by James Wyatt
He was running, leaves lashing his face, thin branches grabbing at him as he passed. He was hunched, looking for something on the ground, and he had no face. He caught a glimpse of her—a doe rabbit bounding through the brush—and then she was gone.
Then he was a rabbit, fleeing a hungry fox. He ran as fast as he could, but the fox was faster, and no matter how many times he darted in a different direction, the fox always seemed to be drawing nearer. With one great pounce, it hit him, its claws pressing against his skin, its great fanged muzzle staring down into his face that was not a face.
“Why do you run?” the fox asked.
He was pinned beneath a boulder, part of an avalanche, and he stood at the top of a sheer slope and knew he had caused the rocks to tumble. He saw the swallow he’d been chasing swoop and swerve as it flew away, forever beyond his reach.
A gust of wind came up the slope and lifted him into the air, and he was in a whirlwind, lightning flashing all around him. An airship circled with the wind, and Gaven stood on the deck, reaching an arm out to him. Rienne walked to him, straight across the whirlwind, smiling. As she drew near, she extended her arms to embrace him.
Her two arms became four, and then six, and she grinned cruelly as her legs became a long, snaky tail. There were swords in her hands, and they whirled and flashed like the storm, they cut and cut and cut and he screamed—
“Plaguebearers,” said a voice whose source he could not see. “They were trying to infect him, and he lifted one of their weapons.”
The demonic figure fell on top of him, and her face was no longer Rienne’s face but Dania’s. Her six arms were two again, and her legs straddled him. Her body moved against his, and she smiled down at him, her short red hair falling into her face. She reached up to push it back, and said, “Why do you resist me?”
Then she was the Plaguebearer lying on top of him, leering at him, infecting him, and he pushed the body off and stood in a deserted cathedral, like the one in Fairhaven but larger, and dozens of doors lined the walls of the enormous sanctuary. He walked across the mosaic floor, leaving footprints in the dust, and grabbed a door handle at random. The door swung open and a skeleton tumbled toward him. He stepped over it to enter the dark hallway beyond.
He walked in darkness, sure that his destination lay at the end of the hall. There was no light, nothing leading him onward except his certainty that the object of all his desire lay ahead. He couldn’t even imagine what it might be, but the thought of finding it at last filled him with joy and excited anticipation. On and on through the darkness he walked, untiring. The hall began to slope upward, and he walked, and he climbed, and then he saw light, but it was overhead, and the hall was too steep to climb. The floor was smooth, then slick with blood, but he clawed for purchase, he refused to let it slide him back.
A coolness spread through him, quenching the fires that burned in his veins, and the darkness dissolved into soft red light. He floated, warm and comfortable. He couldn’t see his body, he tried to lift a hand to his face but saw nothing—he was no longer sure that he was in his body.
“Aric,” came another voice. “Or whatever your name is. Can you hear me?”
He could not answer, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“Who are you?”
The water pressed in around him, squeezing the breath and life from him, and he kicked furiously to reach the surface. His lungs screamed for air, but the water was so deep, so dark, he was no longer sure he swam in the right direction. Was there a hint of light above him, a faint glow in the blue? He kicked harder, but something tangled his legs, seaweed or—
He drew a great gasping breath, but the tentacles still held him, drew him in, then he was looking into a single great staring eye.
“Why do you struggle?”
A mace appeared in his hand and he swung it over and over, beating back the tentacles. Vor stood over him, hacking at tentacles as they appeared through the portal. “I’ll hold them back,” Vor said. “You seal it.”
He kneeled beside the portal and laid a hand on it, trying to feel the knot of magic inside. It was too complex. His mind couldn’t fathom its intricacies. It was a labyrinth—
And he was walking it, smooth crystal walls stretching as high above him as he could see. Straight corridors crossed and branched, and again he knew that everything he wanted was waiting for him at the exit from this maze. He wandered and wandered, then the maze was the Labyrinth, and he stumbled along, weak from hunger and thirst, half-blind from sun.
