The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  “Where are we?” she said softly.

  “Close,” said her alte-bubbe. “Look.”

  There was a wide clearing before them, its snow well trodden and slick, and on the far side of it, the Nameless Girl could see an old woman, hunched, walking, her broken-hipped gait unmistakable.

  Bubbe.

  Instinctively, the Nameless Girl’s body tightened, as if preparing to run to her, but her alte-bubbe laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t you see where she’s going?”

  The Nameless Girl squinted into the gloom. Beyond the trees on the far side of the clearing, a tall tower of many sides rose high into the sky.

  “We mustn’t stop her,” said her alte-bubbe. “Not if she’s decided.”

  Slowly, they set off to follow from a distance.

  By the time they made it to the trees at the far edge of the clearing, the Nameless Girl’s bubbe was halfway down the slope, her huddled silhouette growing smaller, smaller, smaller against the mottled stone of the tower. Only now did the Nameless Girl begin to understand how truly huge it was.

  She felt uneasy—terribly uneasy.

  At first she tried to push this feeling away, thinking that it was only the same churning dread she’d felt at her first sight of Death’s house.

  But this was not a feeling in her gut. This feeling crept across the back of her neck.

  The Nameless Girl pulled up short.

  Slowly, she turned back into the clearing.

  She didn’t see them at first—a thick cloak of darkness hung between the trees—but then they emerged: a woman all in white, neither old nor young, short nor tall, plain nor beautiful, her thick curls hanging loose and free, cheeks rosy with the cold. And behind her, beside her, all around her: a stalking Sisterhood of great gray panthers, their muscles rippling, eyes glowing weirdly in the dim.

  “The War Cats,” said the Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe, and she gave a deep sigh.

  “Hello,” said Lilith from across the clearing. “Good of you to stop running.”

  Neither the Nameless Girl nor her alte-bubbe moved.

  “There is no reason for this to be unpleasant,” said Lilith. “You have something I desire, a bauble near to my heart. Give it to me, and you shall go on your way without any trouble.”

  The Nameless Girl was already shaking her head when she heard her alte-bubbe speak.

  “You may not have it, Lilith.”

  Softly, the Nameless Girl put her hand into the pocket of her apron, laying her fingers on the spoon. Lilith tracked the movement carefully with cold eyes.

  “Oh no?” she said. “Perhaps you ought to ask the girl.”

  Now the Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe revolved, closing her into a whispering huddle. “Listen to me carefully,” she said. “Whatever you choose to do inside that tower, I am proud of you.”

  “But together,” said the Nameless Girl. “You said we go together.”

  Her alte-bubbe gave a tight little shake of her head. “Sister Lilith has other plans. If you run, I think I can give you enough time.”

  “But,” said the Nameless Girl with a lurch. “But…”

  “Go,” said her alte-bubbe. “And if you see my daughter, tell her I’m sorry.”

  The Nameless Girl’s eyes were crowded with tears as she turned toward the tall, mottled tower at the bottom of the valley.

  “Go!”

  And, one last time, the Nameless Girl began to run.

  Behind her, someone gave a great roar that shook the snow from the treetops.

  It had begun.

  “No,” said Yehuda Leib. “We need to go now.”

  The Army of the Dead had halted its march just below the ridge that led down into the Tower Valley. Everywhere there was hubbub—tents pitched, cannons cleaned, blades sharpened and polished.

  In the privacy of his silence, the lord high general strode through the camp, Behemoth and Yehuda Leib arguing on either side.

  “Faster is not necessarily better,” said the little rat-faced undergeneral. “If we take the time to survey the ground…”

  “Then we give away the advantage of surprise.”

  Behemoth shook his head. “The tower walls are high and strong. If we don’t examine them for weaknesses, then who’s to say we’ll ever topple them?”

  “We don’t need to topple them,” said Yehuda Leib. “We just need to open them.”

