From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  Guerline nodded to her. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”

  “I need no great titles, Your Majesty,” Silas said in her deep, rough voice. “I know my kingdom is a small one given me by your grace and the grace of Thiymen clan.”

  “Still, you are great.” Guerline smiled at her. “We shall forever be grateful for your assistance in dispatching the hordes of undead in Del. Your actions saved many lives.”

  “I shall always work to rid the world of that which is evil and unnatural,” Silas said, bowing again.

  “So will we all,” Guerline said. “Please, be seated. We are only waiting now for the high commanders of the Guild of Guardsmen, and then we may begin to address the situation at hand in more detail.”

  As if summoned, Hamish entered the tent, followed by three men and one woman, all in silver armor.

  “Your Majesty, the High Commanders of the Guild: Bertrand Altec of the North, Tragar Madacy of the West, Yana Lot of the South, and Maddox Bolva of the East,” he said, bowing and stepping out of the way.

  The four commanders stepped forward, removed their helms, and bowed. Sir Bertrand was a tall, wide man of typical northern stock, with fair hair and skin. He had an elk, the symbol of his house, engraved upon his breastplate. Sir Tragar was a tall man as well, though shorter than Sir Bertrand, and only half as wide. He was a rider of great repute, and the youngest of the high commanders. He smiled broadly at Guerline, and it was pleasing enough on his handsome brown face that the young empress seemed to blush a little. Desmond crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Sir Tragar.

  Sir Yana was a petite woman with quick green eyes and dark hair, streaked with grey and plaited. Her white bone-bow was slung over her back, and Desmond peered at it with interest. It was a well-known artifact from the early days of Arido, the weapon of choice for Dalia, the first leader of Gwanen. The story was that the heavily-spelled bow had been gifted to Tevan of the Loti, Dalia’s favorite lover and Yana’s ancestor. She caught him staring and winked at him. The last was Sir Maddox, a slight-framed, mountain-dwelling man with shaggy brown hair and hollow cheekbones almost hidden by his long beard. He was the oldest of them, his hair and beard streaked through with grey, and wrinkles forming webs around his eyes; but those eyes were quick, dark, and alert. Though his appearance was by far the most discomforting, especially next to the shining and healthy bodies of the others, Desmond strangely felt that Sir Maddox was the most trustworthy of them, and perhaps the shrewdest as well.

  “Welcome, High Commanders,” Guerline said, rising and dipping her head to them. “We cannot thank you enough for coming on such short notice and short information.”

  “I go where my empress directs me.” Sir Tragar smiled again. Desmond thought he detected a slight rolling of the eyes from Sir Bertrand.

  Guerline returned the smile hesitantly. “Thank you, Sir Tragar.”

  “Yes, we have come, and we are ready to do your bidding, as soon as we know what it is,” Sir Yana said.

  “Of course. Be seated, please, and we shall explain all.”

  Each of them turned and settled themselves in the remaining chairs. It appeared that everyone had naturally grouped themselves. Desmond sat on Guerline’s right hand, with his mother, aunts, and Kanika all next to him; then came Lisyne, the shapeshifters, and Silas; and on Guerline’s left side, the high commanders. Desmond noted with displeasure that Sir Tragar had jostled for a seat immediately next to Guerline. The witch’s son glared across Guerline’s lap at him. Tragar noticed his expression and winked. Desmond decided in that moment that he was not well-disposed to this western flirt.

  “So, we are all gathered . . . but where is Lady Fiona?” Sir Bertrand asked, staring at Kanika. Sir Bertrand had likely never met Fiona, but he seemed to know enough about Thiymen witches to realize that dark-haired Kanika was too young to have been leading the clan for six hundred years.

  “Fiona-lami is dead,” said Sir Maddox, his raspy voice cutting across the room.

  “What? How can this be?” Sir Tragar asked, his smirk knocked from his face by his shock.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy. Can’t you see that’s why we’re here? Because Fiona is dead and whatever killed her is coming for us all?”

  Yes. Desmond was definitely convinced that Sir Maddox was his favorite.

