by J. C. Staudt
After a few nights’ travel, and just woken from a fitful day’s sleep, she came to a ruin of mortared stone, half-toppled walls jutting from dozens of outcroppings along the ridge. This was a calai village, once, she surmised, but there’s the haick of ikzhehn here too. She had heard of the burrow-kin, ikzhehn who made tunnels so close to the surface that it was said they’d grown as tall and lean and brutal as the calai. Until now, she’d thought she would make it home without coming across any burrow-kin.
A moss-covered wall opened onto a shallow yard where Lizneth caught a glimpse of a handful of figures in the fading daylight as she scampered by. There were a handful of them, ikzhehn standing together between the fragments of two ruined walls. They had brittle claws, worn down from digging in the stony soil. Their fur was mangy, run through with inbred smudges of gray and brown and khaki. Their longteeth were stunted and chipped, deteriorated over the rigor of hard diets.
When Lizneth saw the whites of their eyes flashing in her direction, she scrambled down a rough-hewn staircase and hid behind a berm, heart racing. They’d seen her. She was sure of it, though they were so quiet about it she began to second-guess herself. What am I doing? I can’t stop moving. They’ll find me here.
She bolted out from her hiding place on all fours, pouches and skins jangling. The burrow-kin came scurrying down around her so fast it startled her. She wove her way through a series of high rock tables as they leapt from one to the next, their evening shadows falling beside her like cackling black gargants. There’s no way I’ll outrun them, and I’ll never fight off so many, she thought. The dagger gave her an advantage, but she might as well have been trying to play a tune on the buzzhorn for all the skill she wielded it with.
Lizneth had begun to veer westward the night before, leaving the sands of the vale behind her. Now the mountains hedged her in on all sides, and she could only see as far ahead as the next ridge or boulder in her path. She could hear the chorus of feet whispering on the stone, getting closer as she wove her way over the spines and furrows of the landscape, tiring but never gaining ground. Soon she found herself racing through a wide gulley that was starting to tilt downhill. She saw the edge before she reached it, stutter-stepped and skidded on loose gravel. There was no sense in stopping; they’d catch her if she didn’t face whatever was over that precipice.
Her momentum sent her straight over the edge. Her legs were still pumping when she hit the side of the slope, and she found herself sliding down a gigantic hill toward a dried-up river basin, kicking up shale and pebbles, not so much running as being carried. The hill was so steep that if she kept going straight down, she would come smashing to a halt at the bottom.
She swerved left to smooth out the angle of her approach, but the scree gave out beneath her hind legs and swung her around. She lost her footing first; then she lost all sense of equilibrium as she flipped and spun and tumbled over the stones for what seemed like an interminable length of time. The landing was better than she’d imagined, if only for the fact that she was so adrenaline-soaked that she got up without feeling it. She was so disoriented that she only realized she’d reached the bottom because the world had stopped twisting around.
The river basin was silt and sand and limestone; bereft of the flow of water, but still wet to the touch. At its head she could see a cave entrance, waves of tan sediment laced with black cascading from its mouth. The cave floor rose into the mountainside. In the other direction, the canyon deepened and disappeared around a bend, the high walls leaving no other visible avenues for escape.
A few of the burrow-kin were picking their way down the slope, some sending up clouds of dust as they came down after her in a reckless slide. Others were perched on the ledge, watching, and still more had taken off along the ridge, following the canyon toward some destination ahead, as if they knew another way down.
Lizneth ran for the cave, knowing they’d pick up her haick if she hid there, but hoping to find a way out at the other end. The wet sediment felt good on her feet. It reminded her of the beach in Gris-Mirahz, though she’d been safer in that den of thieves than she was now. She wondered what old Morish would do when he got to Gris-Mirahz, if he picked up Lizneth’s haick or Artolo mentioned her. What would happen the next time he sailed to Bolck-Azock? Would he really send his brutes all the way to Tanley to find her, as Curznack had claimed?
She heard noises as soon as she was inside the cave. Of course the burrow-kin know where I’ll end up, she realized. Tunneling is what they do. Coming into this cave was no better than walking into a trap they set themselves. It was hard going uphill in the sand, but it would’ve been even harder to scale the loose stones of the canyon she’d fallen into. The cave wound up the mountain, serpentine and meandering, with many false starts running off to either side. There were sneaking, skittering sounds at every intersection, and the dark shapes of things moved along the walls and made her skin crawl. Her eyes were brilliant in the darkness after her second dose of Jakrizah’s Oculus Cordial, and she told herself she wouldn’t let the burrow-kin catch her unawares.
The trickle of water at her feet turned into a steady stream further up, most of it diverted down a side passage. The sandy soil grew rocky, and the rocks forged themselves into a series of ledges like giant stone steps. Lizneth had taken the highest possible passage each time she came to a crossroads, and she wasn’t about to change her method now. Getting back to the surface was the only way to escape these burrow-kin.
