From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  She nodded, then gestured toward the door. “Why don’t you take a rest? I can finish here on my own. There aren’t so many left.”

  He fidgeted, glancing from her to the door and back again. “If you think it’s all right . . . I do have some letters of my own to write.”

  “Of course! Go on. I’ll see you at the meeting,” Guerline said.

  “Yes. Thank you, Your Majesty,” Theodor said.

  He stood and bowed, then left the room, shutting the door behind him again. Guerline sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her heart calmed in her chest, and as it did, a peaceful stillness settled into her limbs. She rolled her head to the side and closed her eyes. She could almost fall asleep, though she hadn’t been tired a moment ago. Her muscles tensed against a gust of chill wind and she opened her eyes with difficulty. It took her a moment to realize she’d opened them at all. The lanterns had all been snuffed, and the room was dark.

  A glow rose in front of her, in the seat Theodor had occupied. It was merely an orb at first, but as she squinted at it, it took on the appearance of her rotted father.

  Eyes wide, she tried to keep her breathing steady as the ghost turned its empty sockets on her.

  “You should be at rest,” she whispered.

  “How can I be at rest when my empire is in the hands of my fool daughter?” Johan said.

  Guerline gulped and fought to keep the familiar tendrils of self-doubt from taking hold. Her father was dead, and taunting her from the grave was the worst he could do. She would not let fear of him rule her anymore; she would speak calmly until this vision ended. She could at least project assurance.

  “But the witch. She took you to Ilys.”

  “The doors to Ilys are shut!”

  Wind gusted through the room again, and her father vanished. Someone whispered her name and Guerline spun around in time to catch a glimpse of luminescent, dawn-blonde hair whipping past. Cold oozed down Guerline’s spine. She waited, unmoving, to determine whether she was truly alone. After several seconds of silence, she stood slowly. Hands outstretched, she found the wall and walked along it until she reached the first Adenen lamp. Its magical fire, one of the hired household enchantments still common in the center cities, flared up again the moment her fingers touched the glass orb in which it was housed.

  She turned back to the desk and screamed. Johan’s head sat at the table, staring at her with a gaping mouth, molars visible through the holes in his cheeks where the flesh melted away.

  “Your Majesty?”

  The guard posted outside the door burst in, holding her short sword ready. The lamps all flared on again, bathing the room in light. There was no sign of Johan, head or body. Guerline leaned against the wall and calmed her breathing.

  “Are you all right, Your Majesty?” the guard asked.

  “Yes, Frida, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m through here. Go and make sure the council is gathered,” Guerline said.

  Frida frowned and cast a suspicious glance around the room. “I’m not sure I should leave you, Majesty.”

  Guerline smiled and put a hand on her armored shoulder. “I appreciate your loyalty, but I really am fine. I only dozed off and had a nightmare. Please, go on. I’ll be right behind.”

  Though she still frowned, Frida bowed, sheathed her sword, and left the room. Guerline sighed and stared at the spot where her father’s head had been.

  Would she ever stop seeing dead things?

  Chapter Seven

  Morgana Kavanagh awoke to the sound of roaring.

  She sat straight up in bed. The sound was distant and low, rumbling like the ocean. Aftershocks. Shouts rang from the courtyard below her window. The Adenen leader jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of coarse wool trousers and a leather jerkin. She’d barely finished lacing up her boots when Aalish came skidding through the door without even an attempt at a knock.

  “Artan,” she gasped. “A sandstorm at Artan.”

  Morgana cursed and pushed past her captain. Artan Forge was the largest forge in the West, situated between Fortress Adenen and the city of Braeden. It had been safe from the unusual sandstorms thus far because of its position further east from the cliffs, and because of the fortifications Morgana had ordered after the storms began. It was the single most important forge in the empire. If it was damaged enough to halt work there, other forges in the region would not be able to pick up the slack.

