Child of a Dead God

by Barb

  Chane headed upslope. She had found a place where he could tie off their canvas in a lean-to against the stone and make them shelter from the sun. She took one folded canvas from him, and they set to work. He had nearly finished when she reached for a piece of rope in his grasp to lash it around a spike driven into the ground.

  He suddenly pointed to himself, his voice more rasping and hollow than usual.

  “Chane . . . I am Chane.”

  He did not expect a response. He was only desperate for some intelligible sound after another night of the ferals’ animal noises and Welstiel’s long silences. But she stopped struggling with the rope and looked up at him.

  Her hair was a disheveled tangle, and in the death-pale skin, he spotted hints of a smattering of freckles. She pointed at herself.

  “Sa . . . bel . . .”

  Those slow syllables, spoken with such difficulty, startled Chane. He crouched down, and she shifted away from him.

  “Sabel . . . ,” he said, “that is your name?”

  A hundred questions filled Chane’s head, but he held them at bay. She sniffed the air around him, head tilted, then flicked a hand toward the eastern sky and went back to struggling with the rope.

  Chane did not need to look. Gray light grew behind him over the peaks.

  The other ferals were fidgeting. The curly-headed man began trying to crawl across the ground with muffled whimpers of frustration. At first, Chane thought they were agitated by the coming sun, but then he saw what the man was crawling toward—and froze in surprise.

  Welstiel’s pack sat propped against a spindly gray tree.

  The well-traveled undead sometimes set it down within sight, but he never left his belongings in any unsafe place. Even in Venjètz, when they had been locked out of the city and lost nearly everything, Welstiel had held on to his pack.

  The stocky feral struggled on the ground, watched closely by the others, but he made no more than an inch or two of headway. Exhaustion and starvation drove him against the power of Welstiel’s command, as he knew where the bottled life force was kept.

  In their time together, Chane and Welstiel had maintained the courtesies and formalities of two noblemen—now turned Noble Dead. Chane had once respected Welstiel’s privacy. But he had begun to see Welstiel’s pretense of cold-blooded intellect as nothing more than illusory posturing. And as for Chane . . .

  He might be nothing more than a beast beneath his own veneer, but he had never sunk to believing his own pretense. Not as Welstiel did.

  Chane had willingly served Welstiel’s madness in that monastery, but he could not stop seeing these ferals for who they had once been. Like the ghosts of lost scholars haunting dead flesh now filled with nothing but longing and hunger.

  A worthless concern just the same. They were lost.

  But Chane still did not care to watch Welstiel butcher another one. He jogged downslope, snatched up Welstiel’s pack, and turned away.

  A hand latched onto his ankle, closing tight enough to make him buckle in pain.

  Chane tried to pull free of the crawling monk, but the man would not let go. The feral lay on his stomach, muscles taut and shaking as he fought against his maker’s command, but his colorless eyes were locked on the pack in Chane’s arms.

  Chane stomped down on the man’s wrist with his free foot. The feral squealed, and Chane wrenched free of its grip.

  All the crystal-eyed ferals around the clearing watched him. When he headed up toward the lean-to tents, even Sabel’s gaze fixed on what he was carrying.

  Chane felt the bulge of hard objects in the pack, too many to be just the brown glass bottles. His curiosity turned once more to Welstiel’s long-hidden possessions.

  The closest Chane had come to uncovering their secrets was the night he first saw Welstiel’s extra bottles sitting beside the pack. He had not summoned the nerve to dig into it with Welstiel sitting vigil just up the monastery stairs. And the later night on this journey, when he had stolen one brown bottle, he was in too much hurry. He did not hesitate this time, and threw back the cover flap.

  Beneath two remaining bottles, wrapped in Welstiel’s spare clothing, Chane saw other items. The first three were already familiar.

  The walnut box held Welstiel’s feeding cup, along with the looped tripod rods and white ceramic bottle. Beside this rested the domed brass plate, which Welstiel used to scry for Magiere, and his frosted light-orb with its three glowing sparks like incandescent fireflies. Chane set these carefully aside.