  “Is this true, Your Majesty?” Sir Bertrand asked, looking to Guerline.

  “We are afraid it is,” Guerline said. “The shapeshifters—”

  Sir Yana noticed the shapeshifters first. “Good god! I mean, gods!” She and Sir Bertrand immediately fell out of their chairs and onto their knees, their armor clanking loudly, and bowed in the direction of Lisyne and the others. Sir Tragar only gaped, and Sir Maddox didn’t move. Desmond resisted the urge to shake his head. He must remember that not everyone knew the truth. For many, the shifter gods were real, and it would be a shock to see them; but for just as many, the shifter gods were not real, making it a possibly greater shock to see them than it would have been for a believer. Sir Bertrand, Desmond pegged as a believer, but he could not be sure about Sir Yana.

  Guerline snapped to get the attention of her commanders and gestured impatiently for them to get back up.

  “Yes, the shifter gods have come down to join us,” she said. “They have told us what we face.”

  “And what is that?” Sir Maddox asked.

  “Chaos and atrophy,” Lisyne said. “The opposite of all that is good and natural.”

  “Oh. That’s all very well, then,” Sir Tragar said.

  “Peace, Sir Tragar,” Guerline said. “Lisyne, in your flights, did you happen to observe the Zaide Mountains?”

  Lisyne smirked. “Of course, Your Majesty. We observed great billows of smoke surrounding the Thiymen Citadel. There was a powerful pull coming from the mountain. The thing has thrown the gates open wide and is rallying an army of the underworld to it.”

  “What manner of creature may we expect to fight?” Sir Maddox asked.

  “I imagine that the thing will hold nothing back,” Kanika said grimly. “It has been imprisoned for four thousand years. Not only will it have the demons and monsters of hell to command, it has also taken possession of the whole of Thiymen clan.”

  “You mean, we’ll be fighting your own witches?” Sir Yana gasped.

  “You let us worry about the witches,” Morgana said.

  “And what are we to worry about?” Sir Bertrand asked. “Are we to fight the demons and the monsters?”

  “That’s exactly what we will do, Sir Bertrand,” Guerline said. She stood. “This will be unlike any battle you have ever fought, and the stakes will be much higher. The only way we can succeed and defeat this thing is by resealing it and trapping it even deeper under the mountain than it was before. The shapeshifters and the witches will work to create this seal while the Guild handles whatever army the thing commands.”

  “But Your Majesty, how are we to fight that which we do not understand?” Sir Tragar asked.

  “The monsters of the underworld are unimpressive foes, if you know how to handle them,” Kanika said. “The hell-hounds, the devil-cats, they are nothing more than unfeeling bodies. Their greatest strength is their stamina, which they have in droves because their bodies are dead and do not tire. However, they may be easily stopped by dismemberment or the strategic severing of the muscles necessary for movement. A slash under the jaw prevents them from biting, cutting a deltoid stops them moving, and then all it may do is lay on the ground and gnash hopelessly at you. It will then be harmless, provided you don’t step onto its teeth.”

  This information seemed to comfort the human commanders, and they relaxed by the slightest degree.

  “But what about the demons?” Sir Tragar pressed.

  “The demons will be trickier, but there will be fewer of them. The best way to kill a demon is to cut off its head, or at least its horns. If you cut off a demon’s horns, its strength will be greatly decreased, because that is how they gather thei
r power,” Kanika explained. “The hardest part about killing a demon is getting to it through its hordes of undead monsters.”

  The new Heart of Thiymen turned to Guerline.

  “I think, Your Majesty, that it would be best if I joined you in the battle. My knowledge of these creatures will be indispensable,” she said.

  “We agree. We should be very glad to have you by our side.” Guerline turned to her four commanders. “You have been given valuable advice for the battle. Be sure to spread it among the soldiers under your command.”

