From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  With a roar, Morgana ripped herself from the spell and drew her own double sabers. She fell upon the twins, blades flashing. The first twin was weakened by the wound Olivia had given her, and Morgana assaulted her without mercy. She knocked both short swords from the rogue witch’s hands and drove her backwards, finally cutting her throat and her gut open with two quick slashes. Morgana whirled around to find the second twin charging her and thrust both of her sabers through the twin’s chest. The war-witch growled and flung the body of the twin through the air, watching as it rolled down the hill. Lisyne watched as Morgana turned, dropped her swords unceremoniously, and came back into the spell. Her face was wet with tears.

  Though it was hard to hear over the roaring of the seal, Lisyne thought she heard a rumble coming from the mountain. She looked toward the Citadel, and indeed, she saw black clouds gathering near the top.

  “Get ready! It comes!” she shouted.

  Her compatriots turned toward the mountain and the column flared up. The black clouds gathered themselves into a funnel shape, with long tendrils snaking out like arms. Lisyne watched those arms touch down indiscriminately on the field as the black thing slunk toward them and imagined all the creatures it was crushing and swallowing in darkness. Her upper lip curled in an unvoiced snarl.

  As it neared, the black thing lashed out with a smoky tendril and surrounded Aradia. She screamed, and green light flared up around her as she tried to fend off the attack. Her connection to the spell was severed as she turned all her attention toward survival.

  “No, Aradia, no! The seal, give it to the seal!” Lisyne bellowed.

  The gentle witch turned back to the column, agony on her face. She gathered the green light into herself, and then launched it into the column. The column flared again, and Aradia went limp. When it realized she was dead, the smoke released her and moved on to Seryne, who was next in line. The little woman with long black braids growled and slashed at the air with her claws. Three bright blades of white light rushed the black thing and it recoiled, but only for a moment. It roared back and sent smoke rushing forward to surround all of them. Tirosyne and Seryne disappeared, but the column flared up twice, and Lisyne knew what they had done. She glanced to her left and stared through the smoke at Morgana, who was still trembling from her battle with the twins. The witch nodded, then dropped her arms and closed her eyes. A bolt of red light shot into the column, which swelled to its greatest size yet.

  The black cloud-thing rumbled angrily.

  “Why, Lisyne?” it roared at her. “Four thousand years of wondering and I’ve never figured out why you persecute me this way!”

  “Because you are evil,” Lisyne shouted back. “You know that to be true.”

  It roared again, and Lisyne turned to face it square on. She panted with the effort of restraining the spell, which was now practically wild with power. She pulled it back as much as possible, pouring the last of her strength into it.

  This ends now, Ianthe.

  With a great howl, Lisyne launched the spell into the churning mass of black smoke. The rumble of laughter turned into a high wail and the wind picked up around them. Lisyne screamed and ran toward the thing, pushing it back with the swirling tornado of light that was more now than just their only hope. It was her friends and her family, it was herself entirely. It was the indomitable spirit of nature.

  Light will always overwhelm the darkness.

  And so it did. The black smoke retreated to the Citadel. Lisyne followed it down the hill and then released the spell to pursue its quarry. The wake of the spell swept everything dead up with it and carried it down into the bowels of the world, out of sight and locked away for what Lisyne hoped was forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Guerline left the blackness of the mountain and staggered down the rocky slope to the battlefield below. She’d barely touched the grass with her boots when shadows fell, as if the dark had followed her. For a few long, terrible minutes Guerline was afraid they had lost and the end was upon them. She heard the growling of hell-beasts all around her and slashed at the darkness, led only by sound and the soft glow of her blade.

  “Desmond!” she screamed, suddenly afraid.

  She thought she heard him shouting for her, but the noise sounded muffled and distant. She struggled toward it and tripped over something, splashing into a pool of what she knew was warm, sticky blood.

  “Desmond!” she screamed again.

  “Guerline!” someone shouted.

