The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “All of them?”

  Cob sighed. There were at least five lights on this side of the volcano, and likely more where he couldn't see. “I guess not. It'd take forever. But we could tell them t'warn each other.”

  With that in mind, they struck out for the nearest light. Compared to the gorge-wall, the mountain was quite walkable; ice flecked the edges of old rock-falls but the ground itself was bare, and the further they went, the more Cob caught the hiss of steam. Still, it was a long trek, and the mother moon had risen several marks'-worth by the time they crested a rise and found their destination in sight. Cob blinked blearily at it, struggling against weariness to make sense of the firelight and shadows.

  With the cave-mouth only a few yards away, the tunnel above it became clear against the night: a thick snake-like shape that flowed down the mountainside only to crumble below this point. The light came from a bonfire at the center of the front chamber, smoke and steam hazing the air; water ran out from a deep cut in the entry.

  Approaching cautiously, Cob saw figures rise from the near side. Someone called something in a language he didn't know.

  “We're friends,” he tried, hands raised. “We've come t'wake the mountain and bring back the sun.”

  “Yeh Imperial,” came a harsh response.

  “I'm not. We're not. Look, skinchanger,” he said, nodding toward Arik. “And our companion is a spiritist. We need to wake him up. May we come in?”

  The figures shifted and seemed to look toward someone. After a moment, some signal was given, and the spokeswoman said, “Kem on then.”

  Cob nodded and ducked in, squinting against the smoke. The figures moved to make space, and as the firelight fell upon them, he recognized their Corvish features: sharp chins, narrow eyes, small wiry bodies. But only a few were redheads; the rest had hair as black as crow-wings, with equally dark scale-like patches across their shoulders and arms and back-sprung legs. None wore more than a loin-drape in these steamy confines, but they all had spears or obsidian-headed hatchets, and tattoos crawled on their skin like living things.

  Swallowing his surprise, Cob inclined his head respectfully. “Thanks for that. Our companion can explain things better once he's up.”

  One of the crow-folk made a permissive gesture, and Cob looked to Arik, who set down his burden and went through the process of unwrapping their portable necromancer. Even before he finished, Enkhaelen started making noise in the blankets; clearly the proximity to fire had woken him up.

  The Corvish were murmuring amongst themselves by the time he emerged, their tawny and dark eyes keen in the firelight. Sitting up, Enkhaelen made a vain attempt to smooth down his unruly hair, then launched into a speech in a raspy, croaking tongue.

  It wasn't Gheshvan, and by the cant of Arik's ears it wasn't something he understood either. But the Black Corvish responded in kind, and the stance of the crowd eased, so Cob gave himself permission to sit and defrost and look around further.

  The cave was wider than he'd first thought, with a side-area that bulged into the surrounding rock to hold a hot-spring pool. Pictograms covered the walls there: some like mountains, some like fire or trees or people, plus a lot of jagged marks that might have been a written language. Two natural alcoves held stone trinkets, bone carvings, wooden charms and medallions; the figure of a bird had been chipped next to one, and a flame beside the other.

  Nearer to the bonfire, bedrolls lined the stone wall. Cob spotted a small face among the furs and blinked, surprised—then saw more, peeking out at the strangers. Children.

  His mouth went dry. If Enkhaelen couldn't convince these people to flee…

  But Enkhaelen was making an effort this time. His voice had gone harsh, and whenever he gestured to the bonfire, it twisted and flared. After a few motions, the flames began to form shapes: a tall radiant mountain, a flickering of trees and villages around it, then catastrophic sweeping destruction.

  The Corvish watched closely. One woman—bare-breasted or else Cob wouldn't have been able to tell, they were all so close in features—kept glancing at the children, then toward the ascending tunnel as if the lava might come at any moment.

  Enkhaelen wrapped up his pitch with a last cindery burst from the bonfire mountain, then looked to one of the crow-folk. That individual in turn swept the crowd with golden eyes and made a gesture of permission.

  What followed was a cacophonous discussion, its contributors speaking over and past each other without concern. Cob glanced to Enkhaelen but the necromancer gave no hint of his thoughts, just danced a chip of stone between his fingers and sometimes dropped it.