  They nodded vigorously. Desmond could see they were much more nervous than when they entered the tent, but their loyalty had not wavered. Sir Maddox, in fact, hardly even looked surprised at the news that they’d be battling creatures from the underworld—but that was typical of an easterlander. The only exception was Sir Tragar, whose smooth upper lip had a barely discernible sheen of sweat upon it. If anyone was going to break and run, it was going to be him. Desmond made a mental note to tell Guerline to keep Tragar in the main force. Though excellent riders typically made up the vanguard, Desmond did not trust Sir Tragar in that honored position. Better to have him in the main company, under the eyes of Guerline herself, so that if he turned and ran, the whole Guild would know his shame.

  “Lisyne, have you an idea of our timeline? Do you believe the thing will march?” Guerline asked.

  “It would be a poor move on his part,” Sir Maddox said. “There are fewer more easily defensible places than the Zaide Mountains.”

  “True, very true. We can only hope that its eagerness for revenge and conquest overwhelms any good sense it has,” Kanika said.

  “I do not believe the thing will come down to us without enticement,” Lisyne said, “but that is really all for the best. It will be easier to seal it if it stays in the mountain, but I do not believe it will do this either. It will slink out slowly during the battle. It knows we will try to seal it, but we must hide from it just how much power will be behind the seal. Therefore, the witches must appear to join in the fighting on the ground.”

  Everyone nodded. That much made sense; the element of surprise was an essential tactic in a battle such as this, and it was better to allow the enemy to underestimate them for a time. While the ruse would put pressure on the human army, it would hopefully give the witches enough time to prepare and allow them to end the battle quickly and decisively.

  “Another thing, Empress,” Morgana said. “If it can be managed, we must avoid fighting this battle during the night. That will be the thing’s preference, but we cannot allow it. I suggest we march during the night so that we get to the mountains by daybreak, and then we will draw it out.”

  “But how will we do that if it loathes to fight in the daylight?” Guerline asked.

  “That’s simple. We start the seal,” Lisyne said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  They laid out a plan of attack that most everyone agreed with. The pass leading up to Thiymen Citadel was flanked by a jut of smaller peaks on one side and Petra’s Bay on the other. Creatures of the underworld were weakened by flowing water, so the goal was to push the hordes toward the water. Sir Maddox would lead the vanguard through a gap in the jut between Mon Zeferin and Mon Jarga and drive south, while Sir Yana and her archers defended from the top of Mon Zeferin. Once they were in the foothills of the mountains, Lisyne, the shapeshifters, and the Kavanaghs would form their circle and start the spells for the seal. With any luck, that would induce the thing under the mountain to attack, and leave the safety of the underworld.

  Empress Guerline, Sir Tragar, and Sir Bertrand would lead the main force. The witch clans would follow them, alternating groups of Sitosen and Gwanen witches among the six Adenen battalions. The role of the dragons was hotly contested. The human commanders wanted to make full use of them, no doubt feeling that it would increase their chances substantially. Guerline quickly rejected that measure.

  “Next to the shapeshifters, the dragons are indeed our most powerful asset. That is precisely why they must stay hidden until absolutely necessary,” she said firmly. “We cannot reveal our full strength to the thing until the last moment. Doing so any earlier would negate the advantage of surprise.”

  Their numbers were at least three thousand warriors total, all of them made of flesh and blood and all subject to weariness and injury. Yet Kanika was hopeful. Hell-hounds and devil-cats were all frightening to look upon, but their bodies were held together almost completely by magic and were vulnerable if you knew how to attack them. Shooting arrows was pointless, unless one had such power and accuracy as to split muscle from bone at a distance. Spears may stick the things and hold them at bay, but they would eventually just push their way down the spear toward the attacker. Swords and axes were best, and decapitation was the most effective way to stop such a beast.

  Tomorrow, Guerline would ride through the camp with Lisyne and Kanika. It was Guerline’s hope that seeing Lisyne would give courage to the guards. Kanika believed that it would. She was not so sure about her presence. She realized that it was strange for her to be the only Thiymen witch in the camp, especially when the army was planning to march on the seat of Thiymen. But Guerline convinced her that riding with the empress and Lisyne would increase her credibility, and that she was best suited to answering any questions about their foes the soldiers might have.

