From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  “No, no we will not. We’ll just have to win the day as fast as possible if we hope to save them,” she said. She rubbed her forehead. “Oh, I only hope that we have enough power.”

  “I think our odds are favorable,” Silas said.

  Kanika raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked.

  “Really, I do. We have almost two thousand witches, some of whom are very powerful indeed; we have three very old, very strong shapeshifters. The greatest impediment to their success is distraction by attacking hell-monsters—and on that account, we have one brave young empress, whom I am beginning to find very inspiring,” she said.

  “Yes, a brave ruler and a loyal army may accomplish much,” Kanika agreed. “But you must not forget one of our most important advantages.”

  “And what might that be?” Silas asked.

  Kanika smiled. “We have an incredibly formidable pack of dragons, with a brave leader of their own.”

  Silas smiled back. “I thank you, Lady Kanika.” She stood and bowed. “And speaking of that pack, it is about time I got back to them. Farewell for now. We will see each other again on the morrow.”

  “Yes. Goodnight, Silas,” Kanika said.

  She nodded and left the tent. Kanika stretched and rolled over to lay down on her pallet, exhausted from the day and fully prepared for a good night’s sleep—though not too good, so she would be able to nap tomorrow before the night march—but then she heard a noise shuffling out across the grass. It was faint, almost faint enough to be wind except for the way it moved. It was making a definite circle of her tent. Kanika lay absolutely still and thought she heard a sniffing sound as well. It was difficult to tell with all the noises of the camp settling down.

  Her suspicions aroused, she sat up and swung her legs off the bed, moving as quietly as she could. She slipped out under the flap of her tent and took a few steps around it, listening carefully. The shuffling became rapid and Kanika looked around wildly, but she couldn’t see anything that would be making it. It stopped in the vague direction of a storage crate. Kanika narrowed her eyes at the box, and then allowed her eyelids to flutter shut. She muttered a simple spell to alter her vision. If her instincts were correct, there was a spy in their midst—one who was not of this world. She needed otherworldly eyes to see it.

  When she opened her eyes, they were fully yellow and glowing. A nearby guard jumped in alarm, but Kanika ignored him. She could see her quarry now. It believed itself safe from her notice and crept toward the entrance to Guerline’s tent. It looked like an oversized gopher, long and white of fur. Kanika slowly drew her left arm up and curled her fingers around the bow she imagined in her hand. She reached forward with her right hand and pulled back the magical string and arrow, aiming for the crawling, slinking thing. She took a deep breath, waiting for her shot—the arrow would set fire to Guerline’s tent if she missed—but she waited too long. The thing shuffled quickly into the empress’s tent. Kanika cursed, dispersed the magical bow, and ran into the tent, knife drawn. Before she acknowledged any reactions, she dove on the creature and drove her knife through its spine.

  “Kanika? What’s going on?” Guerline asked.

  Kanika’s eyes fluttered as she dropped the seeing spell and her eyes returned to normal. She held the creature up by her knife handle, protruding just below the skull. Its invisibility was stripped from it now that its neck was broken and the magic was fled. Now, it was just a pile of dead pieces covered in a white pelt.

  “A visitor from our enemy,” Kanika said. She turned it around and inspected its mouth. “A somnalius. They come to steal souls while people sleep. You see the teeth? For latching onto your face and sucking your soul out through your mouth.”

  Guerline paled.

  “Thank you very much for saving my life, Kanika,” she said shakily.

  “It is my pleasure, Majesty,” Kanika said. “Fear not. I’ll burn this thing, and set some wards up on your tent to keep further intruders out.”

  Kanika left the tent and carried the somnalius over to the nearest fire, positioned across the footpath from the empress’s tent. She laid the sack of flesh on the ground and pulled her knife from its head. With five deft cuts, she dismembered the creature and tossed it piece by piece into the fire. The flames glowed purple for a few minutes, and several guards stopped and stared.

