Hinterland

by James Clemens

  Tylar remembered Malthumalbaen’s brother, who suffered a similar fate.

  Krevan swung at Perryl, driving him back a step.

  Tylar had regained his footing and attacked. He yanked his other sword free, earning a flare of complaint from his bandaged hand, and swung the blade—not at Perryl but at Krevan.

  Using all his strength, Tylar cleaved through Krevan’s raised arm. He took the limb off at the shoulder, before the poison could spread. He followed through by shouldering Krevan back out the tent flap and shoving him clear.

  As the heavy hide tent flap clapped shut, Tylar swung wildly with Rivenscryr as Perryl tried to close on him. Too eager, Perryl. Tylar faced the daemon, tossing his knightly sword to the floor and lifting Rivenscryr high.

  The Godsword was his only hope.

  Sweating and with his limbs on fire, Tylar faced the daemon lord again.

  Though likely doomed, he knew what he had to do.

  Let’s end this dance.

  “Stay low,” Rogger said, pulling Brant farther down.

  They all crouched with their backs to the fire. Brant knelt on one knee. Beyond the thief, Malthumalbaen lay almost on his belly, while Calla took up a post on the far side of the fire, facing where Krevan had vanished.

  Dart kept to Brant’s other side. She had covered her face when Lorr died, but the deaths had not ended there. All around, the Wyr-folk were being slaughtered. Screams echoed from all sides.

  A moment ago, a large-limbed woman had lumbered past their flames, howling in fear, knuckling on one arm as she ran. Brant had tried to call her over, but her wits were as low as her forehead, and what remained had been burnt away by fear.

  She trundled past their flames only to have shadows open to one side and a blade shoot out, striking clean through her neck. Her body continued for another two steps, then slid to the ground. Her head rolled farther off into the darkness as if still trying to escape.

  The only Wyr-folk who seemed to have found a safe haven were the strange women led by the one named Meylan. They had scaled the nearby pinnacle, reaching the flames on top. They cast the occasional fiery brand down the side, scattering sparks along the rock, warning against any trespass by the ghawls.

  And that was the true danger.

  The ghawls lurked just beyond the reach of the firelight, searching for a way past their defenses.

  Rogger explained one such threat as he pulled Brant lower. The thief had been studying a few other fires across the camp. “You don’t want your shadows to stretch out to the darkness. I think they can flow up such channels to reach you.”

  Brant dropped to his other knee.

  “What happens when we run out of wood?” Malthumalbaen asked, sprawled almost flat to keep his silhouette low.

  Rogger shook his head. “Mayhap you can leap and grab a few branches overhead, tear them down with those long arms of yours.”

  The giant eyed the canopy as if considering this plan.

  Dart spoke softly from his other side. “Brant…your stone…”

  Rogger heard her. “I don’t think that’ll help, little lass.” The thief must believe she was grasping at false hope, like the giant eyeing the branches overhead. “These creatures are not locked in seersong. And any other nullifying—”

  Brant stopped him with a raised hand. Though the stone was still clutched tightly in his other hand, he had forgotten about it.

  Dart turned. She already held a dagger in her hand.

  She knew.

  Brant leaned back, his body damp from the searing heat of the fire. He opened his palm toward her.

  “What are you two doing?” Rogger asked, sidling around while staying low.

  Brant didn’t bother to explain. Either it worked or it didn’t.

  Dart met Brant’s eye, scared but determined. He reached out with his other hand and touched her knee. He kept his fingers there.

  Dart nicked her thumb with the tip of her dagger. A single drop of blood welled up, crimson and fiery in the firelight. She tilted her thumb and let the drop roll off and splash onto the drab black chunk of stone.

  A flash of fire ignited in his palm, but it was not a true flame.

  Brant stared at the whetted stone in his palm. It was no longer a drab bit of rock. Dart’s blood had revealed its true heart, reflecting the firelight from its hundred facets.

  A perfect black diamond.

  Dart’s words echoed.

  It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.

  Rogger’s reaction was less prosaic. “Smart bastard. Keorn hid it in plain sight.”

