From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  I suppose it’s a vote of confidence. At least, she hoped it was that, and not that Fiona suspected her of nosing around the dragon caves waiting for an opportunity to speak with Silas.

  She listened carefully, but heard no screaming. At this distance, she could see no mayhem. That worried her. She took off toward the city in a light run and slowed down as she approached the walls. Still no sound. Jerica was not a large city compared with others in Arido, but it was the largest in the East, and it was never, ever silent—especially not at midday.

  Kanika called up her magic and whispered a few words. Her body rippled with warmth, like molasses being poured over her skin. A simple invisibility charm. It wouldn’t fool a greater demon, but if there was a greater demon in Jerica, she had bigger problems than whether or not it could see her. She stepped back from the wall a few paces, then crouched down and channeled magic into her fingers and toes. With a deep breath in, she launched herself at the wall and climbed it quickly, like an insect, using the magic in her extremities to gain upward leverage on the smooth surface. When she reached the top, she planted her hands flat on the battlement and vaulted over. She landed neatly on her feet with a soft thud.

  She waited there, knees bent, to see if anything reacted to her. There was no movement.

  The streets were empty of everything: living, dead, human, animal. The doors of some buildings hung open, but were undamaged. Kanika scurried through the alleys of the suburbs as quickly and quietly as she could. She moved instinctively toward the center of the city. When disaster struck, people either stayed in their homes or gathered en masse. The rows of empty homes indicated the latter.

  She reached the merchant shops and slowed down. Finally, she heard something. There was a low groaning coming from the other side of these buildings, and a rasping sound like wind through straw. She also heard intermittent gurgling, but that could just have been the fountain in the square. She took a step forward and heard a nice, long squelch. She looked down.

  Her boot was squarely on top of a squarish chunk of something green and gooey. With just the slightest of grimaces, Kanika lifted her foot and shook it off. She squatted and looked more closely at the mess. A flat piece of slimy, light-green hide sat on top of a blob that was yellowish-white and gelatinous. It looked like there were pieces of long dark hair in it, but not attached; more like they’d just brushed the goo and gotten caught. She looked up and saw more piles of the stuff heading toward the square, taking the same route between shops she’d been planning on using.

  The trail continued into the shadow of a shop’s back awning. Kanika peered into the darkness. She could almost make out a silhouette. Her fingertips tingled with magic as she lifted them and summoned a small light in her palm. She took a deep breath—

  “Momma?”

  Kanika let out her breath in surprise and the light flew off into the sky, carried by her exhalation. She turned in the direction of the voice and spotted a little boy about six years old, with jet black hair down to his shoulders and eyes of such a dark brown they almost looked black, too. His skin was a creamy dark tan, and his body was wiry with the lean muscle of a child who plays rough. He was staring at her now, his big dark eyes calm and steady. She looked back at him. Her heart was in her throat.

  “Feoras,” she said.

  She let her invisibility charm fall and spread her arms wide. Feoras ran to her. He hid his face in her chest and she embraced him tightly, running a hand over his perpetually tangled hair. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about the child until that moment; if she’d hoped to find him alive and discovered him dead, it would have been too much to bear.

  Feoras was her son by Jerica’s best shroud-weaver, a man named Lorand who became a dear friend of Kanika’s over a decade ago. Most witches did not share in the raising of their boy-children or the girls who did not become witches, but she had visited Lorand and Feoras a few times throughout the last year, since he declared his name and gender. Though her visits were few, she often sent small gifts down from the Citadel.

  “Thank Lisyne you’re safe,” she said. “Where’s your papa?”

  “He looks like a corpse, but he is still alive,” Feoras said. His voice was muffled against her robes.

  Kanika’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, child? Is—is that Papa, in the shadows there?”

  Feoras nodded and pointed. She summoned up another light in her palm and blew it gently into the shadows.