She hopped onto the first ledge and splashed forward. The water was ice-cold, and there was slippery moss growing from every submerged stone. She felt more stable on all fours, but the water ran over her belly and gave her a shiver. She grew colder as she ascended each step, and she could feel even the faintest breezes on the wet parts of her skin. The water was clean—purified by some aquifer near the surface—and it never seemed to irritate her.
The highest ledge held the deepest water, though it was more a bowl than a ledge. A low waterfall decanted into it from the round, flat lake beyond. It was so deep that Lizneth had to walk upright, and the bottom was a mire of loose sediment that caught hold of her feet and sucked them down. The waterfall was slow-moving, but the force of it was strong enough that she had to sidle to the edge and climb up where it was calmest.
She crouched on the rim, looking out over the cavern lake. She could see across to the shore on the other side, where a passage continued upward. There was no inlet stream as far as she could tell, though the surface rippled as if it had been recently disturbed; it was a spring rather than a lake, perhaps. She listened past the sound of the water running over her feet and heard the burrow-kin beginning their climb behind her, splashing up the first of the river steps. And from across the lake, a different sound.
Without knowing how deep it was, how fast the burrow-kin could swim, or how many of them might be waiting for her up the passage on the far side of the lake, Lizneth decided she’d make her stand here. She hopped off the rim and let the flow carry her to the next step down, found a large, sturdy rock near the sidewall to stand on, and drew her dagger. The scabbard was soaking wet on the outside. When she saw the blade’s dull green glimmer in the darkness, she breathed a sigh of relief. The scabbard was a snug fit for the dagger, and the river hadn’t washed away the venom.
The burrow-kin advanced without torches or lanterns, needing no light to aid their senses. They grumbled and spat at each other as they picked their way up the river. The tops of their heads came into view first. As each successive stair brought them closer, the dagger began to shake in Lizneth’s hand. They were wiry things, all bone and sinew, worn and scraggly from many scuffles—most with one another, she had no doubt.
The closest burrow-kin stopped and raised his nose to sniff the air, whiskers thrust out. Now he stepped onto the same ledge Lizneth was standing on, no more than five fathoms away. He was looking straight at her; he knew she was there, though how well he could actually see her at this distance was a mystery.
/> She could see every detail of him.
His face was covered in a cloth shroud that hung ragged from his snout, damp with the froth around his mouth from running. He was the strongest-looking of the three. Like the others, he wore iron digging tools on his wrists, one jutting from his hand like a pair of claws, the other a pointed triangular spade. His haick was a wet mineral odor, sharp and earthy. The other two were dams, their scents less harsh than his. The one to Lizneth’s left wore a rusted iron helmet over her snout; the other’s ears were pierced with lines of concentric stone rings.
Lizneth held her dagger out in front of herself with both hands, trying to steady her shaking as the burrow-kin crept toward her. The buck waited while his companions circled around her, one to either side, and slid toward her along the walls. There was only the sound of water slipping past them until the buck spoke.
“Ehi hijr leshenguhrneh,” he said, in a warped Ikzhethii dialect. His speech was so thick and slurred that Lizneth didn’t understand him at first.
I’d rather keep my blood, thank you, she thought. She bent her knees and braced herself to be attacked from all three sides at once. The buck alone would’ve been enough of a challenge for her. As long as I hold onto the dagger, I have the upper hand, she reminded herself.
The buck took a swipe at the dagger, trying to knock it away. Metal clanged as the rusted claws scraped it aside, but Lizneth held on. He swung with the other hand, but this time she thrust the dagger forward and felt the edge catch him on the wrist. He spat a curse, then lunged at her. Her feet slipped on the rock and her back slammed into the sidewall. His weight fell against her, his hands clawing at her flanks.
The dams hung back and watched, perhaps thinking their buck was qualified to finish the job by himself. He raked at her, across the side of her back and over her shoulder and down her arm. Lizneth’s dagger was caught between her chest and his. She was trying to push him away when his arms began to go limp. She knew he had no more than a few seconds before the paralysis set in, so she used the wall to shove him. While he was still toppling backward, she brought the blade around and stabbed at the closer of the two dams, the one with the iron helm.
The dam was ready. Before the dagger reached her chest, she’d swatted it away with her iron claws. She blocked Lizneth’s second strike as well, but this time the blade raked over her hand and split the skin between her knuckles. The second dam crashed into Lizneth from behind and knocked her forward, and the three of them went down in a heap.
Icy water ran into Lizneth’s nose and mouth. The dam with the ear piercings had fallen to the side but was still clawing at her. Lizneth elbowed her in the gut and rolled away, slashing. Her attacker’s chest opened, the cut running over one nipple and down her side. When the dam tried to get up, the strength left her. She gave Lizneth a confused, helpless look, and sank until she was half-submerged and drowning.