  Finally the woman rose and moved toward the children, and as if that had been a signal, the rest gained their feet and separated. Some followed her; others moved past Cob and Arik to the mouth of the cave, where they shifted forms with a crackle of bone and sinew. Some launched into the air as massive crows; others darted away as foxes. All left their meager garments behind.

  “Success,” Cob murmured, drawing a dry look from Enkhaelen.

  The crow-leader grated another few words at the necromancer, who nodded then made a peculiar hand-sign—almost dismissive. The leader gave a short dip of the head, expression wry, then moved to join the group that was gathering the bedding.

  “Cane,” said Enkhaelen, holding out his hand. “They'll alert the rest of their kin on the mountain, then bother the villagers if they have time.”

  “Thank you,” Cob said sincerely. Enkhaelen gave him a peevish look.

  In short order, they were all on their feet, the Corvish beginning to move out into the cold. Small faces stared at Cob from cradleboards and hip-carriers. He wondered if they would be all right out there, in the dark and the wind, but it was a moot point. Right now, any path could lead to destruction.

  Enkhaelen rose as well, gaze skipping from the Corvish to Cob and Arik. After a moment, he said, “You should go too.”

  Cob blinked. “What?”

  “The eruption will not be small. I can feel that now. Too much groundwater built up, too many volatiles. It's quite possible that the mountain will blow its top—or even awaken some of the other volcanoes in this range. I don't expect that, but I can't count it out. When the Seal is placed, there will be no time to run. You saw how it was at the Hag's Needles.”

  “The wind rose immediately,” Cob murmured. “But you—“

  “I'm fireproof. I've ridden scorching winds and swum in lava lakes, and I'm more elemental now than I was before the Emperor. The heat of him burned away much of what was human in me. When I'm taken by the eruption, I will transform, and I don't know that I'll be sane enough to protect you.”

  Cob looked past him to the long, dark tunnel ahead. It led upward like a throat, perhaps all the way to the summit. “But...can y'get there on your own?”

  “I'll have to.”

  “That's not good enough. We—“ An idea sparked—not one he liked, but which at the moment seemed necessary. “Look,” he said, “we have the stakes still. One of us can go with the Corvish and the other can stay with you to make sure you get there. Then at the top, we make the portal, you set the Seal, and we bolt.”

  Enkhaelen arched a brow then nodded slowly, the stiffness fading from his shoulders. “I suppose that's wise. Arik, then. Arik, go west as fast as you can, no lingering in the valleys or on this mountain. Seek high ground. Don't pick a spot that faces here either, and nothing where an avalanche could hit. Pikes, the farther you run, the better; I cannot estimate a safe range.”

  “Should we wait, then?” said Cob, stomach full of moth-wings.

  “We can pause along the way. I doubt I can do the full climb in one go.”

  Cob looked to Arik, hating to separate even though it had been his idea. The wolfman appeared equally ill-at-ease, but at his glance moved in to hook a furry arm around him and squeeze. Cob returned the embrace fiercely. “Will be fine,” he huffed into Cob's hair. “Moon's out, claws sharp, fur thick. Nothing will stop me.”

 
“Keep the stakes near your skin,” said Enkhaelen. “I'll send a pulse to them once we reach the caldera. Find a sheltered spot, then place them—don't feel you need to rush. It will have to be serious shelter to stand against this.”

  Arik nodded, and after a moment Cob made himself detach from the wolfman's grip, feeling childish and strangely angry. Not at anyone here—just at the world, for demanding this.

  With another pat to the shoulder, Arik said, “Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  Then the wolfman turned to join the exodus, pewtery tail tucked low against his legs.

  Cob clenched his fists, not knowing what to do with these feelings. There were no actions to take, no words to say. The future hung over him like the tunnel ceiling, close, impending, and he had no way to impact it.

  Behind him, the bonfire guttered and dimmed. He looked back to see shreds of flame curling up from it to meet Enkhaelen's hand, then flow into him, making his veins shine through his skin. More and more rose to his beckon, twining into thick flaming braids before being drawn in by his fingertips, until only coals remained.

  “Come along,” the necromancer said, then turned toward the incline.