  A man-shaped thing lay on its side, facing away from them. Her stomach clenched as her eyes took it in. His clothes still covered most of his body, but she could tell from the stains on the fabric that his flesh was beginning to rot. One arm was flung awkwardly behind him. The skin was visible from the elbow down, and it was yellowing and mottled with dark green. Darker lines ran under the skin where his blood was turning to sludge. Clumps of dark gold hair littered the ground under his head.

  Kanika released Feoras and went over to the man. She turned him gently over onto his back. He inhaled slowly. It was the rasping, gurgling noise she’d heard earlier.

  “Lorand? Lorand, it’s Kanika. Gods, Lorand, please answer me,” she said quietly.

  His eyelids opened slowly, as if with great effort. His dark brown eyes were filmy and unfocused, and the sclera was yellowing. He stared up, but not at her face. She wondered if he could even see her.

  “Kanika. You’ve come.” His voice rattled in his throat and chilled her to the bone. Feoras sank to his knees.

  “What’s happened, Lorand?” she asked.

  “I don’t . . . it happened so quickly. One man . . . his flesh slid off his bones. Then another. More every hour.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes again. Kanika rested the back of her hand against his forehead. The skin there was hot and dry. She lifted his shirt slowly and peered underneath. Small, oozing sores dotted Lorand’s chest. A sob caught in her chest as she gently let the fabric fall.

  “They told everyone to get to the square,” Feoras said. “Papa fell. I stayed here.”

  “That was good, child. Well done,” Kanika said.

  “It was louder before. It’s gotten quiet now,” the boy said.

  Kanika took a deep breath. She smoothed down Lorand’s shirt and stood up.

  It was a flesh-eating curse. There were only three that she knew of. One was sent in the form of a miasma which settled around the intended target, be it a single person or a building. The miasma disintegrated the skin of those who came in contact with it. The second summoned a parasite, which was delivered into the target’s body during the night, by any available orifice. It devoured the target from the inside out, consuming and excreting so that the person decomposed within their own skin. This was particularly gruesome, since the parasite expelled a compound that kept the victim alive and conscious until either the caster released it or the body fell apart.

  The third was so rare she had never seen a case of it in her three hundred years of life. There were no records of anyone ever casting it, so the notes in the scrolls maintained that though it was likely a curse, it could also have been just a normal disease. This curse appeared to have no incantation and employed no physical manifestation, like the miasma or the parasite. The body simply rotted in the usual way, only while the person was still alive. Kanika had read about it centuries ago, during her studies as a witch-in-training, but had never seen anything to suggest that it was real.

  “Stay here, and stay hidden, Feoras,” she said.

  The boy nodded and sank down to the floor next to his father. Kanika slipped through his shop and positioned herself under a window. She had assumed the emperor and empress were killed by the parasite, but now . . . she had a sneaking suspicion she was about to prove that the third flesh-eating curse was indeed a curse, and she expected the worst from the caster of such a thing. If the curse required maintenance, the caster would likely be in the square, the epicenter. If the curse was a one-time cast, it was possible that whoever did it was long gone—unless th
ey were particularly sadistic and wanted to watch. She couldn’t decide what she’d prefer.

  The window afforded her a fairly good view of the whole square. The fountain in the center was virtually hidden from sight by the pile of bodies around it. It looked like people had clambered into the pool and continued to climb on top of each other. What had they been trying to reach? The statue of Lisyne at the top of the fountain? Disaster always brought out faith. The mountain of rotting flesh was mostly still, though there were shifts and ripples every now and then.

  Those who hadn’t made it to the center were piled in smaller mounds in the rest of the square. It was as though people had just fallen, as Feoras said Lorand had, and stayed where they landed. They’d fallen on top of each other. Some had arms outstretched, like they’d tried to pull themselves forward, but all was still now.

  It looked like there were varying stages of decomposition. Some still looked relatively well, but others were missing limbs or chunks of their guts. Her palms began to sweat. She didn’t know how many of these people could be saved, if they could be saved at all. The only things she could think to combat the curse with were strong dark-magic repellents. She had nothing more specific than that. It would have to do—but before she could begin healing, she needed to make sure it was safe.