  The thief patted Brant on the shoulder. “Well done.”

  Brant knew the thief understood immediately. It was Rogger’s own words that had helped Brant begin to suspect earlier. How Chrism had designed the first shadowknight’s sword, a blade with a black diamond on its hilt.

  Rogger leaned closer. “Chrism must have fashioned the knight’s sword after Rivenscryr. Or at least how he remembered it.”

  “But what about this diamond?” Dart asked. “Why is it not with the sword now?”

  “Because Keorn removed it,” Rogger said. “He probably replaced the diamond with a fake, some artifice that looked like it, to fool his father. That was the sword’s flaw. The fake must have been destroyed during the Sundering, but the original diamond, like the sword, came to Myrillia. The sword with Chrism. The heart with Keorn. Two parts of a whole.”

  “We must get the diamond to Tylar,” Dart said.

  “But how?” Rogger mumbled and nodded out to the darkness.

  Brant glanced up.

  Others had been drawn by the flame in his palm. At the edge of the firelight, darkness stirred and rustled. Like moth-kins to a flame, the black ghawls had gathered tight around them.

  “Can’t go out there,” Rogger said. “And fire’s the only thing keeping them back.”

  As if hearing him, the skies opened up.

  Rain fell in great large drops—at first lightly, then in a drenching downpour. Behind Brant, the fire sizzled and spat, slowly being doused.

  As more rain fell, the ring of firelight began to collapse.

  21

  A WITCH’S THRONE

  “WHY DOES THAT SKAGGING HOUND KEEP BAYING?” ARGENT griped irritably.

  Kathryn straightened. She understood what irritated the warden. It sounded as if all of Tashijan were wailing some last death rattle. But inside Kathryn, the howl ignited a deeper anxiety. It took all her will not to despair. She noted Gerrod had stepped closer to her. Though his features remained hidden behind bronze, she knew he shared the same misgiving.

  It was Lorr’s bullhound that howled, baying in raw grief.

  That could hold only one portent.

  Gerrod’s hand found hers atop the table. And though his bronze fingers were cold, she sensed the warmth inside.

  “Do not put so much stock in a hound’s grief,” he mumbled through his faceplate. “The reason could be multifold.”

  She nodded, little convinced.

  To the right, Argent tugged Hesharian’s sleeve. “So when the ice comes, show me where we should place your alchemies.”

  “I-I’m not sure.” His face was deathly pale and his breathing wheezed in and out.

  Gerrod lifted his hand from hers and stabbed at the map in two places. “Here and here.”

  “Thank you, Master Rothkild,” Argent said, with a tired roll of his head away from Hesharian. “How much alchemy will we need?”

  “That is a concern,” Gerrod said. “We’ve used up so much bile already.”

  Hesharian blurted out, his voice ragged and panicked. “You used it all up! Helping the regent escape to safety! Leaving all of us to die!”

  “That’s enough!” Argent barked. “Either be helpful or be silent!”

  Hesharian slunk away from the warden’s words, quite a feat for one so large. He retreated to the wall, where Liannora still stood, back straight, silent, hands folded into her muff. Her only sign
of distress was a single long lock of silver hair that straggled across her face. She had yet to fix it back in place.

  “When will Ulf attack?” Argent asked. “Night has fallen—and still we stand.”

  “It is early,” Gerrod said. “The coldest part of the night is just before dawn. Though he may attack at any time.”

  A hurried scuff of boots on stone drew their attention to the door, accompanied by a shout from some knight by the stair. Kathryn’s hand reached for her sword’s hilt.

  Then a familiar figure rushed into view, her face pale, her head wrapped in a bloody bandage. She grabbed the frame of the door to hold upright.

  “Delia?” Argent said. “What happened to you?”

  “The witch is coming!” she gasped out, weaving on her feet, plainly having run here. Fresh blood dribbled down her neck. “She’s hiding in the dark abandon. Somewhere in the first four levels.”

  She took a step into the room and almost fell.