He fell, gravel pressing into his cheek. He didn’t think he could stand again. Feet crunched the gravel and rolled him over. A field of blood red sky, framed by canyon walls.
“Who are you?” the Traveler asked him, her face shadowed by a brilliant sun behind her.
“Kalok Shash,” he said through parched lips, and the Traveler withdrew from him.
“He changes constantly, a new face every few moments. Is he possessed?”
A hand on his forehead, and again coolness washed through him. “No.”
“What, then? A demon? Should we not kill him now, before he regains his strength?”
“He is no demon, and no warrior kills a man while he is helpless. And he is a man, though he is obviously a man of many faces. He is ill, and we will care for him until he recovers.”
“He deceived us.”
“He didn’t deceive me. I’ve seen his heart, and I know both the goodness and the evil there. Has anyone else seen what you saw?”
“No.”
“Good. Then no one but you is to care for him, and you will admit no one but me to his presence. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
The Traveler withdrew from him, and he chased after.
Haccra approached the black pavilion, fear gripping her stomach. She hated approaching the chieftain, hated what she endured every time she entered his presence. But it was her duty.
She looked up at the banners as she passed, bone white with the chieftain’s rune painted in blood. They made her heart beat faster—with excitement at the conquest they promised, and with fear.
Two guards stepped forward and seized her arms. She did not struggle.
“Do you bring news the chieftain wishes to hear?”
“I do.”
“What tribe are you from?”
“I have no tribe. I serve only Kathrik Mel.”
Not releasing her arms, they shuffled her forward into the pavilion, forcing her head down as they entered, then pushing her face to the ground. Only when she was prostrate did they release her.
“Haccra.” His voice glided over her skin, smooth and exciting. “You may lift your head.”
Slowly she did, and he grew into her vision—first his armor-clad feet and the twitching tip of his fleshy tail, the bloodstained plate armor he wore and his strangely delicate hands, fingers tipped with razor-sharp claws. She shivered at the memory of those claws tracing lines of blood in her skin. She could not look at his face.
“What news do you bring me?” Tingles ran down her spine.
“Our scouts found the stronghold of the Maruk.”
“At last.” He stepped closer. “This is excellent news, Haccra. What reward would you choose?”
“Pain.” Pain hurt so much less than the pleasure he offered.
CHAPTER
33
Someone sat beside Aric where he lay, and he was surprised to realize that it was not the Traveler, Dania, Rienne, Vor, or any of the bizarre figures that had haunted his dreams. It was Farren, laying a cool hand on his head and driving away the last of his fever.
“How do you feel?” Farren asked. There was concern in his voice, but his eyes didn’t meet Aric’s. “Am I still dreaming?”
Farren smiled and drew his hand away. “No, I’m really here. You must have been having some strange dreams, based on what Lharat and I have heard. And seen.”
Aric’s heart leaped, but he steadied it with a thought. He had been compl
etely out of control for—how long? It might have been hours or days. What had he revealed?
“Very strange,” he said.
Farren stood and turned to look out the window. “Kathrik Mel’s horde will be here soon. I fear that our city will fall.”
“No!” The word burst from Aric’s mouth, surprising him with its passion.
If Maruk Dar fell, one feeble beacon of hope in the Labyrinth would be extinguished, and it would be his fault.
“We’re ready,” Farren said. “We are already dead, and Kalok Shash will burn much brighter when Maruk Dar falls.”
Aric envisioned the Binding Flame, growing brighter with each soul added to it, stretched across the Labyrinth as a barrier against the advancing horde. But he could not imagine it holding Kathrik Mel back. Not without a living army to back it up.
“You could flee the city, join with the other Ghaash’kala, make a concerted defense where they leave the Labyrinth—”
“The Maruk Ghaash’kala will make their stand here, defending their homes. Though we cannot triumph, we can at least make their horde smaller.” Farren turned away from the window to look at Aric again. “But you are not Maruk Ghaash’kala.”
“I would have been. I was ready to take my vow.”
“But you did not. Your illness saved you from joining the ranks of the dead.”