  Kanika went back into her tent and sank down onto her pallet. She was still recovering from the exorcism and healing of Jerica. She and the others who came down had thrown every cleansing charm they knew at the cursed people, and it had taken all of them to finally stop the rotting of living flesh. Even with that, many of the Jericans had died. Though she knew she should feel grieved, she was still too consumed with relief that Feoras and Lorand had survived.

  Before she left the city, her son had looked up at her and very calmly told her to kill the thing that hurt his papa. She’d promised solemnly that she would.

  She looked at her armor, remembering the last time Fiona had worn it, almost three hundred years ago. Kanika had been just a child, newly arrived at the Citadel. Fiona had decided it was time for her to test her armor once more, so she’d donned it and held a massive sparring match in the main hall of the Citadel. She invited any witch who dared to come forth and fight her. The black armor had glinted in the magical light that illuminated the cave, and her black sword had been so difficult to see—just flashes of light when it caught the candles—but Fiona had wielded it so masterfully that those moments were too brief to make out her moves.

  The new Heart of Thiymen unbuckled that same sword’s belt from her waist. She held the sheath in her hands and slowly pulled the sword free. It was black as night and felt satisfyingly heavy in her hands. The sword’s name was Sacrifice. Kanika looked at it sadly, turning it back and forth. That was always going to be your legacy, wasn’t it, Fiona? You never intended to die any other way.

  “She always meant for it to be you,” said a voice from the door.

  Kanika whirled around, her grip on Sacrifice tight and ready; but it was only Silas. She smiled at the blade. Kanika laughed nervously and sheathed it, setting it down with her armor.

  “Silas,” she said. “What do you mean?”

  “Fiona always meant for you to succeed her,” Silas said, coming in and sitting down on Kanika’s pallet. Kanika stared at her, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “But Moira—”

  “Moira was next in line, yes, but Moira was older than Fiona by a century. Fiona knew her Hand would not outlive her. Rather than promote you to Hand and oust Moira, she simply decided to wait until Moira died. Though I’m sure she did not expect to die in the same day as Moira,” Silas said.

  “No, certainly not,” Kanika said.

  She went and sat down next to Silas, staring at her hands. Her skin was white, very white. She couldn’t remember what it had looked like before, when she was a child. She had vague memories of living in the South, being on boats and poling through
shallow rivers under thick canopies of green leaves. They were like dreams, totally foreign to her for all their familiarity. Had she been a river rat once upon a time, living in the swamps of the peninsula? Had her skin once been dark like Silas’s? How many years would it be before she looked like Fiona, all white skin, white hair, white eyelashes?

  “Do not lead the way Fiona did,” Silas said.

  “What?” Kanika gasped. “But we all loved Fiona.”

  “Yes, and the rest of the world hated her. She did not want that for you. You must be more present in the world, Kanika. Fiona had hoped to spend time with you, teaching you the lessons she learned from her mistakes. Obviously, we do not have that chance. But she told me everything, and I mean to use this to help you,” she said.

  “Thank you, Silas,” Kanika said. “I am grateful. But before we talk about how I am to lead, we first have to see how much of a clan there is left for me to be leader of.”

  They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking of all the witches they’d left behind. Kanika had blocked the feelings she’d experienced as she watched her sisters turn on her one by one, but they could not be ignored for much longer. She knew many of her fellow clan members would die in this battle, beset by the humans, the dragons, the other witches. It was a mire of a situation, because they were not in their right minds. They had not willingly gone into the service of this evil thing. But how to save them, while they were trying to kill all these allies of nature? Kanika imagined that whatever hold the thing under the mountain had on them would be broken once the thing was resealed, but what to do until that time? They couldn’t just be ignored, because they would be on the attack. Too many lives would be lost by trying to capture and contain them.

  “We will not forget them, Kanika,” Silas said, as if she was reading her thoughts. Kanika gave a small laugh and dabbed at the edges of her eyes. She supposed Silas had had centuries of practice understanding what Fiona was thinking when she would not speak, so Kanika’s expressive face must have been very easy for her.