Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  “Removing her? What are you talking about?”

  “But her touch remains on your soul regardless,” he continued, as if she’d never spoken. “I was hoping to avoid this.”

  Arivana felt a chill travel up her spine. She stepped back from him. She’d never exactly been comfortable around the man, and at times he made her feel downright awkward. But now, with his eyes looking like they’d been released from bondage, gleeful and malicious in their release, she felt only fear.

  He raised a hand, sorcerous light crackling at his fingertips.

  You wouldn’t . . .

  Flumere rushed past her. Fist clenched, she swung towards Tior’s face.

  A sheet sprang up just in time. Her punch shattered it on contact, and both figures reeled backwards. The minister, unfortunately, was the first to recover.

  Twirling a finger towards the handmaiden, ropes of light spiraled out and around her. She tried to spin and bat them away, but they tightened in an instant, pinning her limbs and drawing a sharp gasp from her. Tior gestured dismissively, and Flumere, bound beyond hope of escape, crashed sideways to the ground.

  Tior paused to draw a single breath before twisting his gaze towards Arivana.

  She called for the guards.

  None of them even twitched.

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 20

  Mevon crouched beneath the ancient tree where Draevenus had sustained his wound and pulled back the skein of thorned vines covering the cavern entrance. The wind that blew through his ragged hair lacked teeth, boding well for the coming of spring. Mevon was glad. Cold seemed the one thing against which he had no defense, affecting him as much if not more than normal men. And after his time on the plateau, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be warm again. He welcomed the season of blooming with open arms.

  He just hoped he lived to see the next one.

  We’ve no idea what awaits us down there in the dark. Whatever it is, I’ve a feeling we’ll be completely at its mercy.

  With the way nearly clear, Mevon yanked on the last stubborn vines. Thorns dug into his flesh in a dozen places, but the pain only made him pull all the harder. With a final grunt of effort, he revealed the hole at last.

  He straightened and wiped the blood from his arms. He didn’t mind doing all the work, even with the added injuries. The wounds would close in moments, and besides, Draevenus surely had a lot on his mind.

  He turned to see the mierothi standing silently behind him, studying the dark entrance with faraway eyes. Mevon left him to it. He gathered up his pack and cinched the straps tight, turning in a circle to make sure nothing had come loose. Finally, he could find no more reason to delay.

  Mevon cleared his throat. “Ready?”

  Draevenus shook himself out of his reverie. “I suppose so. It’s funny, in a way. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for hundreds of years, but I never expected to actually make it. And even in my darkest dreams, I hadn’t envisioned it like this.”

  “Envisioned what?”

  “Sorrow, Mevon. So much sorrow.”

  Mevon merely nodded. He understood completely.

  “Will you walk with me once more, my friend?” Draevenus asked. “Will you accompany me into darkness?”

  In answer, Mevon smiled and hopped down into the shadowed hole.

  He landed with a squishing sound, boots imprinting deeply into the damp soil. His companion alighted at his side a moment later in utter silence. An unneeded reminder that they were now in the assassin’s element. Mevon let the mierothi stride ahead of him.

  In mere beats, the light from outside had faded to memory. If the tunnel were anything but arrow straight, Mevon would have had trouble following his friend’s faint footsteps. He’d been expecting twists and turns, cliffs to climb, false paths and dark creatures to bar their way, and yet there were none.

  He found the lack of it all disturbing.

  The dark and silence stifled reason, making even simple thoughts difficult. Mevon had to lick his lips before he felt able to speak. “Are you sure we’ll find Ruul here?”

  “I’m sure,” Draevenus replied. “This place . . . it’s like I’ve been here before. Like I remember it. A memory tainted by my transition from human to what I am now. ‘Mierothi’ was simply the name of our tribe, once. It was Ruul who changed all that back then, and it was his essence—­his flavor, if you will—­that will ever live on in all my ­people’s hearts. Here, it suffocates.”

  “Could this be the same place you first encountered him?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Memories from the days prior to our change, and just after, are hazy at best. Besides, the Cataclysm altered the very landscape of the continent. Even if such recollections were clear, they’d be useless.”

  They walked without words for a while, and Mevon soon lost track of how long they’d been in there. He’d never been afraid of the dark, but extended stays made him wish for even a glimmer of light. Unease burgeoned within him, growing more acute with each step, until he could take it no more.

  “Something is wrong,” he said. “Do you feel it?”

  “I do,” Draevenus said.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  In the dark, the mierothi emitted a low chuckle. Mevon felt his anxiety begin to drain at the sound.

  “We’re close. To the source, that is. You’ll see soon enough, I’ll wager.”

  A hundred steps later, the assassin’s prediction came true. Mevon felt, more than saw, the tunnel open up on the right side into a wide-­yet-­shallow chamber. The sound of dripping clued him in, and the faint slosh of water told him where they were with certainty.

  “So,” Mevon said. “This is the source: a pool. It must have leaked out into the surrounding waters and caused whoever or whatever drank of it to transform. I can feel its power.”

  “Ruul’s power.”

  Mevon stepped closer to the edge, and the unease within him sharpened. Retreating, he sighed in relief. “Aye. But where is the god himself?”