“I will join them soon enough, defending this doomed city.” The thought made Aric proud. The idea that he, too, could die in the service of something he actually believed in—perhaps the only thing he had ever believed in….
He imagined standing beside Vor, Dania, and Farren’s dead brother Durrnak, all smiling.
Horns sounded from the walls of Maruk Dar. “They’re coming,” Farren said. “I do not want you to die defending Maruk Dar.”
“What?” How strange it felt, to have his chance at martyrdom snatched away. For a moment, he feared that Farren was about to draw his sword and make sure Aric didn’t have a chance to die defending the city.
“Listen.” Farren sat on a stool beside the bed. “I don’t know who you really are, and I don’t know what allows you to change your face, as I’ve seen you do.”
“You lied to me,” Kelas said, his voice wounded, almost piteous.
Laurann felt shame well in her chest, and she lowered her head.
“After all I’ve done for you, you betray me like this?” Kelas added. Tears were welling in his eyes, grief etched his face.
Something was wrong—this was not like Kelas.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” he whined.
Laurann nodded, and Kelas flew into a rage. “Never be ashamed!” He slapped her. “You’re supposed to lie to get what you want. Deception is your life!” One more slap, for good measure.
Laurann stood her ground, staring straight ahead, her shame dispelled by a rising tide of hatred.
“Never confess to a lie,” Kelas added. “And never, ever feel shame! Shame is weakness, and your enemies will exploit it.”
That had been the first time she felt shame, and the last—Until now. All the time he’d convinced himself that he believed in the ideals of Kalok Shash, he had been lying to Farren and all those who sought to live out those ideals. After all they’d done for him, he had betrayed them.
“Farren, I—”
The paladin cut him off. “I no longer care. I know there’s nothing demonic about you. I know that your desire to fight and die alongside the Maruk Ghaash’kala is sincere, that the call of Kalok Shash is real to you. I want you to heed that call in a different way.”
“What?” After all Aric’s deception, Farren called him sincere?
Farren glanced at the door. “The Carrion Tribes will attack within the hour. We will hold them back as long as we can, but within a week Maruk Dar will fall. Then there will be nothing between Kathrik Mel and the eastern mountains. They’ll cross the mountains, and they won’t stop until a big enough army makes them stop.”
Aric thought of the Towering Wood in flames, the fields of Aundair razed. How far would the warlord go? South into Breland? He might be stopped by Scions Sound and the Mournland. But he might not—what was the Mournland to Kathrik Mel, used to life in the Demon Wastes?
“What is it you want me to do?” he asked.
“I want you to make sure that a big enough army meets him soon, before his evil can spread far.”
“But how—”
“You will flee Maruk Dar and leave the Labyrinth and go back across the mountains to warn the peoples of the east.”
“Leave the Labyrinth? But your vow—”
“Even sacred vows must sometimes be broken. I’ll let one man I know is mostly untainted escape into the Labyrinth if it means the greater taint of the Carrion Tribes can be contained.”
“Silence!” Durrnak cried. “You knowingly allowed a demon to escape the Labyrinth and enter the world beyond! There is nothing to discuss.”
“A pregnant woman, Durrnak!”
“Carrying the taint of evil in her womb as well as in her blood! You knew our holy command, and you disregarded it. Your sentence has been passed, and you will die here today.”
Mostly untainted, Farren had said. Yet it had been Kauth’s mace that staggered Farren’s own brother, a paladin who held so strictly to his vows. Kauth had led Vor, Sevren, and Zandar to their deaths—he had provoked Kathrik Mel into this eastward march!
What greater taint could I possibly bear? he wondered. “I don’t think you really know my heart,” Aric said. Farren looked directly into his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”
As he fastened the straps of his armor, Kathrik Mel could barely contain his excitement. He pulled each strap just a little too tight, savoring the exquisite nips of pain as leather and metal pressed into his skin. For far too long, his hordes had done his fighting for him, exterminating pockets of Ghaash’kala scouts long before they presented any serious threat. But they had reached the stronghold of the Maruk clan, and it promised to be a battle worthy of his involvement.