  “At the very least,” said Behemoth, shaking his head, “I must be able to deploy artillery teams up the ridge.”

  “If you can do it while we’re on the march,” said Yehuda Leib, “then you’re welcome to.”

  Behemoth rolled his eyes. “What’s the rush?”

  Yehuda Leib sighed. The Tower of Death could be seen from anywhere in the camp—huge, looming up from the valley, blocking out the stars—and, what was more, Yehuda Leib could feel it: a tightness in his muscles, a cold itching in his hands.

  His father was in there.

  At just this moment, a sentry came galloping up.

  “Lord High General,” he said with a bow. “Movement in the trees: Lilith and her War Cats. A girl approaches the tower.”

  Now Yehuda Leib’s heart began to thunder.

  “Lilith?” said Behemoth. “What does she want here?”

  But Yehuda Leib ignored him, speaking directly to Dumah. “This is it,” he said. “We must go now.”

  Dumah was still, lost in thought. From the broad chest of his deep black uniform, Yehuda Leib saw his own keen eye staring back at him, nestled in a bloom of bloody bandages.

  And then, finally, Dumah gave his head a tight nod.

  “Very well,” said Behemoth, and, with a sigh, he trotted off to issue orders.

  It was happening.

  * * *

  —

  Word of the coming charge rippled quickly through the camp. Everywhere the signs of preparation could be seen. Dumah had chosen a massive suit of Japanese armor for this occasion, complete with a fearsome antlered helmet, and his honor guard was busy binding its many plates and panels to him. Behemoth’s artillery teams began to harness their heavy guns to teams of rotting horses, and rifles and muskets and pistols were checked and double-checked:

  Primed.

  Loaded.

  On his way to mount his pony, Yehuda Leib saw Behemoth stealing into his little tent, looking sharply over his shoulder as he went. In and of itself, this was unremarkable, but in the warm firelight within the tent, Yehuda Leib caught sight of another face: Mammon, one eye blackened, his arms tied behind his back.

  He had almost forgotten about Mammon. As soon as all of this was over, he would have to advocate for his release.

  But something tickled Yehuda Leib’s mind as he swung up into the saddle:

  Why was Mammon being held in Behemoth’s tent?

  The snowfall had almost entirely broken off by the time they rode, and the contours of the land were clearly visible through the clean white blanket of snow. The visibility was good enough that the entire Army of the Dead managed to mobilize without lanterns, and climbing between the deploying artillery positions to the peak of the ridge, Yehuda Leib felt the army spreading out in the darkness behind him, the chariots and rifles, the horses and soldiers, the spearmen and swordsmen and archers and all, just as if they were his own long arms.

  It wasn’t fair, what had been taken away.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Beside him, Dumah, a hulking shadow, unsheathed his long sword and gave a nod.

  The order was Yehuda Leib’s to give.

  With a shock, Yehuda Leib felt himself choking up.

  He had been so angry—so angry for so long.

  Yehuda Leib’s vision began to swim; beneath Dumah’s massive breastplate, a single tear crept
down the front of his uniform.

  “I’m coming,” said Yehuda Leib softly, and with a yell, he spurred his pony on.

  Trumpets blasted. Dumah was beside him, his stallion’s hooves sending the icy snow flying up in their wake. Yehuda Leib’s lungs were on fire, and he was screaming, his throat aching with the strain, as he charged down the slope, and they came to the long approach, the ground flattening out beneath their mounts, and Yehuda Leib urged his pony forward, faster, and it sprang on with lightning in its legs.

  But something was wrong.

  Beside him, Dumah was wheeling, turning back to the ridge.

  Yehuda Leib and Dumah were at the bottom of the ridge, but the entire Army of the Dead remained above, arrayed for battle.

  Only the two of them had advanced on his order.

  What was happening?

  Yehuda Leib turned his pony’s head, trotting quickly to Dumah’s side.

  “What is it?” he said. “What’s going on?”