  It wasn’t Desmond, but Guerline was comforted nonetheless. It was Kanika. Guerline felt hands on her arms, lifting her up. Light appeared, streaking through the murky darkness. Kanika unhooked her mask and pulled it open, staring at Guerline.

  “What’s happening?” Guerline asked.

  Kanika only shook her head. It was impossible to tell. Screams filtered through the blackness and Guerline wondered how many had given up hope and abandoned their fight. Would she see them all running when the blackness lifted? Would the blackness lift? Guerline felt her strength waver, and her knees buckled. Kanika held her up.

  Suddenly, the wind picked up and almost toppled them. It rushed back toward the mountain and carried the thick black smoke with it. As the smoke receded, a bright light appeared on the horizon; it grew stronger and stronger until Guerline couldn’t bear to look at it.

  “The seal!” Kanika cried, her voice breaking. “It’s the seal! They’ve cast it!”

  The roaring wind became too loud to speak then. Kanika and Guerline ducked their heads and squeezed their eyes shut against the pounding gusts. After a few agonizing minutes, the wind calmed and they lifted their heads. The sun shone down on the pass, which was now empty of demons and possessed corpses. Those that had been hacked to pieces remained, harmless chunks of rotting flesh with no more magic in them. Soldiers stumbled around the pass in shock and confusion. Slowly, a cheer rose up as they realized that the world had not ended, and that the battle was over.

  “Guerline!”

  Her gaze snapped toward the sound and there he was, whole and alive. Guerline sheathed her sword and ran to him. They seized each other and fell to their knees together. They were covered in blood and sweat and gore and did not care at all. They were alive, and that was what mattered most to them in that moment.

  “I love you,” Desmond said. He said it over and over again, and Guerline could only nod, half laughing, half weeping. She could not bring herself to push him away. He tried to hold her close, but their breastplates made it awkward to embrace. Desmond laughed, almost hysterically.

  “Damn this armor!” he gasped.

  “No, don’t! This armor has preserved us. I will be grateful for it forever,” Guerline said.

  Desmond kissed the top of her head. “Your strength has preserved us.”

  “No,” Guerline said, remembering. “The seal has preserved us.”

  She rose to her feet, and Desmond rose with her.

  “The seal,” he said.

  They turned to look at Kanika, who nodded. The three of them grabbed the nearest horses and swung into the saddles, spurring them toward the hill where the spell had been cast.

  When they arrived, they saw a deep chasm in the earth on the center of the hill. The grass around the hole was singed, and the rocks melted. Guerline looked around. Where were the shapeshifters and the Kavanagh sisters? She glanced to the sky, where the dragons now circled. Had they flown away? Why would they have done that? She was beginning to fear the worst when she heard Desmond sob and her fears were confirmed.

  She dismounted and looked to the ground. There were five bodies: Olivia, Morgana, Aradia, and two blonde women so identical in appearance Guerline knew they must be the Maravilla twins. Olivia and the twins had discernible wounds. Morgana and Aradia appeared untouched. Desmond knelt next to his mother’s body with his head in his hands. Kanika walked slowly among them, examining the bodies.

  “Olivia battled the twins. She was killed by one of them . . . and then
Morgana was the one to kill the twins. These wounds were made by sabers,” Kanika said.

  “And Morgana and Aradia? How did they die?” Guerline asked.

  “They must have given themselves to the spell,” Kanika replied. “They came to the end of their strength, and instead of stopping, they slipped into the magic.”

  “How do you know?” Guerline pressed.

  “Their souls are gone. All of them. My guess is that the twins lost their souls in the service of the thing under the mountain.”

  “What does that mean? Will they find rest?” Desmond demanded, lifting his head.

  Kanika went to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Yes, of course.” She looked up at the mountain. “I think they are in the world under the mountain. They must be part of the seal on the underworld now. They will help to protect it.”

  He stared blankly at her, his grief too strong for him to either accept or deny her statement. Guerline took a shaky breath and surveyed the scene again, the bodies of the Kavanaghs and those in the basin. So many dead so that Ianthe might be trapped once more. Guerline sank to her knees as the heavy weight of failure settled on her shoulders. She should have asked Ianthe to stop. Perhaps she and Lisyne could have . . .