  “Dismember and burn, gentlemen,” she said to them, staring into the fire.

  They jerked their eyes away from the purple flames.

  “Pardon, my lady?” one asked.

  “Creatures from under the mountain,” Kanika said, turning to look at them. “Dismember them, and burn them, and they will stay dead.”

  The Citadel was in ruins.

  Cave-ins closed many of the tunnels that made up the majority of the structure. The few that remained all led to the gate chamber. There was a steady flow of traffic from the underworld into the upperworld as the enthralled Thiymen witches bewitched demons and summoned hordes of undead creatures. The hell-hounds and devil-cats were joined by gigantic serpents, spiders, and all manner of nightmarish creatures. The witches made more of them, venturing down into the mountain towns. The towns had been abandoned after the display put on by the dragons when Fiona died, so there was no ripe flesh; but they made do with digging up graves and scrounging for animal bones. The witches cobbled together monsters out of their own imaginations and shrieked with glee and terror when they were finished.

  The twins walked arm in arm throughout the Citadel, the wind rushing through holes in the outer walls to tug at their hair and clothes. They had switched back to their yellow dresses, having no longer any need to hide their presence; in fact, their dresses identified them to their subordinates. They reveled in the sight of Thiymen witches bowing to them, their twenty-year exile ended and they returned to glory. There was no one closer to the queen than the twins.

  Their stroll halted as they suddenly felt an icy shiver down their spines. He was there behind them. They could feel his hollow stare on the back of their heads, boring into them. They felt fingers in their hair and trembled again as the strands were lifted and combed, allowed to fall again like spiders alighting on their necks. Then he was gone, past them, walking down the tunnel to where the queen stood at the edge of the rubble in one of its human forms.

  There was no one closer to the queen than the twins . . . except for the general.

  The twins changed course and headed back into the mountain, down to the gate to oversee the other witches.

  “Let me go to her,” the thing that had once been Alcander demanded.

  “No,” the one from under the mountain said, knowing whom he spoke of. “I will deal with her.”

  “She is mine!” Alcander said. There was the slight edge of a growl to his voice, as much as he could allow himself in her presence. “You promised.”

  “Only because that was what was in your heart,” Ianthe said. “I have changed my mind, and there is nothing you can do to sway me. Do not be a child.”

  Wisely, he was silent. Ianthe looked down the mountainside to the scree below and counted the ways Alcander had disappointed her. Perhaps it was not his fault. It must be said that, perhaps, she had miscalculated what she would require. How could she have watched the Hevya family for so long, only to be as ignorant as the rest in the end? She had overlooked Guerline as everyone else had, and had claimed the wrong heir for herself.

  “Do you wonder why I chose you?” she asked.

  Alcander scoffed. “Who else can do what is required?”

  “And what exactly is that?” Ianthe asked. She looked her general up and down, lips slightly parted.

  “I will destroy the Kavanaghs. I am the only one who can. It’s my destiny.”

  The one from under the mountain smiled as she considered this. Alcander smirked and swung his sword with his one good hand. She felt his pleasure as if it was her own. Though death was not something he had particularly wanted, it had turned out rather well for him so far. He had been e
levated to a seat of power not unlike his previous one, given an army to command—and the strength he possessed! It was like nothing he’d known in life. Now, he knew that he could accomplish his goal and eliminate the Kavanagh sisters.

  “I am amazed,” Ianthe said with a smile, “that you consider yourself so significant.”

  She smirked at her puppet and walked away, back into the mountain and to the chambers of its former warden. Fiona’s rooms were as dull and cold as the witch herself had been, but it gave Ianthe great satisfaction to lay in her bed and take ownership of her possessions. She curled up in the silky black bed coverings with a grin on her face. As a mere witchling, Fiona had bested her, and she had stewed in that bitterness for years . . . but what joy had she felt when Fiona found her again, bound in the tree at the core of the mountain? How many centuries had she spent pleading with the witch to free her? Four hundred years of refusal and rejection . . . finally at an end.

