by Martin Frowd
Must assume they have not yet discovered either Furiosa or the ship. If either assumption is false, we have no way of leaving this wretched land anyway. Both are well concealed. Cannot go straight westward though, not now; this Black Druid and his doomwolves, and the null zone, are in the way. Furiosa would probably handle a few doomwolves well enough, long enough for us to escape on her back, if not the whole pack, but I have no way to call her to me from the meeting point. Something to consider for future expeditions. So, swing around to the north or to the south?
“We go north,” he decided aloud, for the boy’s benefit. “North, then swing around to the west.” A gamble, but if nothing else, this ‘Lion-Druid’ and his cats should take less to bring down than the other Druid and his bears, if I must fight one before we reach safety. Meanwhile – it would be foolish to waste all this raw material lying here, when it can provide a useful distraction.
Concentrating his will and his Gift, Glaraz uttered the words in the Tongue Arcane that would actualise that will and create the diversion he sought.
“Bu’shuz’muarim, huu! Bu’shuz’muarim, hauv!”
And all around him, the dead began to rise.
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Zarynn scrambled sideways and landed awkwardly on his rear, fear compelling his limbs to urgency, as all the dead hunters around him and Glaraz lurched to their feet, seemingly in response to the outlander’s strange words. Unlike the hunter whom Glaraz had called back from death to answer his questions, these did not speak, and no red light glinted in their eyes. Their faces were slack, their eyes unseeing, but still they rose, and began to shamble along the dirt path, leaving Glaraz and Zarynn behind.
Shaking, Zarynn tried to master his fear. Taking a few deep breaths, he turned to look at Glaraz. The necromancer stood calmly watching his risen dead men as they shambled away, then reached out to take hold of Zarynn’s hand. His black-gloved grip was firm, demanding but not painful, as he yanked Zarynn to his feet once more.
“We go north,” the necromancer said again, “while these zombies go west, to distract any pursuit. Perhaps even to distract the Druids, if the Whisperer smiles on us.” Glaraz must have noticed Zarynn’s frown at another unfamiliar word, for he continued. “Zombies are walking corpses, young one, animated and commanded by a necromancer’s Gift. Not truly restless dead, not like ghouls or wights whose spirits are bound to their dead carcasses. Zombies have no mind nor spirit. Empty shells they are, at a necromancer’s command, unless filled by some other spirit. Limited, young one, but a useful tool. These are the easiest of all the dead to raise and command.”
Zarynn gaped after the shambling zombies, even as Glaraz tugged him northward, off the path and up the gentle slope of a rocky hill, and he shuddered as he watched them go. As the path bent around to the south, he saw, the zombies did not turn with it, but began to shamble up the slope of the next hill, maintaining a roughly straight line from where they had left him and Glaraz.
“Will I – will I have to learn to – I don’t like the dead!” Zarynn’s intended question instead became an outburst and a barely strangled sob.
“You do not wish to learn to call the dead?” Glaraz chuckled. “Fortunate then, young one, that your natural Gift speaks more of shadow than of death. Were it elsewise, you must learn to call the dead, to master the power, or you would surely be mastered by it. But no, perhaps the necromantic art is not for you then. Although perhaps you will think differently when you are older.”
“M-my Gift…”
“We have spoken but little yet, young Zarynn, of Gifts, of their nature and training. You shall learn more – much more! – first on the ship and then when we reach the School. This I promise you. But for now, we have still to evade Druids and beasts and the hunters of your kind, and further lessons must wait.”
Zarynn let the necromancer lead him over the hill, one of those where the hunters – now zombies – had lain in wait to ambush them, and down the other side to where more dirt paths, narrower than the last, wound through the Hills of Dusk. One path ran westward, parallel to the wider path where the zombies had shambled, but the necromancer cut across it, tugging Zarynn along another one that undulated roughly northward.
“We go north for now, young one, till we are some way from here and from these zombies,” the necromancer reminded him. “Then we shall turn west again to meet the one who waits for us. The one who will carry us through the skies to the ship, to sail away from these lands.”