  Cob obeyed, casting a last glance back. The whole gathering was gone, the cave-entrance thick with night.

  The tunnel was steep, and soon Cob's legs burned, his neck in agony from having to keep his head ducked. Enkhaelen hobbled ahead determinedly, cane tapping sharp notes on the rock; as the way darkened, he cast a tiny mage-light, which flitted off to chart their path.

  By the time the ceiling rose enough for Cob to stand straight, he was sweating heavily. The tunnel had gone beyond the steamy warmth of the hot-springs below; now it was thick and sulfur-foul, making his eyes itch and his throat ache. He tried breathing through his teeth, then his scarf, but neither helped; the stink was too pervasive.

  And still Enkhaelen forged ahead. Unwilling to be left behind, Cob pushed himself onward, taking shallower and shallower breaths until they became coughs that doubled him over. Head down, dizziness hit. The tunnel was closing around him, the putrid air burning his lungs—

  “Shit,” he heard Enkhaelen say, then felt a tingling energy run past him. At the same time, a hot hand pressed to his neck, testing his pulse. “Forgot about this part—human lungs, human biology...”

  Cob couldn't catch enough breath to ask. His chest felt like it was being crushed, the coughs threatening to tear muscle from bone. Darkness infringed on his vision.

  “It's coming,” said Enkhaelen in a low, calm voice. “Don't worry. A few more moments.”

  Then a cold gust hit him, wrapping around him from behind. The shock made him straighten and gasp, allowing it to flow right into him—through his nostrils and mouth then down his throat into his lungs. He coughed again, hard, and felt the heaviness leave his chest. Cool wind caressed his eyelids, brushing the stinging tears away.

  He wiped his mouth and felt phantasmal flickers at the corners, like wings.

  “Air serpent,” Enkhaelen explained. “I apologize. I've spent too long away from natural people. I forget you can't adjust.”

  Cob just stared at him. For a moment, Enkhaelen fidgeted as if he wanted to say something more, unease making new lines on his face. Then he turned sharply and resumed the climb.

  Despite the air-serpent keeping the poisons away, travel only became harder. The temperature hit sweltering then plateaued, leaving Cob on the bare edge of heat-sick; fortunately Enkhaelen didn't set a hard pace. They stopped periodically, but it never felt like a rest. Even when Cob slept, he could still feel the mountain pressing down on him, the miasma sapping the life from his flesh.

  Finally the tunnel began to level out, and the temperature eased. Cob raised his head for the first time in what felt like years, but the mage-light washed out the path ahead, making it impossible to see far. Regardless, he picked up his pace, finding a small reserve of strength among the ruins.

  Enkhaelen seemed to feel it as well. He'd tucked the cane up and was walking on his own, faint blue spellwork tracing the backs of his legs. Cob couldn't remember when he'd done that—couldn't remember most of the trek, really. Just felt glad to near its end.

  Abruptly Enkhaelen stopped, the mage-light winking out ahead. Darkness gripped them; Cob had snuffed the lantern long ago. “What?” he hissed to the vague Enkhaelen-shape before him.

  “Wraiths.”

  Cob's gut tightened. All that portalling and realm-shifting and hiding—for nothing.

  “I expected this,” Enkhaelen murmured. “They know where the Seals are. But I'd hoped we'd have more time before they came hunting. Silly of me. We spent too long making nice with the Trifolders.”

  “Never mind that you needed it,” Cob muttered.

  “Hush.”

  “So what now?”

  “Same plan. Just a bit more...” Enkhaelen paused to consider his words, then said with intensity, “Fun.”

  A chill went up Cob's spine.

  “They can't sense us in here,” the necromancer continued blithely, “so now we signal Arik and wait. You'll take the portal alone—don't argue. Going through together was a nice idea but it was never possible. I'll rejoin you when I can.”

  “But you're the essential one! The one who can't die!”

  “Oh, I won't die.” Dark amusement filled his voice. Cob's eyes were beginning to adjust; he could make out Enkhaelen's silhouette now, incised against the faint circle of the tunnel exit. “This is my element. If they think they can stop me here… Well, they're not terribly clever. They've never managed to adapt to this world. Too bad for them.”