His armor on, he snatched the sword from Haccra’s hands. It was the sword he’d claimed from the dead shifter, who was not worthy of such a blade. “Bloodclaw,” he whispered. The sword had consented to reveal its name to him, but the secrets of its power were still a mystery. Perhaps when the Maruk had fallen, the blood-drenched sword would tell him more.
He strode from his pavilion, blinking in the unusually bright sunlight, and surveyed the walls of Maruk Dar. The orcs were sounding horns, calling their fellows to the city’s defense. His scouts had told him that all the Maruk were within—it was one of their gathering times. Haccra had warned him to wait until they had dispersed again, and he had cut out her tongue. With all the Maruk gathered in one place, he could destroy them all in a single blow.
It was time.
After making sure Aric was equipped with new armor, a new mace, and a pack full of food and water, Farren led him to the back of Maruk Dar, where the city nestled into the wall of the Labyrinth. Half a tower seemed to grow from the stone, reaching up the cliff face. Together they climbed a narrow stair, spiraling partly in the tower and partly through the cliff, until they reached a large room at the top. It, too, was a full circle, half embedded in the cliff, strengthening the impression that the tower had somehow sunk into the cliff or been partly engulfed by it. The room was bare.
“It’s over here,” Farren said, walking to the wall in the room’s cliff-facing side.
“What is?”
In answer, Farren passed his hand over the wall and tripped a catch Aric couldn’t see, and a section of wall detached from the rest and slid toward them. When it stopped moving, Farren pushed it to one side, revealing a tunnel descending into blackness.
“It’s a long tunnel. From time to time some burrowing creature stumbles upon it and uses it for a nest—we don’t patrol it very often. So be on your guard. When you come out, you’ll still be in the Labyrinth, but from that point, if you go left at every branch you will soon find you
rself at the feet of the mountains.”
Aric nodded, peering down the tunnel.
“Aric. I have only shown this path to one person before, and I am still not sure I did the right thing. Please do not disappoint me.”
One person before—Aric knew in a flash of insight. “Vor,” he said. “Voraash. You helped him escape.”
Farren’s eyes shot wide and his mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
“I traveled here with Vor. He’s dead now—and Kalok Shash burns brighter. You did the right thing.”
Except that Vor killed your brother, Aric thought.
“I knew he had not truly fallen,” Farren said. “I knew his heart, just as I know yours. Go now.”
Aric struggled to find words, but Farren hurried him into the tunnel and closed the door behind him without another word.
It was time for a new face. He would emerge from the tunnel, and from the Labyrinth, a new person.
As he walked through the tunnel, he began by casting his memory over past identities. Haunderk, Faura, and Laurann—those were faces he had worn during his earliest training at Kelas’s brutal hands. They would not do. Laurann, though, whose grief at killing Kyra had been so strong, and who confessed to shame, made him think of other sympathetic women. There was Caura Fannam, the soldier who escaped Haldren’s camp with Jenns, then left him alone in the forest to die. No. Maura Hann, who had been a mother as well as a lover to so many foreign spies, coaxing secrets from them when she held them close. No. He thought of Rienne, the kindest and most caring woman he had known. But he had never been that kind of woman. He had bruised too many hearts.
Baunder Fronn. He could not believe that he had lived three months as a simple Aundairian farmer. No, Baunder was not the kind of man who would walk out of the Labyrinth alive. Auftane—no, he had betrayed Dania, taking the torc from her body. Dania ir’Vran—he had thought of her when he chose another name, Vauren Hennalan. Vauren infiltrated the Knights of Thrane and found their morality rubbing off on him—perhaps he’d started this whole mess, nurtured the first seeds of conscience in the changeling’s heart. Vauren had been unable to kill the unconscious dwarf, Natan Durbannek. But Vauren was still a spy, posing as a Knight while gathering intelligence about Thrane’s troop movements before Starcrag Plain. Still Kelas’s tool.