  The battle-witch dashed through the castle, shouting orders for horses to be readied. She sent Aalish to organize a troop of cavalry witches and depart with them as soon as they were able. She predicted a panic, and they would need witchpower to contain the inevitable crowd. What is it about disaster that makes everyone want to watch?

  Adenen’s previous attempts to stop the sandstorms had been woefully uninformed, but this time, Morgana had an advantage. Three wizards from Raeha, the desert country to the west, had come to the fortress two nights ago seeking a conference. Since their magic used wind and sand, Morgana hoped they would be able to help them understand and conquer the damnable storms.

  With Aalish busy, Morgana herself went to the guest tower. She knocked, sharply but politely, on Aasim’s door before entering. The leader of the wizards sat up slowly, blinking blearily at her. He was bare-chested, his long black hair now taken out of its multi-colored headdress and simply braided, like hers. His skin seemed to possess a warm glow against the cool stone walls of her fortress, even in the dark. She averted her eyes; though she understood the political and magical customs of the Atithi tribes, she was unfamiliar with the wizard’s culture in intimate situations such as this.

  She quickly squashed such nonsensical thoughts. Was she or was she not Morgana Kavanagh? She could apologize later. Now was the time for action, not courtesy. She went forward and sat on the edge of Aasim’s bed, putting her hands on his shoulders and jostling him a bit. He reached up and gently squeezed her wrist.

  “Aasim, I know you and your friends are still recovering from your journey, but I need your help,” Morgana began, speaking quickly. “There is a sandstorm engulfing our largest forge as we speak. I must go and try to save it. I hope that you and the others will come help us. You know more about these things than we do.”

  Aasim studied her face, his dark eyes dancing over her expression. She could see the weariness of the journey still in him. She would understand if he said no—he could be thinking about the political danger of the wizards being present, when many westerners blamed the Raehans for the sandstorms to begin with. Morgana wasn’t concerned with such things. Her focus now was on saving her forge, and if he didn’t answer her soon, she’d have to abandon his help and do what she could alone. She waited, lips parted, for his answer.

  Aasim shook his head as if coming out of some reverie. “Yes, of course I will help you.”

  He took her hand from his shoulder and squeezed it. Morgana laughed in relief and jumped up from the bed. Aasim swung his legs out from under the blanket. She caught herself and looked away in case—well, she didn’t know what wizards slept in!—but Aasim chuckled softly and walked past her. He was wearing fine linen pants. Perturbed, she followed him out of the room, trying to scowl her embarrassment away.

  “Those won’t do well in an exploding forge,” she said as he knocked on the doors of his companions.

  He smirked at her. “Don’t worry. They repel heat.”

  Morgana scoffed, but had to smile as she left him to rouse Fazl and Daleel.

  They met again in the stables, where Morgana waited on her charger. The wizards’ pages handed their horses off to their masters, and the four of them set off for Artan. They rode hard and made good time, but long before they arrived they could see the flames leaping from the huge forge. With every lick of fire against the sky, Morgana grew more and more afraid they wouldn’t arrive soon enough. The winds gained strength as they approached, buffeting the riders and their horses until it was hard to stay on the road.

  Aasim signaled to Morgana and th
ey pulled up. It was difficult to get close enough to hear with their horses prancing, but they locked hands and pulled toward each other.

  “This is not just a sandstorm, Morgana!” Aasim shouted. “See how it is concentrated on the forge? It keeps veering back after it passes over, like it is a conscious attack!”

  “So what is it?” she roared back.

  “An evil wind out of the Wastes! He is old and hateful. All we can hope to do is push him back!”

  Morgana looked from Aasim to the forge. The massive barn doors were open at both ends of the building. People ran in all directions, ineptly dousing flames designed to burn hotter than normal with small buckets of water and dirt. Swirling columns of sand struck coals, spitting fire everywhere. Black smoke mixed with the sand-laden winds and made visibility worse. She stroked her throat with a spell to amplify her voice. Aalish and the troop of cavalry witches would try to keep the people back from the destruction.