Zarynn obeyed without argument, still slightly numb from all he had witnessed so far. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other as the necromancer strode beside him. The ebon-skinned, black-robed outlander occasionally stopped, pulling Zarynn likewise to a halt, to gaze up at the sky, scanning it carefully before moving on again. Several times, after scanning the sky, the outlander made tiny changes to their direction when they moved on.
“I watch for birds,” Glaraz explained after several such quick stops. “Eyes in the sky, the dead man said. Since certain Druids can see through their eyes, it is important to avoid their gaze if we can. Not many wheel through this sky, but we should evade those that do.” The outlander paused. “More birds gather to the south, but we are far from their notice, at least for now. I wonder – perhaps they do not like to come so close to the northern Druid’s cats? Druid or no, bird is still bird and cat is still cat, and it is not in their nature to be fast friends.”
Zarynn shrugged, not trusting himself to make any other answer, as they continued trudging on through the hills under the fierce summer sun. After some time, and several small course changes, Glaraz brought them to a halt again.
“This should be far enough north now, I think. Time for us to turn west-”
The necromancer’s words were interrupted by a whirring, whistling sound as a hail of spears rained down suddenly on them both from behind. As before, the impact was no greater than that of raindrops, and the spears clattered to the ground all around the pair. This time, however, their assailants wasted no time in hurling a second volley. Instead, even as both Glaraz and Zarynn turned, a band of hunters was already charging downslope toward them from the east, bloodcurdling cries and shouts filling the air as they came. From the north and the west, answering shouts echoed through the hills.
“Bu’NeOrthim! Buvishim’te’calba!” Zarynn heard Glaraz shout and saw him point both hands at the onrushing hunters. From his left hand, more bolts of the same shimmering greyness the necromancer had previously unleashed shot forth, forking to strike several men. At the same time, his right hand made a sharp cutting motion, and more men collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony as their bones broke and jagged edges burst through the skin and flesh of their arms and legs, spraying blood on the bare dirt ground. Zarynn counted almost a score of men downed by the necromancer’s magic words, writhing in agony or lying entirely still and quiet. But several remained on their feet, grimacing in pain but still coming, and even as Zarynn watched, the fastest of them crashed headlong into Glaraz.
The impact sent both men toppling to the ground, rolling over and over in the dirt and grappling at each other. The hunter was unarmed, having cast his spear fruitlessly at them in the initial attack, but looked to be younger and stronger than the necromancer, and Glaraz’s long robes gave the younger man plenty of points to grab, while the other men closed the distance between them. In short order, Glaraz was flat on his back, and then gone from Zarynn’s view, buried beneath a pile of enraged men, their faces twisted with fury as they rained down blow after blow against him.
A wave of unreasoning fear broke over Zarynn. His blood ran cold with terror at the prospect of being dragged back to the execution tree, his ritual stoning only postponed and not escaped. Scrambling away from the fight, Zarynn ran, his legs pumping, his heart pounding, desperate to get away. Heedless of slopes and paths, distant shouts of men and the scream-snarl of hunting cats, he fled the scene of the fight. Everything was a blur as he ran.
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A tingling sensation throughout his body, from his bones outward, brought him back to his senses. Zarynn was lying on his front, both hands beneath him. He felt cool rock under his palms. He could hear a trickling sound, as if running water, and distant shouts. A musty smell filled his nostrils. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, although he did not remember closing them. Opening them, he saw only pitch darkness.
Carefully clambering to his feet, feeling all around him in place of sight, Zarynn began to inch toward the trickling sound, all the while wondering where he was. Had he plunged into a cave in the hills, or fallen down a hole of some kind, during his desperate flight? He wondered, but he knew not. Had he, perhaps, fainted, or simply lost his mind temporarily to fear? Zarynn felt ashamed at just how easily he had let fear overwhelm him and drive him to panic. Now he had no idea where he was, or where Glaraz – his supposed saviour – was either. That realisation ushered in a fresh wave of fear, muddled with panic and self-pity. How would he survive, alone in a land with men and beasts hunting him, if the necromancer had fallen? How long could he live free before he was caught and dragged back to his death?