  She went to the door and eased it open. There was a slight creak, but nothing in the square moved. The stillness was eerie. She slid her sword slowly out of its sheath and held it ready. The sooner this was resolved, the better. She moved toward the fountain with cautious steps, avoiding the fallen bodies as best she could.

  A crack sounded behind her, like someone snapping a whip. Kanika ducked and part of a wood beam flew where her head had been. She spun around and straightened up in time to block another piece of the beam. Her sword went through it like butter. Holding the blade up and ready once more, she scanned the square for her adversary. Across the way, someone giggled.

  “You stuck around, then,” Kanika said.

  A man appeared in the shattered doorway of one of the shops. He wore a silver tunic buttoned all the way up to his throat and pristine cream-colored pants tucked into shining black boots. He tossed his long black ponytail over his shoulder and walked out toward her. A grin pulled his sharp features even tighter over his skull. Though he looked human, it was clear he wasn’t. The whole of his eyes were black.

  “Hello, Kanika of Thiymen. Did you volunteer for this?” the man asked.

  She wasn’t sure what he meant with such a question, so she ignored it.

  “Name yourself,” she said.

  “You are more motherly than others of your kind, so I thought you might come for your son. He is a curious boy. You may have noticed that his flesh is still whole. Some accident, I’m sure—or something else?”

  Kanika kept her face stony and let his words flow straight to the back of her mind, to be dealt with later. She would not allow diversionary tactics. No one was better at keeping her cool than a Thiymen witch. She allowed magic to gather in her limbs, strengthening her body and increasing her response time.

  “You’re nameless, then. Good. None will remember you when you’re gone,” she said.

  The man-thing grinned at her. His ponytail, high atop his head, pulled his skin back tightly and made him look like a snake.

  “You know better, Kanika of Thiymen. I will never, ever be forgotten—and woe unto those who do forget me.”

  Wind roared up and tore at Kanika’s clothes. She redirected magic to her feet, weighting her to the ground so she wasn’t flung into the sky. The man-thing rushed at her. She brought her sword down across his chest, but he turned to black smoke on contact and disappeared into the rushing air. The gusts became a smoky tornado, which launched itself into the sky. It disappeared from sight and the wind died down again.

  Kanika gasped for air and let her sword tip drop toward the ground. She didn’t know what the man-thing was, but she had the distinct feeling that she had gotten off easy. Could that thing have been what Fiona spoke of? But that was impossible—she had sealed it. Nothing could break through one of Fiona’s seals.

  She started to sheathe her sword, but stopped when she spotted movement in the pile of bodies on the fountain. She held the sword ready again and inched forward. If the man-thing was a demon, it was possible he had left behind minions to harvest flesh from the slain. The imps were easy enough to kill, as long as their numbers were not too great. She crept up to the base of the pile, stopped, and waited.

  Kanika didn’t move. Neither did the bodies. She breathed deep. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. The thing is gone. I must summon the exorcists—

  Something burst out of the pile of bodies and leapt at her. She barely had time to lift her forearm into a block before it hit her. She careened backwards, twisting to protect her neck, and somersaulted to her knees. Coughing, she looked up at what was most definitely not an imp.

  It was a corpse like the others, a man, dressed only in trousers. His ashy grey skin was covered with deep purple bruises. He was missing an arm. The splintered bone of his shoulder stuck out several inches from the remaining meat. It was dingy and yellowed already. His throat was missing, and the ends of his wild red-gold hair stuck to the wound. He carried with him a giant black sword. His shriveled lips were pulled back in a manic grimace.

  Kanika got to her feet and gripped her sword with both hands. Her eyes never left the puppet.

  “Thought you had gotten rid of me, didn’t you, witch?” he said.

  She didn’t respond. Puppets rarely understood where they were, what was happening, or even who they had once been—but that didn’t stop them from speaking. Frankly, she was surprised he could, with his throat the way it was. His demon master must have thought it would be amusing to grant him speech.

  He stalked forward, holding his huge sword easily with one arm. She bent her knees.