  “I don’t know. The tunnel branches ahead. Above maybe? It would make sense that the liquid would drip down and collect here.”

  Mevon, though not in any immediate danger, knew himself to be on the brink of the storm. He needed the heightened senses it would bring. In order to push himself beyond that sweet, cutting edge, he imagined what would happen if they were unable find Ruul.

  We’ll be stuck down here, wandering impenetrable dark till our water runs dry and we die of thirst. Not the way I want to go.

  The storm came easily after that.

  Mevon . . . listened.

  After a mark, he had the answer he needed. “No,” he said. “Not above.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Bubbles.”

  “Bubbles?”

  “Tiny bubbles. In the pool. Rising up from cracks in the floor. I can hear them. Popping. And each time they do, a miniscule pulse of energy is released into the surrounding fluid. Dark energy. Pure as can be.”

  “Shade of Elos, you can hear that?”

  “Yes. Now, can you find the branch that leads down?”

  “Easily. And gladly. What would I do without you?”

  “Die, probably.”

  “Thanks, Mevon. Very insightful. You really know how to lighten the mood.”

  “Happy to be of ser­vice.”

  Mevon followed the sound of his friend’s breathing down several forks in the path, each one leading them lower and lower. The air grew colder, staler, with every curved descent, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were plummeting into the very bowels of the world.

  At last the turns ran out, and their steps stayed straight for what seemed like tolls. The urge to turn back grew greater by the beat. He allowed himself to briefly wonder how these t
unnels had been carved but realized it didn’t matter. There was too much about gods and magic that could never be understood. Trying led to madness. He had only to look at his companion’s sister to prove that point.

  Just as sunshine was beginning to seem nothing more than a pleasant dream, something . . . changed. It was so sudden, Mevon had no time to react.

  A swarm of darkwisps crowded into the tunnel ahead of them.

  The snapping sparks of dark energy nearly suffocated him with their unexpected proximity. And they came in such abundance as to clog the tunnel entirely. He’d never feared the creatures before—­they died at his touch—­but now, a surge of dread crawled up his spine.

  “What’s going on?” Mevon asked.

  “Sentries, maybe?” Draevenus energized. “Or, perhaps, a welcoming party?”

  “We are a warning,” the hive hissed.

  Mevon jerked backwards in shock.

  “What do you mean?” Draevenus said, seemingly undeterred.

  “The void can progress no farther, lest he destroy us.”

  “The void? You mean Mevon here?”

  “Yessss.”

  Mevon rubbed his eyes, fearing they were playing tricks on him. It didn’t help. The swarm had indeed formed itself into the likeness of a face. A human face. Or something close to it. Either way, the effect disturbed him more than the darkwisps’ ability to imitate speech. More than anything he’d ever seen.

  “Who, or what, lies beyond you?” Mevon said.

  “I do,” the hive replied.

  Mevon could only shiver.

  Draevenus turned to him. “Mevon. I don’t—­”

  “Go,” Mevon said

  “But—­”

  “Enough, Draevenus. This is why we came here, is it not? Why we struggled across a forgotten land the length of the Veiled Empire. You must go on. I will hear no excuse to the contrary.”

  The mierothi managed a wry smile. “You’re a good friend, Mevon. A true friend. What did I do to deserve you?”

  “You stood up for what was right when no one else would. That, I think, is enough. I only hope that, one day, I can become as good a man as you are.”

  The assassin nodded. “You’re not as far away as you think. In fact, it is I that should be following your example, not the other way around.”

  “Leave, now,” spat the swarm. “Your very presence threatens usssss.”

  “Should I wait outside?” Mevon asked. “Or . . . ?”

  “No. Your companion will not leave the same way he entered.”

  Mevon pondered the possible implications of the pronouncement and found he didn’t like it one bit. He reached out a hand, and Draevenus clutched it, shaking vigorously.

  “I guess this is good-­bye,” Mevon said.

  “What will you do?”

  Mevon didn’t hesitate. “I’ve hurt too many ­people. It’s time I started learning how to heal.” He smiled. “Though, in a more immediate sense, I could use a hand navigating my way out of here.”

  “A guide will be dispatched,” the swarm said. A single darkwisp broke off from the cluster and flew over Mevon, heading back the way they came.

  Draevenus left, following the hive into the gloom, and Mevon retreated with the lone darkwisp. He envisioned the road ahead and had but one regret: that he couldn’t see this one thing through to the end.

  He vowed, right there in the darkness, that he would never leave anything unfinished again. Including the things he had already begun.

  It seems I still have work to do. Best get started now.

  Breathless, Jasside emerged from yet another of countless shadow-­dashes she’d performed in the last few days. This time, however, she had hope of relief.

  Through the fog, she could see the mierothi colony.

  “Last jump,” she said. “And we can finally get some rest.”

  “Rest?” Vashodia said at her side. “You’ve quite the imagination.”

  Jasside groaned.

  Energizing again, she sent herself forward, traversing a league in an instant. She didn’t even bother trying to beat her mistress this time. She stumbled upon arrival, nearly slipping in a patch of mud between two of the daeloth barracks. Vashodia was already marching away.