  As she opened her mouth to speak, one of the western furnaces exploded. A fireball rocketed upward and dissipated as it was caught in the cyclonic winds. When Morgana peered over her forearm, she scowled and groaned. The thatch roof was now on fire.

  Aasim leaned into her ear. “I need five or six of your witches!”

  “You have them!” Morgana said. “Aalish!”

  Her voice boomed across the confusion and her captain looked up for the source. Morgana signaled to her. She watched them ride a few feet off and position themselves in a line across the west edge of the moor.

  Satisfied that the wizards would do what they could to send this evil wind back to the Wastes, Morgana galloped over to the remaining troop, shouting orders as she thundered through the lingering humans on her massive black horse. The people fell back, fear written in sand and ash on their faces.

  “Get the thatch off the roof, pull it all down and throw it into the moor! Start with what’s burning!”

  The witches conjured long, hooked whips of air and smoke and began ripping the thatched roof apart. The next obstacle: the barn doors. They were creating a wind tunnel that only served to feed the flames.

  Morgana rode into the forge itself. “You four, close the barn doors! You three, with me! Put the damn fires out!”

  They ran the length of the forge, dousing flames at sixty furnaces. The wind surged violently, as if fighting back. It roared in through the open roof and forced the barn doors open, rushing through with such strength that Morgana was knocked from her horse.

  The Old Wind couldn’t relight the fires, though, no matter how hard he blustered. Morgana laughed as she got to her feet, dusting sand from her hands. The wind rushed out through the barn doors, making a horrible sucking sound. The barn fell utterly silent. Her laughter died. Suddenly nervous, she ran out the west door toward where the wizards stood, flanked by witches. She staggered out backwards, looking up. She cursed.

  The winds were taking humanoid form now, becoming more and more distinct in the sand and smoke until it appeared that two giants grappled above them. At the base of the battle, Aasim, Fazl, and Daleel stood like statues, eyes closed and mouths moving. Their voices were barely audible over the wind, intoning in a sing-song tongue. The witches were gathered around them, their hands on the shoulders of the men. They didn’t know the wind magic, so all they could do was lend their power to the wizards.

  Morgana put her anxiety aside and studied the match as a warrior. The wizards appeared to control the sand-man. The smoke-man seemed determined to hold his ground over the forge, but Aasim and the others used the sand-man to try and turn him, flip him, pull him westward whatever way they could. The Old Wind had the advantage. All he had to do was stay put. And so far, he was successful in blocking the wizards’ attempts to grip him.

  She looked for some way to help. She couldn’t get to the other side without running right through the battling winds, and she knew better. She needed something that would break the Old Wind’s form, distract him, disperse him just long enough for the sand-man to seize him. But what?

  The solution came when she spotted the smoldering thatch from the roof. She grinned and visualized a massive magical pitchfork into her hands. She would have to be quick and forceful, or her diversion would be caught in the winds, miss its mark, and hit something—or someone—else.

  Morgana thrust the prongs of her pitchfork into a tightly bound thatch roll. She looked back at the battle, watching carefully; when she saw her opening, she heaved with all her might and flung the thatch into the air. It flew heavily on course, blasting through one of Old Wind’s arms and momentarily severing it. Before he had a chance to reform, the sand-man had hooked him under his other arm and between his legs and flipped him overhead the same way she’d vaulted the thatch. Old Wind landed with a crash on the moor beyond the wizards, dissipating all at once. The sand-man bounded after him, dispersing himself into a wall that herded the disoriented wind across the moor and over the Latanya Cliffs.

  Silence rang in Morgana’s ears. She jogged across the moor to Aasim, Aalish, and the others. The wizards came out of their trances and wobbled dangerously, but they were quickly supported by the witches. Morgana herself caught Aasim in her arms; he reluctantly but gratefully leaned his weight on her. She smiled at him and brushed loose strands of hair away from his face as he looked up at her, heavy-lidded.

  “Thank you so much, Aasim,” she said with feeling. “I look forward to nursing you back to health personally—it won’t even begin to make up for what I owe you and your brothers.”