  “Don’t get comfortable, beast.”

  She looked up. Standing over her was the wolf, hiding in woman’s form, with slanting eyes and short grey hair. Ianthe continued to smile and rolled over onto her back.

  “I cannot help it, Mother of Arido. Lambswool is so much softer than hellrock.”

  “I promise I shall trap you forever this time, foul thing,” Lisyne said.

  Ianthe rose up onto her knees so that her face was level with the shapeshifter’s, and she planted the lightest of kisses on Lisyne’s lips.

  “Do it. And then I shall promise to see you in another four thousand years.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Guerline sat straight on her horse’s back at the edge of the camp, staring at the Zaide Mountains. Morning light washed over the grassy hills of the valley, but the sun didn’t seem to make it to that foreboding range. Clouds gathered over it and hid the highest of the peaks from view. Guerline marveled at them. She had never been to the East, had never seen those mountains up close. They had always been just a black line on the distant horizon, as far from her mind as they were from her person. Now, those black slopes could be the witness of her ruin.

  Last night’s incident had rattled her more than she wanted to admit. The somnalius had been completely invisible to her until Kanika broke its neck. How many more enemies surrounded her, possibly even now? Whether they were truly there or not, the thought of them haunted her. Guerline had never fought even a human foe, and now she faced something she understood even less. She was grateful in every bone for Kanika’s sharp senses and quick reflexes, and she was grateful that Kanika would be by her side in the battle to come.

  Would that I were a witch. She would have felt much more confident about her own chances.

  There was a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach as she envisioned, yet again, the battle that would take place. She saw their lines overwhelmed by evil creatures and unseen ghouls, tackled by rotting flesh and dragged down by invisible hands. She saw witch fighting against witch. She saw her fallen soldiers rising up again to turn against their comrades.

  A cold tear ran down her cheek. She reached up and wiped it away, frowning. She was afraid, so afraid. The fear nauseated her, and it drained the feeling from her fingers. But she must not let it paralyze her. She gripped the reins tightly, leather cutting into her trembling hands, and glared at the mountains in the distance. She would let the sickness of her fear turn to disgust and hatred of her enemy, and use that to carry her through the battle. If she could only keep Ianthe’s lovely face from her mind, she could prevail.

  She pulled back on the right rein to wheel around and ride back into the camp, but came up short when she realized she had an audience. Dozens and dozens of guardsmen stood behind her, watching her. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of them. They looked back at her with a variety of expressions. Some seemed dour and unimpressed, others studiously impassive. Some smiled; some looked afraid. Guerline sat up straighter in her saddle. Though she felt quite as apprehensive as most of her soldiers, she must appear strong for them. So she smiled, and walked her horse forward.

  “We march tonight, Your Majesty?” one young man asked her as she approached.

  She nodded. “Yes. We march tonight.”

  The young man thrust his hand out toward her. Without thinking, Guerline reached down and brushed his fingers with hers. All of them started to reach for her, putting their hands into the air. As she rode through them, she held her hands out to the sides and let her horse walk where he would while she touched the tips of her fingers to those of her soldiers. The crowd continued even after she got back into the maze of tents. The men and women heard the empress was on the edge of the camp, facing their destination, and they came to see what it meant—whether she was afraid, or whether she was defiant, or whether she was resigned.

  She rode through the crowds seeing those questioning expressions and she had no answers for them, so she merely smiled and touched their hands.

  When Guerline got back to her tent, she found Morgana and Desmond there waiting for her. They stood upon her entrance and smiled at her. She smiled in return.

  “It is time, Guerline-basi,” Morgana said. She gestured at the crate with Guerline’s armor, which Morgana and Desmond had brought into the center of the tent.

  Guerline nodded. She removed her overdress and reached behind her to unlace the back of her gown. Morgana coughed and Guerline stopped, looking up at the witch questioningly. Morgana waggled her eyebrows at Desmond, who had been simply standing at the head of the crate waiting to pull the armor out. He jerked to attention when he realized that both Morgana and Guerline were staring at him. He blushed.