  “The shapeshifters. Where are the shapeshifters?” she asked.

  Kanika and Desmond looked around too.

  “There,” Desmond said, pointing into the distance toward the north.

  Far off toward the horizon, barely visible, was a massive wolf. It stopped and looked back at them, then turned and limped away.

  Desmond, Kanika, and Guerline rode slowly back to the field. Soldiers wandered around, trying to find their lines and waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Sir Bertrand had raised his standard, and people gravitated toward it. Guerline rode ahead to help her soldiers.

  Bodies—humans, witches, horses, monsters—littered the ground. Desmond and Kanika joined those Gwanen witches who still had their senses and went among their fallen sisters, checking for signs of life. A tent was erected to protect the sick. Some witches were taken there; others were lined up and covered with tents, cloaks, and blankets, whatever was on hand.

  Desmond spotted Aradia’s Hand. “Jaela!”

  “Desmond, thank Lisyne!” She stumbled toward him wearily, her arms laden with saddlebags full of medicines. Other than a nasty scrape on her brow, she seemed unhurt. Desmond embraced her and took one set of bags from her. The three of them set off to the medic tent.

  “How is it with the clans, Jaela? What can you tell?” Desmond asked.

  Jaela frowned. “We have given much, Desmond. Many are dead, and many others are at the last of their strength. We held back from the main battle in order to lend our strength to the seal, and it has consumed the souls of many. They will now live forever as wards of the underworld.”

  “And Thiymen? What of Thiymen?” Kanika asked anxiously.

  Jaela turned to her, her brown face twisted with sorrow. “Many of them disappeared into the smoke. I have not found any alive on the ground. Yet,” she added hastily, as Kanika’s face turned ashen.

  Kanika turned and looked to Desmond.

  “Go,” he said. “Find them, if you can.”

  And then she was gone. Desmond watched her disappear. His heart felt heavy in his chest, and he remained still as Jaela turned away to attend the sick that had been brought to her. From here, he could see the whole field. He could see Sir Yana, clutching her bow arm as she led her archers down from Mon Zeferin. Sir Maddox and his troop seemed to have fared the best. Many of them were still mounted; they rode through the field, stopping now and then to heave an injured man or woman across their saddle and bear them to the sick-tent. Sir Bertrand still stood by his standard, leaning heavily upon another soldier. Desmond could not see Sir Tragar.

  Guerline sat on her borrowed horse and directed the able-bodied to gather the necrotic corpses into huge piles. One by one, fires were set, and the bodies of the enemy slowly turned to ash. Desmond stared, not at the fires, but at Guerline. Her massive twist of braids was coming loose. Her face was streaked with blood. Her armor was half-black with the rot of the enemy caked on it. And she had never looked more glorious or more regal.

  “Master Kavanagh,” said a weak voice next to him.

  He looked down and saw a Sitosen witch he did not recognize hobbling toward him. He went to her and scooped her up in his arms, and then carried her into the tent to find some kind of bed.

  “Who leads us now? My lady is dead. I feel it. She is gone,” the witch muttered.

  Desmond clenched his jaw but did not answer. His mother, all his family, was dead. Though he was still in shock, he felt the grief growing in his stomach like a sickness. Yet it was not his grief alone. The clans, too, had lost their mothers. There were few in the clans who surpassed his aunts in age; for many, this would be the first time leadership had changed. Though there were procedures in place, these things were so much different in practice than they were in theory. The witches, however many were left, would be looking as much to him as to their new leaders. He realized this now. He was their last link to the Kavanagh sisters.

  The Hands. I must find the Hands.

  Jaela, he had already found; she would be the new Heart of Gwanen, that much was clear. Thiymen too had its leader, if there were still any Thiymen witches left. Sitosen would fall to Tesla, and Adenen to Aalish, if Desmond could find them alive and well.