  “But—“

  “Sit down. Let's get this started.” A tiny reddish light formed between them, enough to see by but not sufficient to wipe out Cob's nascent night-vision. Enkhaelen sat and gestured for Cob to do the same, then motioned to his pack. “The stakes.”

  Cob passed them over, and Enkhaelen clutched them a moment in concentration then offered them back. “You'll feel the connection when Arik places them,” he said. “Until then, you wait and I prepare.”

  With that, he began shedding his clothes.

  “Wait, what? No,” Cob protested. “Why is everyone always gettin' naked?”

  Enkhaelen gave him a look of amusement. “I'd rather not burn everything I own. I'm sorry if that offends your delicate sensibilities.”

  “You're not sorry,” Cob muttered, but reluctantly took and packed the garments as Enkhaelen shed them. Finally, settling his bare ass back to the stone floor, the necromancer began some sort of spell, fingers trailing not the usual blazing lines of light but thin wavery filaments like steam. He tapped them often to his chest, where the concentric circles of scar-tissue delineated the Seals.

  “What're you doin'?” Cob prodded.

  The necromancer arched his brows over half-shut eyes. “Preparing to remove the Fire Seal. I'll have to pull it out before I leave this tunnel. There won't be time after.”

  “Why isn't it makin' any light?”

  “What, the spell?” The necromancer laughed faintly. “Because I'm using the minimal amount of energy. Magic is invisible when you do it right; all the lights and colors are just spillover. Sloppiness, waste. Or showmanship, in my case.”

  Cob snorted.

  “People have come to expect a certain amount of flash and thunder,” Enkhaelen insisted, “so all the techniques they use are wasteful. Most Imperial mages don't even know there are subtle ways. I made sure of that. As for the wraiths, once they enter the caldera, they'll be too restricted to see with their higher senses.”

  Cob eyed him. “What d'you mean, you made sure of that? Why?”

  Enkhaelen shrugged, hands never pausing in their work. “To bring them down, to break them. I wanted them to die either at my hands or those of their enemies' mages, who still know the old ways. I wanted revenge—and oh, did I get it.”

  The ruddy light turned his bleak smile ghastly and reflected like cinders in his half-lidded ey
es. On some instinct, Cob touched the arrowhead through his shirt, and felt the echoes of malice Geraad's observations had preserved.

  “You did break 'em,” he murmured, “but y'broke the ones y'liked too.”

  Enkhaelen shot him a look, but stayed silent.

  It wasn't a thread Cob wanted to tug on either, so he let it drop. He hardly knew why he'd asked, except that he'd been forced to defend this menace and wanted to see something in him worth the effort. Something noble, or redeemable—or barring that, something halfway pleasant.

  No luck thus far.

  Time passed in dreadful silence, the tunnel's entrance like an eye upon them. Then, abruptly, the portal stakes twinged, nearly scaring Cob out of his skin.

  “Pikes,” he hissed, and planted them on the rock floor then pushed some energy in. The archway rose in a scintillating wave, no image yet to see. “Ready?” he asked Enkhaelen.

  The necromancer clambered up, faint blue glimmers racing along his bare legs. “Quite. Oh—“ A sigh, then he ran his hands over each other and held something out to Cob. It glinted metallic in the mixed light, small, circular.

  A silver ring.

  “That's—“ Cob said, looking from it to Enkhaelen's left hand, then his face.

  Both were empty. “Take it and go,” said the necromancer without inflection.

  Swallowing his questions, Cob did. The ring got barely halfway down his left pinky before it hitched against the knuckle, and he clenched his hand shut, afraid to lose it. Then he crouched to push more power into the stakes until the arch became a window, then a door.

  Cold wind smacked his brow and raked across his scalp and back. Grimacing, he bent into it, then cast a sidelong glance at Enkhaelen.

  Who was already walking away.

  “Well, have 'fun' then,” Cob muttered, and stepped through, pulling the portal-stakes after him.

  *****

  At his shoulders, Enkhaelen felt his puppeteer's wheels turning, taking the hesitance and pain out of his stride. His muscle-atrophy had reversed considerably, but it wasn't yet gone, and he couldn't allow himself to stumble now.