  Dumah’s eyes were alive with alarm.

  He didn’t know.

  And all of a sudden, like a bell tolling in silence, they heard it:

  Sniveling laughter.

  * * *

  —

  With a lurch, Yehuda Leib knew:

  Mammon.

  There he was, beside Behemoth on the ridge above, a sharp-toothed smile splitting his salt-scarred face.

  “Thank you, Behemoth,” he said. “I’ve never owned an army before, and I have to tell you—it’s a rather splendid feeling.”

  “We had a deal!” cried Yehuda Leib, his voice choked with fury.

  “A deal?” laughed Mammon. “You were my property, and you attacked me!”

  “But,” spluttered Yehuda Leib. “But!”

  Mammon rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me.”

  “You’re a liar!” said Yehuda Leib.

  “And you’re an idiot,” said Mammon. “Why should I partner with you? You make unwinnable war on an unbeatable foe, and all so you can steal once more what you took from me in the first place. You must think me such a fool.”

  “Yes,” spat Yehuda Leib. “A dead fool!”

  “Best of luck to you,” said Mammon. “But as a veteran wagerer, allow me to inform you: the odds are not in your favor.”

  “You’re a snake,” said Yehuda Leib. “I don’t know why anyone ever deals with you.”

  “Honestly,” said Mammon, “neither do I. And yet there always seems to be someone willing to strike a bargain.”

  Behemoth shifted nervously beside Mammon.

  Yehuda Leib gave a furious yell and lifted his heels to spur his pony back up the slope. All he could see now was Mammon’s sick, treacherous little smile, and he wanted nothing more than to bash it and bash it and bash it until it was gone.

  But a thick hand reached out and stopped him.

  Dumah’s dark eyes were sparkling strangely.

  He gazed at Yehuda Leib and then turned back to the tower.

  The tower.

  Perhaps there was something Yehuda Leib wanted more, after all.

  Dropping his hand from Yehuda Leib’s chest, Dumah hefted his huge sword, gave it a flourish, and fixed his eyes on the army at the top of the ridge.

  The message was clear:

  Their bargain stood. He would hold off the army while Yehuda Leib made his way in.

  “Are you sure?” said Yehuda Leib softly.

  Dumah nodded silently, the antlers of his great helm dipping and rising as if in salute.

  “Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  —

  Yehuda Leib wheeled his pony about, and it leapt toward the Tower of Death at the spurring of his heels, the wind tearing past on either side. Behind him, he heard Mammon screech in anger. Behemoth was bellowing orders. The flash and boom of cannon fire cut through the crisp night air, but Yehuda Leib had only one thought now:

  The tower.

  He had to make it to the tower.

  Drums, trumpets, a chorus of screaming voices: Yehuda Leib turned to look over his shoulder and saw that the entire Army of the Dead was charging down the snowy ridge toward Dumah like a massive waterfall intent upon extinguishing a single candle.

  There was no time to lose.

  But as he turned back toward his goal, his stomach dropped.

  His pony was galloping as hard as ever, but the tower had stopped growing larger.

  What was happening? Why was he not coming any closer?

  And suddenly the words of Mammon came back to him:

  Navigation in the Far Country is not the same as it is in the living lands.

  Yehuda Leib squeezed his eye shut, fighting to calm his breath.

  He must not run from the army behind him; he must run toward the Death before him.

  When he opened his eye again, the Tower of Death had begun to grow once more.

  But he was not the only one who knew how to make his way through the Far Country. Some of the officers of the Army of the Dead had seen his progress toward the tower and issued intelligence orders to their men, and now dead lancers, cavalrymen, and riflemen began to loom up on either side of him, gaining on the tower just as he was.

  Yehuda Leib had one advantage, though: as soon as his pursuers turned their sights on him, their objective shifted, and he surged ahead and out of their grasp.

  He must concentrate on the Tower of Death—it was the only way to outrun them.