  For the moment, he ignored the two books and a leather-wrapped journal. But the next item he gripped was cold metal, and he glanced nervously toward the glowing horizon. He pulled out a hoop of steel with etched markings.

  Its circumference was slightly smaller than a dinner plate. At a loss, he was about to set it down when he smelled an odor akin to charcoal. He turned the steel hoop and dim light from the sky reflected upon its surface—except for the deeply etched lines and symbols. Their inner groves remained black, and he sniffed the object. The charred odor definitely came from the hoop.

  He had little time left, for certainly Welstiel would return before full dawn breached the horizon, but Chane’s curiosity nagged him. Holding the hoop to his lips, he licked an etched line running evenly around its outer side. It tasted of bitter ash and char. He set the hoop with the other items and peered into the pack. He caught a glint of copper or brass on one rod, and then movement caught his eye.

  Sabel crept in, just out of reach, and pointed east as she sniffed the air. She whined and pointed more forcefully.

  Welstiel must be returning.

  Chane quickly stuffed all the items into the pack, leaving the clothing-wrapped bottles to place on top. He was about to return the pack to its resting place when Welstiel appeared over the top of the saddle ridge, looking haggard and drained. Chane scrambled to the nearest lean-to with Sabel on his heels. He crouched in front of its open end, setting the pack down.

  As Welstiel entered the clearing, he gave no notice to the ferals cringing around him in the half-light, and went straight for the spot where he had left his pack. When he discovered it gone, he spun about.

  “I had to move it,” Chane rasped. “Even under your command, one of them tried to get to it.”

  Welstiel looked upslope and spotted his pack beside Chane.

  “You took your time,” Chane added. “Any longer, and you would be greeting the sunrise.”

  Welstiel frowned, but seemed satisfied.

  “Get inside,” he ordered, and waved the ferals up to the tents.

  They scrambled for cover like dogs, and he picked his way up the slope to Chane.

  “We are not far from the coast,” he said. “A few more nights at most.”

  It was good news, but Chane’s mind was elsewhere.

  Aside from the three short rods he had not had time to inspect, he had heard a dull knock when he set the pack down. Something else rested in its bottom; something that he had not yet seen.

  Chapter Seven

  Three days of being dragged behind Sgäile wore Leesil’s patience thin. Blindfolded, with a rough walking stick in one hand and a rope gripped in the other, he trudged onward, with Magiere behind him. Chap ranged somewhere nearby, his claws scrabbling over dirt and stone.

  Chap assisted with warning barks whenever they strayed or came upon uncertain footing. Sgäile carefully steered them around anything larger, but the going was painfully slow. From time to time, Magiere settled a hand on Leesil’s shoulder.

  They exchanged few words on this blind side journey, and Leesil wondered why he had ever agreed to this. Why did he keep giving in to whatever bizarre requests Sgäile made?

  Privately, Leesil knew why—to find out what Brot’an—and his mother—had arranged.

  Had this been Brot’an’s plan alone, Leesil would have rejected Sgäile’s requirements. But for his mother . . . no, he’d abandoned her to eight years of imprisonment, and he couldn’t refuse her now.

&n
bsp; Chap barked, brushed against Leesil’s leg, and then dashed away. Leesil heard a small cascade of stones tumble beneath the dog’s paws.

  “What’s wrong?” Leesil asked.

  “We have to climb another chute between stone sides,” Sgäile replied. “The bottom is littered with debris. I will loop the rope through your belts, so you may use both hands to steady yourselves. Toss aside your staves, as you will no longer need them.”

  “Then we’re close?” Magiere asked.

  For a moment, Sgäile didn’t answer. “Yes,” he replied, as if he didn’t care to reveal anything.

  Leesil tossed aside his staff as Sgäile looped the rope through his belt. He waited as Sgäile did the same for Magiere and then took the lead once more. Leesil stepped forward, and his left foot shifted on loose stones.

  Someone snatched his right wrist and guided his hand to the side, pressing it against a vertical wall of rough stone.

  “As I said . . . take care,” Sgäile admonished.