A snarling sound cut sharply across his self-pity. Claws scrabbled over rock. There was something else here, wherever here was. Don’t find me, Zarynn wished frantically, curling himself up against the rocky ground, trying to be as quiet and still as he could. I’m not here I’m not here I’m not here.
After a long, drawn-out moment, the scrabbling claws faded away. It had worked! Carefully, he began to crawl over the rocky ground, one hand in front of him to feel his way forward. The trickling, liquid sound grew clearer as he inched closer to it. The ground was hard, rough and cool to the touch, and all was still dark. Sightless, Zarynn concentrated as best he could on such output as his ears and nose could give him. The musty smell was all around, and the trickling sound was getting louder with increased proximity. Was that a second trickling he could hear now? Or was there an echo?
His hand touched rock in front of him. A wall, perhaps? But a dead end, or a bend? Zarynn turned to his right and felt his way along the rocky wall, crawling, keeping one hand on it as he went, while probing ahead with his other hand. Before long, he found rock in front of him again. The trickling sound was getting louder, and the musty smell fading from his nostrils. As he turned to his right once more, he glimpsed a faint glimmer of light in the distance ahead.
Another snarl came from ahead of him, reverberating in his tight confines. Almost too late, he heard the scrabble of claws on rock. Instantly Zarynn froze, motionless, trying desperately to make no sound, not even a breath to give away his position. I’m not here, he beseeched the darkness around him, something between a wish and a prayer. I’m not here I’m not here I’m not here. Nothing here, move on. The snarl gave way to a puzzled-sounding purr, and the scrabble of claws faded again. Still barely daring to breathe even a sigh of relief, Zarynn resumed his crawl. The ground underfoot seemed to slope upward slightly, and the light was becoming stronger. As he crawled upslope, he began to make out a rounded opening ahead of him, from beyond which the light shone. He must indeed have run deep into a cave in his panic, he now realised, and the light must be daylight outside the cavemouth.
Accelerating his pace, Zarynn approached the mouth of the cave. With daylight now much closer, he could clearly see that a narrow channel of water, no wider than the span of his arm, ran along the edge of the cave to his right, disappearing into the dark interior as a slender underground stream. The cave was bored out of the black ebonstone rock that gave the Hills of Dusk their name, and a few loose rock fragments were scattered over the cave floor. From outside the cave a sharp, spicy, warm animal smell filled his nostrils.
“Take the cats and circle back to the main path,” he suddenly heard a man’s voice close by outside. “The abomination is clearly not here.”
“By your will, Exalted,” another voice grunted in answer. Listening intently and keeping still, Zarynn could hear booted footsteps and scrabbling claws, both receding into the distance.
Abomination, Zarynn thought. Do they mean me? My…Gift? Have they already killed the outlander – killed Glaraz? Then a sharp realisation. Exalted. That is a Druid. There is a Druid right outside! New worry overwhelmed him, sending icy talons down his spine.
Zarynn waited in frozen silence as the sounds of men and cats faded into the distance. He had no way of accurately telling just how long he had waited – or, for that matter, how long it had been since he first panicked and left Glaraz – save for the light outside the cave, which seemed to be slowly waning. Zarynn knew he could not stay in the cave forever. If nothing else, sooner or later hunger would force him to forage for what meagre repast he could find in the hills, if Glaraz did not find him – if the necromancer even still lived. With so many men, and cats, and Druids in the hills, he could not assume the outlander would prevail and come for him. Zarynn resolved that he would have to try to save himself. He considered waiting for darkness, but realised that the hunting cats, were they to return, would see far better in the dark than he. Daylight was his only feasible option, slim chance that it was. With a desperate, silent prayer to Heldor the Protector, the God of his murdered parents, he stepped out of the cover of the cave.