  “I shall destroy you and all your kind for what you have done! I have the power. I am no longer afraid.”

  He lunged forward. Kanika dodged left and swept her sword at his exposed left side as she passed. He twisted away; her sword barely cut him. He looked down at the thin slit in his skin and laughed. Then he charged at her again.

  He was faster than any puppet she’d ever encountered. The magic on him was powerful enough to send chills down her spine. It shivered through her bones with every blow she parried. It made her heavily enchanted sword grow hot with panic in her hands. She tried to breathe deep and keep calm. She wore only bracers and a slim leather chest plate. Without her full armor, she was vulnerable. One wrong move could be fatal.

  The puppet’s belligerent assault made up for lack of skill with sheer relentlessness. All she needed was one clear opening and half a second to cast a fire spell, but no such opportunities were coming. Meanwhile, the puppet continued to laugh.

  “Yes! Taste my revenge!”

  Kanika summoned magic to her arms and shoved him away with great force.

  “I don’t know you!” she roared.

  The puppet stopped laughing. He paused his attack and stared at her.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Your retribution is lost on me. I do not know who you are. It’s not I who has done this to you, it was the demon!”

  He glared. His mouth trembled as he bared his yellow teeth. “You have done this. You must know. You must know me! How could you have done this and not know me?”

  He rushed at her. She parried and pushed his sword away from her, but his body came toppling into hers and knocked her down again. He righted himself and put a foot on her chest. With the tip of his sword at her throat, he looked down at her with wide, wild eyes.

  “You will know me,” he said.

  He raised his sword. A cracking noise split the silence. He was gone, leaving Kanika heaving on the ground. She rolled over onto her stomach and coughed. Prone on the ground, the danger finally passed, she allowed herself to be deeply afraid.

  Movement caught her eye and
she turned to look. Feoras stood in the door of Lorand’s shop. How long had he been watching? The thing’s words came back to her now. There were children among the fallen of Jerica; all had been affected, save for Feoras. She crossed to him and picked him up, squeezing him. He had seen through her invisibility charm too. If her witch blood gave him immunity to magic, so much the better.

  “Will you save them, now that the man is gone?” her child asked.

  “As many as I can, pebble,” she said.

  He wrinkled his nose at the nickname but allowed her to put him down. She drew magic to her palm and conjured a small, sparkling black bird, the messenger of choice for her clan.

  “There is dark magic that needs cleansing. Send twenty or so exorcists,” she said.

  The bird glowed brightly, then vaulted off her hand and into the air. She watched it go, then turned and jogged back to Lorand’s shop. She knelt next to him. His eyes opened weakly when she touched his forehead. She put her free hand on his chest.

  “Don’t worry, dear one. I will bring you back to life,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aradia tied her long red hair back with a green scarf and stepped outside. It was a beautiful southern day. The sun was the bright yellow of fresh corn, the breezes carried fresh-smelling sea air, and the gardens of Gwanen Palace were bustling with activity. The eldest Kavanagh, however, was not fooled by the robust appearance of her land. She, like the rest of her clan and the humans who lived and worked at the tip of Tyr Peninsula, knew the beauty they saw was like the rosy cheeks of a consumptive: a sign of illness, not health.

  It all started two years ago, in the height of summer. Water was always scarce during that time, so no one noticed any differences until the tide-walkers reviewed their summer gradations. The numbers showed subtle changes, so small they hadn’t been alarming at each measurement; the arc they created, however, showed a slow but gradual recession. The high tide was not coming in as high as it once did.

  Even this wasn’t frightening. Such changes happened over time. The people of the South accommodated, extending piers and docks a few feet. Then the monsoons came, sweeping salt water over the end of the peninsula. The water receded quickly enough, but its retreat continued past the normal tide line. The gradual lowering of the Sea of Dalia over the summer months became too rapid. Docks could not be extended fast enough, and ships couldn’t reach port without the risk of running aground. Unloading cargo now required small boats to row out to where the ships anchored, bringing it back and forth in hopelessly small loads. It took days and consumed port manpower.