mouths, one inside the other, that opened like alternating petals of a flesh-eating bloom. The six triangular lips were rimmed with teeth the length of Hyam’s sword. The fiend roared and clawed the shield and roared again.
Joelle searched through an opening in the roots, then called, “Dama is too deep to reach!”
It was one thing to tell himself the shield protected them, and another thing entirely to turn his back on the behemoth. Yet that is what he did, carefully making his way across the web of petrified roots, following the wolfhound’s snarls.
Meda cried, “The beast tracks you!”
Hyam realized it was so. The fiend rounded the crest so as to keep its head aimed at him. Hyam dropped to his belly and leaned into the crevice. Far below he could hear Dama snarling and scrambling. It sounded to Hyam as though the dog was actually moving away from them, but with the beast’s bellows he could not be certain of anything other than the fact that the wolfhound would have to wait. Which was a shame, because Dama was a most ferocious ally.
When he rose to his feet, he turned and waved to Alembord, gesturing them to hold back. Meda came up beside him and did the same. Only when they stopped did Hyam return his attention to the beast.
Joelle called, “What do we do?”
He had only one idea. He leaned in close to the two women and yelled, “Find two gaps on opposite sides. You both need footholds so you can come up fast. I’ll act as the lure.”
“Hyam, no—”
“Listen! You have the Milantian blade. I’ll break the shield, dive into a third hold, and stab up. If the beast comes after me, both of you go on the attack.”
Fear turned Joelle’s gaze liquid. “What if it can get to you?”
“The roots are like stone.” Meda’s sweat-streaked face was grim with anticipation. “It’s a good plan.”
Hyam said, “I’ll use a crevasse too narrow for the claws to reach in.”
Joelle gave the fiend another look, her terror clearly mounting. Hyam knew he had to move now, before she froze. He clenched her tight.
Joelle’s face felt hot against his cheek, her breath molten as she shouted into his ear about love and safety.
He released her and yelled, “Stab once, stab deep, then duck back down!”
Joelle glanced at Meda and must have found what she needed to tighten into the warrior mage who had been forged in flames all her own. It gave him the confidence to yell, “We will do this and we will walk away!”
9
Joelle and Meda both found suitable openings and carefully lowered themselves inside. Joelle then drew her sword and gestured to him, followed by Meda. By then Hyam had found his own perch, a narrow ledge with space for him to crouch and thrust his blade.
Hyam signaled the ladies and approached the fiend.
To have Hyam stand safely a mere sword’s distance away drove the beast to a new level of frenzy. It clawed and chewed at the shield, blind to all save the prey.
Hyam poised at the brink of his opening, waiting for the beast to rear back. Then he drew his blade across one point in the magical line and broke the spell.
He was only halfway into the shelter before the beast was upon him. But Dama struck with such force the beast stumbled.
The wolfhound had evidently burrowed through the roots and stones, all the way to the shield. The instant Hyam broke the spell, Dama burst from her burrow and flung herself at the fiend.
Dama struck between the two rear legs and clenched the monster’s underbelly. The wolfhound weighed a fraction of the behemoth. But her fury granted her a force so potent the creature was knocked from its perch and sent tumbling off the mound.
“Dama!” Hyam and Joelle and Meda all shouted together, then scrambled down the terraced steps.
Hyam yelled, “I’m going for the head!”
Meda leapt down upon the beast’s back, landing at the juncture of the two rear legs. She stabbed once, twice, then was tossed well clear.
Joelle remained focused upon rescuing Dama. The fiend was curved around the wolfhound, attacking with claws and the flower-mouth. Or it would have been, but Joelle scoured the opposite flank all the way from the middle leg to the beginning of its tail. The Milantian blade could cut through steel like a sickle through grass, and the fiend’s side proved no stronger. The behemoth howled and swung its head around just as its guts spilled into the dust.
Hyam scaled the slimy back and plunged his sword up to the hilt in the nearside eye.