  He found them as the sun began to set on the far western horizon, turning the black mountains above them red. They were together, rousing what witches they could find. Tesla had a broken arm. Aalish was missing her left leg from the knee down, and was using a broken lance as a crutch.

  “Aalish, what are you doing? Go see Gwanen!” Desmond said as he ran to them.

  “Nonsense,” she replied, her voice hoarse with pain. “Tis but a scratch. Besides, none of us have enough magic to heal something like this.”

  She gestured to the bloody stump of her leg, then smiled grimly at Desmond.

  “Gods, Desmond. I’ve never felt so weak in my life,” she said.

  He could tell by the look on Tesla’s face that she echoed the sentiment. “The seal—”

  “We’ve given it everything,” Tesla said. “Only time will tell how much of it comes back to us.”

  This was something Desmond had not considered. Olivia had had her theories that the magic of the witches was finite, that the way they used it was not sustainable like it was for the shapeshifters. It was these musings that had inspired the Maravilla twins’ rebellion, after they realized that their approach to solving the problem—the use of dead energy—was not what Olivia had in mind. But Olivia’s projections for the extinguishing of magic had been much, much further in the future. She had not anticipated the seal. Was it possible that, in order to seal away the thing under the mountain, the witches had used all of the magic that remained to them?

  If that was so, then despite their victory, Arido was a much weaker country than she had been.

  Their remaining forces marched for Del early the next morning. Guerline rode at the head, wearing only her linen underclothes and her leather jerkin. Her armor had been cleaned extensively last night, the victim of her insomnia. She supposed she ought to return to Del gloriously arrayed, as befitted a victorious empress, but the thought left a bad taste in her mouth. No, she would return as she was, victorious but deeply humbled. Her commanders followed her example, and rode beside her dressed likewise.

  Their losses had been grave. Half of the guardsmen fell to the jaws of the hell-hounds, devil-cats, and other monsters. The remains of their bodies had been washed in Petra’s Bay. Others had simply disappeared in the smoke, and Guerline feared the fate to which they were lost. Sir Yana’s archers had been decimated by the possessed Thiymen witches; only twenty of them escaped without severe injury, and only sixty some survived at all. Sir Bertrand made it through the battle but succumbed to his grievous injury during the night. Si
r Tragar was still unconscious; he was in the Adenen rest-wagons with the other wounded. Sir Maddox and his ilk fared best, so they now guarded those who remained.

  The witches were greatly weakened as well. Many died, and many more were comatose. Jaela could not say whether they would wake again or no. Each clan had perhaps two hundred witches left, out of the many more hundreds with which they’d begun. Thiymen suffered the most. Kanika found fifty witches able to be roused. Seventy more were in deep sleep. The rest had simply vanished.

  Late last night, Guerline met with Desmond, her high commanders, and the four new Hearts of the clans. Her heart was heavy with the new blow that magic was virtually gone from Arido. Tesla was optimistic that it may return, but the situation was unprecedented, and she had nothing to support her hopes. The only one who could have explained this situation to them, Lisyne, had disappeared. Guerline knew that the wolf they had seen was the shapeshifter, and she knew that Lisyne would help them no more.

  “What will we do now?” Aalish had asked Guerline last night.

  It was then that Guerline understood the real shift in power that had occurred. The Kavanaghs had respected her, yes, and let her command them; but they had not really looked to her for answers. She remembered the impromptu war council in her throne room, the parental smiles she’d received from each of them as she’d struggled to answer Lisyne’s challenge. Now, the Kavanaghs were gone, and their replacements were all looking at her for direction. The clans deferred to her, just as Eva always wished they would.

  “We will go home. We will tell this story. We will adjust,” Guerline replied.

  She had no idea what they were going home to. She’d promised the people of Del that their loved ones’ souls would be taken to Ilys, but as she and Kanika had discussed privately, that may no longer be an option.

  “Even if I had the witchpower for such a task, I do not understand this new gate,” Kanika said last night after everyone else had gone. “It has a life of its own. I will need time to learn more about it.”