  He smiled, too weary to speak. She laughed and hoisted him up, then instructed the troop to gather the horses. She’d send the wizards home with an escort. The rest of the witches would stay with the humans and clear the debris so that repairs could begin at first light. She walked toward the forge with Aasim braced on her shoulder.

  “Morgana,” Aalish said.

  She jerked her head toward the town. Governor Derouk Madacy approached with a gaggle of followers all dressed in their evening robes, their finery glinting in the firelight: Braeden’s most influential men and women. Morgana frowned. The governor, she noted, was soot-free. He marched toward her with every appearance of wanting to pick a fight.

  Aalish silently took Aasim’s weight. Morgana eased out from under him and stepped forward slowly to meet Derouk.

  Derouk bowed deeply. “Lady Morgana, thank you so much for saving our forge. You arrived in the nick of time.”

  Morgana nodded to him and his entourage, but did not respond. She was not in the mood to parlay with this snake-faced man. She waited for him to finish his formalities and go on his way; instead, Derouk stared blankly at her.

  “You’re welcome,” she said finally in exasperation. “This forge is important to Adenen as well.”

  Derouk nodded enthusiastically, but said nothing. Morgana waited another moment or two for him to get to his point. The moments passed in disappointment. She frowned at him.

  “Is that all, Derouk? I must leave. There are things that must be tended to,” she said sharply. She and her troops were expended, Aasim and the other wizards were all but unconscious with exhaustion, and there was still a cleanup to organize before the sun rose, something she was sure the governor would want to take credit for but couldn’t possibly handle himself.

  “Of course, of course, and I’ll let you get to them. Some of the forge owners and I were just concerned that the, ah, fortifications did not seem to hold against the storm.” Derouk graciously ignored the furious twitch of Morgana’s lip. “We think it would be best to apply to the capital for other aid.”

  “Derouk, the fortifications didn’t hold because this was not what we fortified against—” Morgana stopped herself and struggled for an even tone. This man didn’t know anything about what had attacked them. “We know what it is now, and we’ll soon know how better to protect against it. The capital can’t help us.”

  He smiled a tight little smile and dropped his eyes from Morgana’s face. That was when he noticed A
asim, his head nodding against Aalish’s helm. Derouk’s oily expression changed in an instant to one of disgust.

  “So it’s true; the desert wizards are here?” he said, perhaps louder than necessary. His escort was immediately at attention. Morgana scowled. This was what he’d wanted all along, to argue about the wizards.

  “They may very well be the cause of all our troubles, and yet you give them your hospitality? Do they not deal in wind-magic? Is their land not sand-covered?” Derouk continued. He was working himself up now, becoming louder with every word.

  The smiths, who had retreated during the battle, were returning to survey the damage; when they heard Derouk shouting that the sand wizards were there, the panic and anger that Morgana had predicted gained a target. The witches moved Fazl and Daleel to the center of their troop, hiding them on their small desert equines behind a wall of warhorses.

  Others took up Derouk’s shouting, and he himself left off, turning to smile at Morgana with smug triumph on his face. Morgana watched him silently, her own expression calm. She heard cries for her to turn over the wizards to the justice system, calls for them to be prosecuted, all the foolishness of sheep with a cruel and clever shepherd. Aalish hissed sharply, breaking the cloud of anger fogging Morgana’s mind.

  “Silence!” she bellowed, the amplifying spell reactivated. Silence fell. “Do you think that I would be host to decimators of my forges? Do you?” she said, her voice now deathly quiet. She stepped forward, invading the personal space of those at the front of the mob. She stared long into the eyes of the men before her, longest into Derouk’s beady little eyes. Disgusted, she spat on the ground at his feet and mounted her horse. Aalish and another witch hoisted Aasim up into the saddle behind her. She trotted in an arc, eyeing the crowd.

  “Think before you speak,” she shouted, “or the words will be your last!” She spurred her horse and galloped out with the troop. Let the humans handle their own cleanup, if they are so quick to distrust us.