The monster shrieked a new pitch and convulsed down its entire length. Hyam was tossed free of the legs and rolled to safety.
Joelle leapt impossibly high as the tail scissored about. She tumbled hard but came up running, and when the tail swung back she sliced off the tip.
Meda clambered back up and stabbed once more at the spine. She was now joined by Alembord and Caleb and Shona, who distracted the beast long enough for Hyam to reach the head once more.
Hyam gripped the slimy scalp with his knees and rammed his sword deep into another eye. The beast shook him off, but the frenzy was lessening.
Then Joelle slammed her milky blade into the chest, plunging the blade down all the way to the scabbard. Hyam climbed up a third time and stabbed where the massive skull met the spine.
Only when the beast ceased its struggles did Hyam realize he was shouting a war cry of his own.
One moment the monster shuddered in death throes. The next Hyam tumbled to the earth, with nothing beneath him save dust. The brownish cloud drifted momentarily in the wind, smudging the meadow. Through three heaving breaths, Hyam watched the cloud disperse.
The meadow was silent except for soft whimpers from the wounded dog.
Hyam raced back to his wife, stroked her face, asked, “You are hurt?”
“Bruised, shaken, but fine,” she gasped. “The beast?”
“Gone.”
Dama’s yelping cry pierced them both. Together they limped over to where Meda stood. The wolfhound lay crumpled on her side, her back and rear limbs at angles that clenched Hyam’s heart. “Dama, no.”
The dog whimpered softly, panted, and keened a tight breath. Her side was laid open, her pelt matted with blood and the beast’s ash. Hyam cradled the dog’s head, stroked her, and repeated, “You beautiful, beautiful friend.”
10
Joelle suggested they use Dama’s tunnel as her resting place. Hyam nodded agreement, gripped the dog’s pelt, and began pulling. Shona helped with the others, her thoughts split precisely in two. On the one hand, she was thrilled to be alive. The chilling rain felt exquisite against her skin. How easily it could have been her that they pulled and shoved toward her last resting place. The cold breeze whispered to her that every breath was a gift to be savored.
And yet at some fiercely private level, Shona complained bitterly. Was this what her uncle the earl had sent her out here for, to struggle and twist and tug in the dark, hauling a dog into a mound of petrified roots? What would her parents say to this, except come home? And home was certainly where she wanted to be just now. Away from fell beasts whose howls turned her every breath into a keen of fear. Away from ghost warriors whose vaporous tendrils clutched at her like spiderwebs when she raced through them. Old men who spoke of clans dead for centuries, bad food, and stony earth for beds. And for what? So she could be spurned by a man she loved?
Dama’s fur had soaked up the water. Her pelt was so slick it was hard to find a decent handhold. As the tunnel narrowed, only two people at a time could handle the carcass. Shona and Meda and Joelle took turns up front, while Alembord and Hyam and the younger Caleb shoved from the other side.
When Dama became stuck in the narrow passag
e, Meda puffed, “Perhaps some other location might work better.”
The elder Caleb replied from just beyond the opening, “Though the valley has been empty of all save ghosts for a thousand years, the heart of Ellismere remains hallowed ground.” The old man pointed back to where the ghostly troops stood at attention, their ranks shimmering in the rain. “They seem well content with our actions.”
With the sweat streaming down her face and burning her eyes, Shona saw her mental tirade from a distance. She crouched in the cave-like dark while Meda took her turn, and realized the unspoken protests reflected a childhood that was no more. The road and the quest were working on her. The rather spoiled young woman who had argued with her mother over dresses and jewels and dances was gradually fading away. This was why she had come, Shona knew. Or rather, why the earl had wanted her to go. Not to see tragedy, though no doubt he knew she would experience her share of hardship. But rather to grow up.
When the tunnel opened, Joelle moved about setting mage-lights in place. They discovered a vast chamber framed by cathedral roots. Chests of gold and jewels littered the floor, while spears and shields decorated the wall. They gathered there, awed by the remnants of a once-proud warrior clan that breathed no more.