  Leesil felt his way up the granite chute. Before long, he reached out and felt only empty air. Another step and the ground leveled off. But when he tried to hook the blindfold with one finger, Sgäile pulled his hand down.

  “No,” he said sharply. “Not yet.”

  Moving onward again, Leesil grew aware of a slight downward decline. Then he smelled dust, and the sounds around him began to reverberate. He realized they had gone underground.

  Sgäile began turning them, this way and that.

  Leesil tried to count off the lefts and rights, but he lost track after a while. By the time Sgäile halted their procession, Leesil was slightly dizzy from the winding downward path.

  “It’s warmer here,” Magiere said.

  She’d been unusually quiet for the past three days. Leesil reached back until he felt her arm.

  “We are far enough,” Sgäile said. “You may remove the blindfolds.”

  Leesil ripped off the cloth, blinking as he rubbed his eyes.

  For a moment he wasn’t sure the blindfold was gone, as everything around him was so dim. Then the world sharpened slightly.

  Magiere’s pale face was strangely illuminated by an orange glow— Sgäile had already lit a torch. They stood within a natural rock tunnel wider than Leesil’s arm span and half again the height he could reach up on his toes.

  “We continue,” Sgäile said and walked off down the tunnel.

  “We’re not there yet?” Magiere asked, but he ignored her.

  Leesil sighed and trudged on. When he glanced back past Magiere and Chap, he saw nothing, for the tunnel curved sharply into the dark. He couldn’t even guess how far or deep they had come.

  They walked down winding passages with craggy walls, but the floors were smooth. Leesil’s patience was beginning to wane when suddenly the torch’s light reached only open space, and he followed Sgäile into a vast cavern. Before he could look about, his gaze caught on the cavern’s most prominent feature.

  A large oval of shimmering metal was embedded in the cavern’s far wall.

  Magiere pushed around him, heading straight for it. Leesil followed with Sgäile and Chap trailing more slowly. When he was within arm’s reach, Magiere ran her gloved hand over the metal.

  Leesil saw the barely visible, razor-straight seam. The oval split down the center into two doors, but he saw no handle or hinges, or other way to open them. Orange-yellow torchlight glimmered on their perfect polished surfaces, a bleached silver tone too light for steel or precision metals. Leesil recognized the material.

  These doors were made of the same metal as anmaglâhk blades.

  “They’re warm,” Magiere whispered.

  Leesil put his hand upon the metal. More than warm, they were nearly hot.

  “Turn away,” Sgäile said wearily.

  “Why . . . how do they open?” Leesil asked.

  He heard cloth crumple on the cavern floor, and the sound of a blade sliding across leather.

  Chap growled.

  “I said turn away, now!” Sgäile commanded, and his voice echoed around the cavern.

  Leesil turned quickly and dropped one hand to a punching blade.

  Sgäile stood before his fallen cloak, his glistening features strained, as if any word or action would cost him. He held a stiletto, its metal gleaming as bright as the doors.

  Chap tensed behind Sgäile, ready to take him down if he moved an inch.

  The only memory he caught in Sgäile’s mind was a brief glimpse of this place—and Sgäile waiting frozen in dread as the silver-white doors began to swing open. The memory faded too quickly, and now it seemed Sgäile would not tolerate either Magiere or Leesil knowing how the portal opened.

  “Please . . . step back,” Sgäile said more deliberately. “And turn away.”

  Magiere’s hand wrapped around her falchion’s hilt, and she didn’t move.

  Chap was sick of dealing with anmaglâhk and their paranoia. But all that mattered was finding out what waited beyond these doors—what Brot’an had been scheming up this time. Chap circled wide around Sgäile and huffed once at his companions.

  “What makes you so obliging to him?” Magiere asked, but she kept her eyes on Sgäile.

  “This is ridiculous,” Leesil said. “Sgäile, just open the doors!”

  “Keep quiet,” she said. “You’re the one who let him blindfold us.”

  Chap huffed again. They had come all this way, and he was not about to turn back. He hopped at Magiere and nipped her breeches at the knee.

  Magiere jerked her leg back. “You watch it!”

  But she finally turned away, and Leesil joined her with a sidelong glance at Chap.