The wan light of the sinking sun, almost red in hue, was a sharp contrast after the darkness of the cave. By the low position of the sun in the sky Zarynn knew it was close to setting, knew that he had nearly waited too late for daylight to do him any good. Blinking against the sudden light, he looked around, turning in place, for any sign of the necromancer Glaraz, or of any landmarks, such as they might be, for one more used to the open grass plains than the barren black hills. The terrain before him looked daunting in its bleakness and near uniformity. In the distance, he heard the scream-snarl of a hunting cat, and another, closer by, answering it. The shouts of men echoed through the air, close enough to be a concern yet not so close that he could pick out words from the noise. From somewhere in the hills, he was sure he could hear the clopping of ponies’ hooves, but it was hard to tell exactly where they might be.
Above, he heard the trill of a hookbeak, and a second one responding, then a third and a fourth. With a flutter of wings, one of the ugly birds dived out of the sunset-red sky, alighting on the narrow rocky ledge that overhung the cave entrance. The short, stubby, downward-hooked beak that gave its kind their name jutted aggressively forward as it furled its dirty grey feathered pinions. Its amber eyes gleamed with intelligence as it stared at Zarynn.
Too late, Zarynn remembered the words of the dead man to the necromancer, and Glaraz’s explanation for the repeated stops earlier. Eyes in the sky. Druids could see through the hookbeaks’ eyes! He jumped as if scalded, but even as instinct impelled him to run, the hookbeak took to the air again and dived at him. With a matching trill, a second bird plunged from the sky to dive-bomb him. And a third, a fourth, and more. In an instant, a dozen birds were fluttering all around Zarynn, beaks snapping, wings fluttering, keeping him disoriented and off balance. He tried to lash out at them, to slap them away, but was rewarded only with bloodied fingers from the sharp nips of their beaks. A hookbeak landed on his left shoulder, talons digging into his neck. He stumbled and managed to throw it off, but the rest of the flock descended on him in a frenzy of beaks and wings and loud trilling cries, and he collapsed on the bare rocky ground under the assault, curling himself into a ball to shield his head.
Abruptly, the birds all rose into the air with a flurry of trilling cries, leaving Zarynn curled up tightly on the ground, bruised and bloodied. He dared to unfurl from his protective curl, wary of a renewed avian assault, and saw the hookbeaks had all alighted on the ledge above the cave and were regarding him through baleful eyes.
A deep coughing growl emanated from behind him. Still on his hands and knees, Zarynn scrambled around to regard the new threat. A fresh icy fear shot down his spine as he saw the enormous form padding toward him from around a bend in the nearest pat
h. Four vast paws, each bigger than his head, carried the great beast forward in a slow, stately, majestic manner. A tufted tail swung this way and that through the air behind the oncoming creature. A shaggy golden mane framed its huge head, and when it opened its jaws to growl again – jaws large enough to swallow Zarynn with ease – the fangs it exposed were longer than his arm.
Zarynn’s only prior encounters with the feline kingdom had been the hunting cats of the People of the Bear, and the occasional wild grasscat brought down by the hunters of his clan and brought dead into their camps to be skinned and butchered. The People did not themselves eat grasscat, of course, but its hide made passable leather, and its stringy meat went to feed their hunting cats. This beast was almost twice as high at the shoulder as a hunting cat, and longer too. Powerful muscles bunched as it walked, padding closer to where he still crouched on the ground. By the mane, Zarynn knew it could only be a lion. But lions lived on the plains of the People of the Lion, more than a thousand miles to the south, across the Mountains of Desolation!
The dead man’s words to Glaraz came back to Zarynn again, cutting across his fear. Lion-Druid and cats patrol the northern hills. Even as Zarynn realised the lion was no mere beast, the great creature was reaching him. Hot, fetid breath washed over his face for a moment as the huge shaggy head halted above him. Then the beast shimmered in the red light of the setting sun. Its golden-brown fur darkened to a uniform shade of brown and took on the smoothness of silk. Its enormous paws blurred, changed, shrinking and becoming bare hands and feet. Its huge form collapsed in on itself and in an instant a man stood before Zarynn in place of the beast.