Together they lifted Dama and settled her into an alcove formed by the massive roots. Joelle spoke first, offering tribute to their fallen friend. Then Meda. Finally Hyam offered what few words he could manage.
It was then Shona noticed the ghostly general had joined them. “Hyam.”
When he lifted his tear-streaked face, Shona pointed to the translucent soldier. “We have company.”
The troop leader stood at the entry to another alcove. He waved a hand, beckoning Hyam forward. When Hyam stepped toward him, Joelle illuminated the recess with a mage-light, then gasped at what she had revealed.
Inside was a giant scroll. The spool rose twice the height of a man. Hyam reached out an unsteady hand, traced two fingers over the centuries of dust, and revealed the sparkling gold beneath.
Together they maneuvered the scroll back into the main chamber. With the others’ help, they unfurled the golden sheet enough to know it contained the same jagged writing as Hyam’s miniature scrolls. Only here there was something more, for between each line of jagged furrows lay a script Shona had never seen before. “What is this writing?”
Hyam’s voice carried both raw grief and awe. “Elven.”
Joelle now stood beside Shona. “So this is . . .”
“A teaching scroll.” Hyam turned to Caleb and asked, “May we take this?”
The elder stroked his long beard before replying thoughtfully, “A dragon that has never existed leads you here in a dream. We are greeted by spectral warriors who have guarded an empty vale for a thousand years. You defeat a beast that heralded our first war with the crimson riders. You lay your friend to rest at the clan’s heart. A ghostly general points you to this hidden treasure.” He glanced at the translucent leader as though seeking approval. “I would say the fief that once stood here would be proud to call you clansman. In that case, the scroll is yours by right.”
11
Meda had bruised her ribs and Alembord had a nasty gash down one shin, which he didn’t even notice until Joelle pointed it out. They spent the next nine days recuperating and searching for the creature’s lair. Their hunts proved futile, for there was neither game nor any sign of another beast. They were forced to halt their search when supplies grew low.
The trail leading north was little used, for the next three vales had been attacked by the crimson one. Every time they crested another ridge, the view was as desolate as it was stupendous. To their left ran another empty vale, to their right an even emptier desert. The yellow reaches were flat as a seabed, the above a superheated blue. Each midday the sun drew dancing ribbons from the vacant plains.
When they reached the inhabited valleys, Caleb insisted upon a gathering. The lorekeeper spun new tales of dreams and dragons and monsters and battles. Thus the highland clans learned of this latest threat.
The trip from Ellismere to Emporis required twenty-seven days. Hyam did not complain overmuch. He marched and he mourned and gradually he healed from the worst of the sorrow. And the giant scroll kept him busy.
When fully unfurled, the scroll stretched eleven paces, the gold so thin it rippled in the slightest breeze. Hyam studied the translated words and committed them to memory. He also used the scroll as a teaching tool, introducing Joelle and Shona to the Elven tongue. Together the three of them copied the entire scroll onto sheaves of parchment, often working late into the night. By the third week of study, they spent time each day conversing in the language of forests and myth.
Every day of their journey, Hyam spied a desert eagle spiraling high overhead, apparently tracking them. For what purpose, he had no idea. Nor could he say why the dragon no longer appeared in his dreams. Perhaps it was the loss of Dama or the work on this scroll. Whatever the reason, his dawns were no longer punctuated by the beast’s arrival. Nor did he have an opportunity to discover whether the scroll indeed taught the tongue of legends.
This last morning before arriving in Emporis, Hyam slowed his pace so that he and his wife could travel well behind the others, enjoying a rare private moment upon the road. They walked hand in hand, leading their sturdy highland ponies and speaking about things that mattered little. The rough trek, the heat, the pleasure of a bath, and the company of other wizards.