  “Oh! Yes. Right.” Desmond met Guerline’s eyes, his mouth slightly open. Then he turned and left the tent.

  “He’ll just wait outside,” Morgana said, her amusement only just noticeable.

  Guerline turned back to her with a wry grimace and reached behind her back again to loosen her gown.

  Morgana helped her out of the gown and her other undergarments, then helped her dress in the ones she would wear under her armor. Guerline dressed in the linen shirt and leggings, with wool stockings cinched under her knees by a leather band. Over this she wore the arming suit, a padded tunic and trouser set. Over this went a leather jerkin, then the ringmail, and over that went her fabulous purple armor. She donned everything except for the helm, and she kept her mail hood down for the time being. Desmond wandered back into the tent at some point during the arming suit, and he now sat and quietly watched while Morgana worked Guerline’s twists into a larger braid and wound it around her head so it would fit under the helm.

  “Everything fits perfectly, Morgana-lami,” Guerline said, sitting on a bench and marveling at how comfortable she felt. The armor was thoroughly articulated. She lifted her arms and bent them at the elbow, testing her range of motion.

  “Of course it does,” Morgana replied. “I made it, didn’t I?”

  Desmond laughed. “You are the picture of humility, Aunt.”

  “And you are a cheeky prat,” Morgana said.

  Guerline smiled. The banter almost made this feel like a regular fitting, for a gown or some other perfectly un-warlike thing, instead of a preparation for battle with something powerful enough to draw out the dormant shifter gods. The momentary lightheartedness faded and Guerline stood. Morgana and Desmond stopped teasing each other and looked at her expectantly, waiting for orders.

  “Signal for the evening meal, and use the opportunity to give the guards a final briefing,” she said. “We eat, then we break camp and head east.”

  Morgana nodded, gave Guerline a slight bow, and left the tent. Desmond stood up and took a step toward her.

  “You look . . .”

  “What?”

  “Intimidating.” He chuckled.

  She frowned. “You don’t sound very intimidated.”

  “I laugh, only to keep from trembling,” Desmond said. He smiled and stroked her cheek. “Truly, you look awe-inspiring. Lina—”
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br />   She twisted away from him. “Let us hope it works on the thing from under the mountain as much as it works on you,” she said.

  A few hours later, Guerline rode again to the edge of the camp. This time, she faced the river and looked out over the sea of tents. It was vast and stretched beyond the furthest reaches of her vision, dissolving into the shimmering waters of the River Acha in the west and the whispering grasses of the valley in the north. This was her host, her country, her only hope. As the sun set before her, it cast a red glow over the tents, which rippled and billowed as they were taken apart and packed. The effect was unsettling—like an ocean of blood—and Guerline cast down her eyes.

  The sun had almost completely disappeared by the time the legion was aligned before her in two columns. Desmond, the Kavanaghs, and Kanika trotted up to join Guerline at the head. She smiled at each of them, but dared not lift her hand to them lest they see how she trembled. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

  She felt pressure on her leg and glanced down. Lisyne was there in wolf form, absolutely massive. Guerline could have held her arm out straight from her shoulder and put her hand on Lisyne’s neck. She hadn’t even noticed the wolf approach. How could such a beast move so quietly? Perhaps Lisyne really was a god after all. What were the qualifications for being a god anyway?

  Focus, Guerline, she told herself. Lisyne was looking at her with expectant yellow eyes. Guerline held her gaze and worked to keep her face blank. Finally, she looked away and unbuckled an ornate horn from her saddle. It was black and inlaid with silver, tiny intricate scenes of battle and conquest that Guerline had memorized during her fascination with it as a child. It was a family heirloom on her mother’s side, one of the few that her small house possessed. It was made of some foreign creature’s horn by commission for Guerline’s great-great-grandfather, a merchant who ventured far into the southeast.