  Jasside chased after her. Once she caught up, she slowed her steps to match the mierothi’s short legs. She had a good idea of where they were going, so she held her tongue instead of asking to make sure. She was too tired to weather an assault upon her intelligence just now. Instead, she let her mistress guide her steps and studied the changes all around her.

  Though not worn by any means, the houses had taken on a lived-­in look in the half year they’d been away. Patterns had been painted or carved into the walls. Laundry hung out to dry on lines between adjoining homes. Herb or flower gardens pushed up bursts of color and splashes of scent from nearly half the yards she could see. Daeloth, mierothi, and even the occasional human—­foreign traders from the looks of them—­bustled about avenues now lined with smooth stones.

  All it needs is children. Then, it might almost pass for a real city.

  Vashodia led them to Angla’s door and entered without knocking.

  A kettle stewed over a wood fire, filling the space with the smell of smoke and brewing tea leaves. Jasside almost felt like she was home.

  “Oh, Mother?” sang Vashodia. “Mother dearest? Please tell me you’re in. We’ve important business to discuss and not a moment to lose.”

  A door swung in silently, and a sweaty woman entered, wiping her greasy hands on a cloth. “Six months,” Angla said, “and that’s the best greeting you can come up with?”

  “So good to see you, too,” Vashodia said. “You’re not busy.”

  “Shouldn’t that be stated as a question?”

  Vashodia smirked. “Look, my apprentice. You’re not the only one prone to flights of fancy.”

  Jasside only had the strength to roll her eyes.

  Angla tucked the cloth into her belt. “Since you’ve arrived so unexpectedly and discourteously, I can only assume my life is about to be severely disrupted. What emergency is it this time?”

  “Glad to see you appreciate the direness of the situation.”

  Angla scowled.

  “What she means to say,” Jasside said, “is that we’re going to need—­that is, we could really use your help.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Saving the world,” Vashodia said. “Do you think I respect you so little as to bother your for anything less?”

  Angla’s jaw opened wide, but no sound seemed capable of coming out.

  Jasside raised an eyebrow at her mistress. “Look, I know that the Sceptrines are walking into a trap and need all the help they can get. But . . . saving the world? Really?”

  Vashodia ignored her. “Well, Mother? Can we count on your aid or not?”

  Angla managed to close her mouth, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ve done fine managing this planet without me for the last few millennia. Why the sudden change?”

  “Because,” Vashodia said, “it’s the last thing the gods would expect.”

  “Going up against them now, are you? If such an admission is supposed to sway me, I’m afraid it’s done quite the opposite. The gods can sleep in the beds they’ve made. I want nothing to do with it.”

  “No?” Vashodia smiled, strolling closer to her mother. “Perhaps not. But I know one thing you do want. More than anything in the world.”

  She curled a finger. Angla reluctantly bent down her ear. Jasside couldn’t hear what words were shared between child and mother, but the older woman’s eyes grew wider, and sadder, with each whispered syllable.

  The sound of whistling reached her from behind, and Jasside turned in time to see Harridan Chant enter with an armful of fresh vegetables from the fields.
He stopped short after seeing what awaited him, the tune from his lips dwindling to a discordant hum.

  Jasside didn’t even have time to greet him before Angla rushed into his arms. He gasped in surprise at the assault, but grinned ear to ear just the same.

  “Oh, Harridan!” Angla said, still hugging him tightly around the neck. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Likewise, love,” Chant said. “Ever and always. I see your scions have made it back safe and sound.”

  “For the moment,” Vashodia said. “However—­”

  “We’ll help you,” Angla said. She released Harridan from her grip and locked eyes with him. “Won’t we, dear?”

  “Anything for you,” he replied, then cleared his throat. “Might I ask—­what help are we giving?”

  “All the mierothi,” Vashodia said. “And as many daeloth as you can spare. No humans, I’m afraid. You’ll need to move fast.”

  “I’ll coordinate it,” Angla said. “Tell me where to go.”

  “East, into Fasheshe,” Jasside said. “Then south.”

  “Can’t you get any more specific than that?”

  Jasside shook her head. “We don’t know exactly where it’s going to take place.”

  “ ‘It’ what?”

  “The battle,” Vashodia said. “Not the first one, and certainly not the last, but upon its outcome rests the fate of our world.”

  Jasside scoffed. “You and your grandiose designs again. Is Panisahldron truly so great a threat as that?”

  “Panisahldron?” Vashodia giggled. “Who said anything about them?”

  The creak of the wheels belonging to the wagon they’d stuffed her in was the only sound Arivana could hear. Day after day, the low, grinding squeal had become as familiar as the sound of her own breathing, something she only noticed when it stopped.

  Arivana pitched forward in her seat, smacking her forehead into something hard. The pitch-­black interior of the wagon made it hard to distinguish what she’d collided with. Her only consolation, as she brought a hand to the site of injury, was that she felt no trickle of blood between her fingers. She’d almost be glad, though, if there were. That sharp, coppery scent would be a welcome change from the bland sterility that brushed her nose with every breath.