  Now a chorus of roaring split the night, and Yehuda Leib wheeled back in his saddle, looking to the battlefield. A huge phalanx of gray panthers had spilled into the valley, a furious lady in white leading their charge toward the tower—toward him. The War Cats were moving quickly, flying across the snow, and for a moment Yehuda Leib lost control, his heart spinning, slamming against the inside of his chest, and he wanted to run, wanted to flee, and immediately flying paws and beating hooves closed in all around him, cold, dead fingers reaching out to tear him from the saddle.

  Again, Yehuda Leib squeezed his eye shut, fighting to calm himself and focus on his goal:

  The tower.

  The tower.

  Only the tower.

  Soon enough he’d managed to hone his intention, but the damage had been done: when Yehuda Leib opened his eye once more, the illusion of direction he’d carried with him into the Far Country had been wiped away.

  They were everywhere, on every side: the demons and the dead, the War Cats and the cavalrymen, each of them bounding forward toward the rest, scratching and biting, slashing and firing.

  They were everywhere.

  He was surrounded.

  Again, terror began to take hold of Yehuda Leib’s heart, but still his pony dodged and pranced, cantering, galloping, leaping forward without impediment.

  The two armies were holding one another back.

  And as long as he did not lose sight of his goal…

  With a deep breath, Yehuda Leib fixed his gaze on the huge tower before him, letting the nightmares all around him fade into the darkness.

  Death. He was coming for Death.

  And no one could be allowed to stop him.

  * * *

  —

  From a distance, the Tower of Death seemed simple, geometric, one flat face of stone pivoting to lead into the next and the next and the next until eternity.

  But from feet away, it seemed as if each face were endless.

  Yehuda Leib slid from the saddle, and his pony, in a panicked lather, pulled and bucked, fleeing hard back into the battle across the valley.

  He was alone, but not for long: on every side, the battle raged. Only the combat of others held his pursuers back.

  The tower’s stone was mottled, splotchy, and as he drew near, the reason b
ecame clear: the tower itself was made of grave markers—slabs and tablets, plaques and plinths—that met edge to edge, rising high up to heaven.

  Yehuda Leib cursed quietly to himself. He saw the letters on the gravestones, understood what they were, but he had never learned to read them. Surely one of these graves would proclaim ENTRANCE or I OPEN HERE or something else useful, but if it did, Yehuda Leib had no way of knowing.

  Slowly, he began to work his way along the stone wall, tracing the engraved names of the dead with his fingers, looking for something, anything, familiar.

  “Yehuda Leib.”

  Yehuda Leib nearly jumped out of his skin. There, not five grave widths distant, was a girl, staring at him.

  “Oh no,” she said sadly. “What happened to your eye?”

  Yehuda Leib lifted his fingers to his eye patch. “I traded it,” he said.

  The Nameless, Faceless Girl frowned. “For what?”

  Yehuda Leib looked over his shoulder at the battle unfolding all around them.

  “Time,” he said. “A little more time.”

  “Well,” said the Nameless Girl, “let’s make sure we don’t waste it, then,” and she turned swiftly to the wall of graven names.

  But Yehuda Leib was confused. “Do I know you?” he said.

  The Nameless Girl didn’t turn back. “Oh,” she said with a sigh. “I hope so.”

  Yehuda Leib shook his head in confusion. He could sense her there beside him, even when he wasn’t looking—the way she moved, the way she warmed the air…

  It felt familiar.

  Like home.

  “Are you…?”

  But the Nameless Girl was distracted. “The names,” she said. “I think we have to find our way in through the names.”

  Yehuda Leib nodded. “Yes. But I never learned to read them.”

  “I can,” said the Nameless Girl.

  Yehuda Leib pointed. “What does this one say?”

  The Nameless Girl squinted at the weather-faded letters in the stone. “ ‘Chaim, son of Herschl and Hindeh.’ ”