They caught up with the others at the top of the final ridge. Sweat stung his eyes as Hyam joined them in studying the yellow vale. He did not need to ask why they had stopped. The sense of dread resonated through his entire body.
Meda said, “The enemy’s shadow lingers. I can smell it.”
“Taste it, more like,” Alembord agreed.
There was an eerie silence to the valley separating them from the Emporis gates, a quiet that went beyond an absence of sound. The valley ran north to south, with the city of Emporis far up to their left. The ruined tower where Hyam had vanquished the crimson foe rose above the city’s ancient walls. The valley stretched before them like an overheated crypt.
The elder Caleb said, “The clans have renamed this place Specter’s Vale. It is here that the crimson mage demolished a clan’s army, then stored his ghost battalions in the rocky earth. Travelers speak of screams rising from the valley floor on moonless nights, and drifting fogs that choke the strength from the bravest warrior.”
Then Joelle announced, “We are not alone.”
Hyam turned and saw that his own spectral army had re-formed behind them, a horde of mist and fierce translucent forms. They had been last seen upon their departure from Ellismere Vale.
“Their leader says he will see us through to the far end,” Joelle declared. “At least, I think. His speech is oddly formed.”
Hyam asked, “You hear them like you do the Ashanta?”
“Not exactly. It’s like . . .” Her features creased with the effort of trying to describe. “His voice is a whisper upon the winds of time.”
Hyam decided that mystery could wait for another hour. He turned to the spectral warrior and asked, “Is there danger here?”
Joelle replied, “Not for you or your company.”
The ghostly Ellismere warriors split into four companies and marched fore, aft, and to either side of their small band. Hyam watched the troop pretend to march, their legs moving across the dry earth without raising a dust mote. The desert eagle circled high overhead, tracking their progress across the empty vale. Nothing else stirred.
Midway down the gorge, Hyam stopped and peered at the ridge opposite the city’s gates.
Meda asked, “Something wrong?”
Hyam pointed to the glade of dusty pines. “There is a portal leading to the last Elven kingdom. Or rather, there was.”
Joelle explained to the others, “The armies who defeated the crimson mage gathered along that ridgeline.”
“The scroll we carry is written
in Elven,” Hyam went on. “It is as much theirs as anyone’s. And it will be safe in their keeping.”
Joelle gentled the pony as Hyam and Meda unlashed the scroll. Hyam and Alembord shouldered the burden. When they arrived at the ledge, Hyam pulled the silver chain from beneath his shirt, fitted the crystal pipe between dry and cracked lips, and blew.
They waited in the silence and the heat. Hyam turned and glanced back across the vale in time to watch the eagle rise from the Emporis castle’s central keep. It shrieked once, a piercing call.
Then a voice spoke to him in Elven. “We have long hoped to hear from the emissary.”
Hyam faced a trio of green warriors. “I have a report to make.”
The Elf inspected the ghostly warriors arrayed along the ledge and down the ridge. “You are in need of such allies as these?”
“They are part of my report.” Hyam recognized the Elven spokesman. “You accompanied me into the citadel’s garden.”
“Aye, Emissary. I did. That was a rare battle indeed.” He offered a warrior’s grin. “Make your report.”
“It is long. Do you need to write it down?”
“I will deliver your news word for word.”
Another of the Elves added, “We are here to correct any mistakes he might make.”
The soldier bridled. “I do not err.”
Hyam paused long enough to translate for the others. Then he related it all, starting with the arrival of the scrolls. Twice he stopped to drink from the waterskin Joelle offered him. Even so, his throat closed up at the end and he could not finish.
Shona spoke the Elven words for him. “Hyam lost his wolfhound to the beast.”
The soldiers blanched. “Dama is no more?”
Hyam managed, “Her sacrifice is why we stand here today.”
“We salute the sacrifice of our fallen friend.” The Elves unsheathed their swords and came to attention, blades to their foreheads. When Hyam translated, Meda and Alembord and Joelle and Shona did the same. Caleb and his grandson lifted staves.