  Argent came forward and caught her in his arms. He supported her to the table. Once there, she shook free of him, breathing hard, leaning both palms on the table.

  “All those levels must be cleared,” she said. “A fiery picket formed.”

  Kathryn circled around to join her. “Are you certain Mirra is loose?”

  She nodded, still breathing hard. Kathryn read the hard edge to her eyes. She was not delusional from whatever blow she had taken to her head.

  Kathryn turned to one of the young squires. He squatted on an upended bucket in a corner by the door. She pointed at him. “Reach the master of the guard below. Do you know him?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Have him clear the lower four levels. Rally at five.” She held up her hand with all her fingers splayed. “Do you understand?”

  But the boy was already running out the door.

  She returned her attention to the table.

  Argent was bent next to his daughter. “Where have you come from? Weren’t you up with the other Hands?” His words were not accusatory, only concerned.

  “No…” Delia said. “I went down below. Lured falsely. By a captain of the Oldenbrook guard—”

  A new voice cut her off. “Sten?” Liannora staggered forward, speaking for the first time in a long while. Her voice sounded half-crazed. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

  Delia seemed to finally note the Oldenbrook’s Hand, dressed in her snowy best. Kathryn noted the flash of fire in Delia’s eyes.

  Liannora did not. She came up to Delia, reaching out a hand.

  Delia shoved off the table to face her. Kathryn knew something was amiss. Especially when the calm, levelheaded Delia balled up a fist.

  “What happened to Sten?”

  As answer, Delia swung from the hip and slammed her fist straight into the Hand’s face. Liannora’s head snapped back with a crack of bone. Her body followed, stumbling into one of the mapwork shelves. Her legs went out from under her, and she slumped to the ground, her nose crooked and seeping blood from both sides.

  All eyes turned to Delia. Had she been ilked, possessed by some madness?

  Delia swiped a loose strand of her hair into place. A bit of color had returned to her cheeks from the effort. Still, she almost fell as she faced them, catching herself with a hand on the table.

  “Liannora sent one of her guards to break my neck,” Delia said. “Came near to doing it, if it hadn’t been for Master Orquell.”

  The name roused Hesharian. “Did you say Master Orquell?”

  Delia ignored him. “But Orquell is not what he appears to be. He is rub-aki.”

  “What?” Hesharian yelped. A palm pressed his sweated brow. “Oh, sweet aether, how I treated him—an acolyte of the rub-aki.” He groaned in distress, as if the slight were even more dire than the fall of Tashijan.

  Kathryn turned her back on him. “Tell us what happened.”

  She did in fast words, concluding with a small bit of hope. “And he burnt Mirra. I don’t know how badly. But hopefully enough to weaken her, perhaps make her act rashly.”

  Argent looked upon his daughter with a glint of pride. “Let’s hope rashly serves us better than the cold calculation of that witch.” A thin grin rose to his lips. “Still, to know she was burnt, that does give us hope. What can be harmed…”

  “…can be killed,” Delia finished with a sober nod.

  At that moment, Kathryn recognized that the family resemblance went beyond the shape of eye and cleft of chin. Perhaps Argent saw that, too. He had stepped to his daughter’s side.

  “I’ll get one of the healers to see to your head.”

  “I’ll mend,” she said sourly, waving his worry away.

  Gerrod stepped to her other side. “Orquell—he’s headed down into the cellars?”

  Delia nodded.

  “Why? Where?”

  “Down to Mirra’s lair. That’s all he said.”

  Though Gerrod’s expression remained hidden, Kathryn recognized the worry in the set of his shoulder. “What is it?” she asked him.

  “I can guess what he will attempt,” Gerrod mumbled.

  “And?” Argent asked.

  Gerrod turned to the warden. “The danger to—”

  His words were cut off by a blaring blast of a horn, so loud it finally quieted the bullhound above. A battle horn. But its resound echoed not from the picket line above.

  “The call comes from below,” Gerrod said.

  Delia nodded. “The witch is rising up.”

  “Stay close.”