  Sgäile’s expression remained tense, but he did not ask Chap to turn away. He merely approached the door, stiletto in hand, and then hesitated with the blade point held up.

  “Your oath . . . ,” he said, “do not forget.”

  He touched the blade’s tip upon the portal so lightly it did not even click. A low grating creak began, and Chap watched as the seam split.

  “Move away,” Sgäile told him and sheathed the stiletto.

  Chap backpedaled toward Magiere and Leesil as Sgäile also retreated.

  The doors separated, each swinging outward as they ground across the cavern’s level stone. A wall of heated air rushed out to strike Chap’s face, and the cavern’s temperature rose sharply with a stench like burning coal. He choked on the hot air filling his lungs.

  “You will adjust in a moment,” Sgäile said, but he had a hand over his own mouth and nose.

  The unpleasant burning in Chap’s throat slowly became tolerable. Leesil’s face was flushed, though he seemed unhurt. Magiere let out a strangled cough and buckled to her knees, fighting for air.

  Leesil grabbed her shoulders. “Magiere!”

  A few more breaths and she nodded that she was all right.

  “You might have warned us,” she gasped.

  “Apologies,” Sgäile offered, but his face was as flushed as Leesil’s.

  As Sgäile retrieved the torch, Chap circled back to stand between the wide doors. Beyond them stretched a wide passage, and the farther on Chap looked, the darker it became. Sgäile’s torch cast only the barest glistening points of light on its craggy walls. The heated air made it difficult for Chap to breathe.

  “You must be joking!” Leesil said.

  “It will not be comfortable,” Sgäile warned. “But we will survive.”

  With that, he stepped past Chap into the tunnel.

  Chap followed, and the hot stone under his pads grew more unpleasant with each step. He heard Leesil behind as Magiere came up on his left. She looked weak and faint. Her dhampir nature worked well for her in the cold, but it did not seem to help in this scorching place.

  “You’ve been down here before?” Magiere rasped.

  Sgäile shook his head. “Only as far as the doors, once . . . with my past teacher, before I received his assent to take up full service to my people.”

&n
bsp; Both Leesil and Sgäile slowly adapted, though their faces began to run with sweat. Magiere panted, trying to bear the heat and keep up. Chap stayed close to her as Sgäile worked his way along the uneven passage. It narrowed suddenly at the top of a carved stone stairway.

  A dim red-orange glow from below barely illuminated the close walls. Sgäile set aside his torch. The light increased slightly as they descended, as did the heat in the air. They went down for a long while, stopping once for water. Leesil poured some into a tin cup he always carried for Chap, but the water had grown so warm it offered little relief.

  Chap kept a close watch on Magiere, though she stayed on her feet. He reached inside her mind and called up memories of their journey through the Blade Range . . . of snow and freezing wind. She frowned, but this time did not snarl at him to get out of her head. Instead, she put her hand on his back.

  “You all right?” Leesil asked her.

  “Keep going,” she rasped.

  Just when Chap thought their descent might never end, Sgäile stepped down onto a landing. Chap peered around the elf’s legs through a rough opening in the mountain’s rock. Through it, orange-red light brightened slightly, and the opening seemed like the mouth of a dwindling hearth in a dim room.

  Chap stepped through and halted at the sight before him.

  A wide plateau ran a gradual slant away from the stairway’s portal. At its distant edge, red light erupted out of a massive fissure in the mountain’s belly, like a gash wider than a river. Smoke drifted up into glowing red air from deep in the earth.

  “Wait . . . here . . . ,” Sgäile breathed with great effort.

  He advanced with slow and heavy steps but went less than halfway to the plateau’s edge. He stopped, digging beneath his tunic, and drew something out.

  “What’s he doing?” Leesil whispered.

  Sgäile cocked his arm and heaved. A small dark object arced out and over the plateau’s lip to vanish into the fissure. Chap had seen this object in Sgäile’s flickering memories—a smooth basalt stone etched with curving lines, sharp strokes, and dots. Sgäile returned but stopped to rest, hunched over with his hands braced upon his knees. He blinked against the sweat running down his forehead.