  Orquell led the way down the narrow staircase. He held a torch that flickered with a strange crimson flame. He had dipped the end of his oiled brand into a pile of powder that he spent a long fraction of a bell mixing on the top step. The resulting fire cast no smoke but still somehow shed an odor that reminded Laurelle of freshly hewn hay and something sweet.

  She followed with a lamp, as did Kytt. He kept to their rear, glancing often over a shoulder. They had traveled far below. Laurelle could feel the press of rock above her. The steps here were small, barely cut into stone. It had been some time since they’d even seen a cross-passage.

  Laurelle wondered if they should have heeded the guards who had warned them against entering. In truth, they had been refused entry. Upon the warden’s orders. But Orquell had whispered something in each of their ears. Whatever was said widened their eyes. Their gazes flicked to the crimson mark on his forehead. Some portent, some secret, some threat—she never found out, but they quickly winched the gate up far enough for them to crawl under. Once past, the guards just as quickly closed it.

  Plainly they weren’t convinced that the witch had already escaped.

  Laurelle was similarly worried. “What if she comes back, to nurse her burns? Or what if she senses we’re down here?”

  “Then we’ll most likely die,” Orquell answered without a measure of humor. It was stated simply and certainly. “So we’d best be quick.”

  As he said this, his torch, held before him at arm’s length, flared brightly. Laurelle could have sworn she heard a small scream, but maybe that was her own inner self. A sudden waft of corruption passed over them, as if they trod upon a corpse bloated in the sun.

  “Awful,” said Orquell. But it wasn’t the smell that upset him. “A Serpentknot Ward. If we’d blundered into that, we’d be dropping dead on our faces.”

  He continued down the stairs, thrusting his torch out farther.

  Around they went, another two wards flared and burnt under his torch. The last flared high enough to dance flames along the stone roof. Laurelle noted that the ceiling was streaked with wide bands of rock that bore a glassy sheen.

  “Flowstone,” Orquell said, noting her reaching toward one. “It forms when molten stone is exposed to raw Gloom. Such veins can be found in deep places under the ground, but rarely are they discovered by man. All this will have to be purified if we survive.”

  “Purified?” Laurelle asked. “How?”

  Orquell le
aned his torch near a glassy vein. The fire seared the rock. It smoked, again raising a smell of corruption. When he lifted the torch away, the spot was scarred white. “It’s possible to burn the Gloom out of the rock with special alchemical fires.”

  They continued past the ward and entered a chamber that seemed to be formed as a bubble in a giant vein of flowstone.

  Kytt gaped. “You’ll need much fire to cleanse this,” he mumbled, turning in a slow circle.

  Orquell looked ill, too. “There must have been some storm of Gloom long ago to churn up this much flowstone. What we are seeing is a splash of the naether into this world, possibly cast when the gods first fell here after the Sundering.”

  Laurelle circled the room’s only structure. It rose from floor to ceiling, as if the flowstone above had melted and sagged, dripping down into this tortured and twisted column. As Orquell’s light played across it, she was sure she saw faces in the stone, screaming, melted faces. Then the torch would shift and the visages would vanish.

  “Her throne,” Orquell said, stopping before a niche just large enough for someone to sit within. “To commune with those that swim the naether.”

  Off to the side, Kytt began to lower to a lip of flowstone against one wall. Without turning from the throne, Orquell waved him away with his free hand.

  “Not there, my young tracker,” the master said. “That’s a black altar. Can you not smell the blood?”

  Kytt scrambled back, stumbling a bit in his haste. “I don’t scent anything beyond those burnt wards.”

  Orquell nodded. “Maybe it’s not so much a scent in the air. It’s more like walking across a field where an ancient battle was once waged. The grass may be green, but if you stand very still, you can still sense the blood, an echo of pain.”

  Kytt glanced to Laurelle. They moved closer together, away from the walls, but not too close to the throne. Laurelle fought an urge to run from the room.

  Orquell made one more slow circle of the column. He ran his torch up and down its length. Finally, he stopped again before the niche, the throne of the witch. “She has begun her attack.”

  “Mirra?” Laurelle squeaked out.