Lizneth got to her feet, coughing and sputtering. Green ooze was still staining the white fur on her chest. She didn’t think the dagger had broken the skin, but her back, sides, and arms were covered in scratch marks, so she swallowed one of the vials of antivenom to be safe. The blade itself still held faint oily waves of green, but the river had washed off the rest. She swore when she saw that the scabbard, too, was full of river water.
It was just a normal dagger now, its aezoghil swept down the river like dirt from under her claws. Another confrontation with the burrow-kin wasn’t likely to end so well without the venom on her side. She needed to get across that lake before the others found her, but the sound she’d heard earlier didn’t put her at ease about it.
The three burrow-kin were lying around her, their limbs swaying in the current like weeds. Deequol would’ve been proud if he could’ve seen me fight, she thought, though she was more disgusted with herself than proud. She left them there, ignoring the choking sounds they were making, and descended the river steps until she found a nest of dry rocks a few fathoms above the water. She rinsed the venom off her chest, gasping again at how cold the river was. She was starting to feel faint, so she climbed onto the rocks and rested there for a while, shivering and listening for the sounds of more burrow-kin.
When she stood again, she felt okay. She drank deeply from her skins and refilled them, then took every scrap she could carry off the bodies of the burrow-kin, all of whom appeared to be dead by now. Each of them had a small purse, but their coin was poor; mixed in with a few scraps of copper were lengths of thin greened jewelry chain, screws, nails, clips, keys, and rough gemstones—all the kinds of things one might find while digging in places where the calaihn had once lived. The buck’s pouch held an old round thing, corroded with rust and exposed to show gears and sprockets, as if someone had ripped its front cover off.
While she was heading up the steps toward the lake again, Lizneth heard a noise behind her. Another pair of burrow-kin was standing a few stairs down the river. They were watching her, teeth bared and snarling. Like the others, their fur pattern was unidentifiable; not agouti or fawn or black or blue, but a mottled patchwork of dirty browns colored through with every imaginable shade of gray. These burrow-kin were younger; both bucks, but both scarcely more than nestlings.
They shared a look, then came at her. It was a look that conveyed all the naiveté Lizneth had once known; they felt the need to prove themselves, and like any youth on the cusp of adulthood, they’d been drawn into the traditions of their culture. The burrow-kin were rough and severe and they lived on a razor’s edge, and that was how these two were learning to behave.
Lizneth’s hand went to her dagger. She froze, unsure of herself. Should I run, or fight? I can’t kill nestlings. Instead of doing either, she spoke to them in Ikzhethii. “Ehi fyer hijr guzpikh.”
She didn’t want to fight, it was true. But she made it plain that she would if she had to. For a moment she thought she’d convinced them to stop. Then it became clear why trying to cross the lake would’ve been a bad idea. The nestlings’ eyes grew wide, and they splashed to a halt on the step below hers. They began to back away, then broke into a run in the opposite direction.
Lizneth cursed for the second time that day, forgetting her manners. Whatever made them run probably has no use for manners anyway. There was a rush of water at her thighs as the thing behind her splashed up against the rim of the lake.
She began to turn, slow and quiet. It grumbled. Not a roar or a growl, but a low grating sound, like a gargant clearing its throat in slow motion. It was the same sound she’d heard earlier, only it had been further away then. From up close it was apt to shake the belt right off her hips.
A cotterphage. With skin like a catfish, black and slimy-wet. It had a long slender neck that ended in a broad, viperish head lined with high bone ridges. Even with its mouth closed, thin spiny teeth jutted from its lips like the bristles from an old brush. Its forelegs were short and reverse-elbowed; it gripped the lake’s rim with thick fingers, webbed and clawed.
Every ikzhe nestling had heard a hundred tales about cotterphages—tales that said they swam in the rivers and lakes of the below-world, slithered overland and lay in damp tunnels for days, still and silent as the grave, waiting to snap up their unsuspecting prey in jaws as strong as iron vices. Lizneth had known only two such stories she believed well enough to think they could be real. Now that she was seeing a cotterphage with her own eyes, she believed them all. She drew the dagger, noting that any given tooth on the cotterphage’s face was longer than the blade.
The cotterphage grumbled again, then pushed itself over the rim and came splashing into the highest bowl-shaped step of the river. It huffed, spraying mist from two elongated nostrils that sat alongside the ridges in its skull. The head swung from side to side, the neck flexing back and forth like a curious bird. Another grumble, slowing to a serrated purr that made Lizneth’s whiskers tremble.
It lowered its head and squinted at her through the darkness, eyes shining like slivers of obsidian through spheres of pale amber. The m
oment it locked its gaze on her, Lizneth knew the dagger wasn’t enough anymore. She produced a handful of kelp, wiped the last traces of venom off the dagger, and tossed the seaweed at the monster’s feet, hoping it might be interested in a supper of poisoned greens. It leaned down to sniff the offering, huffed again, then returned its gaze to her.
Lizneth was already gone.
Splashing down the river stairs, she heard the sound of an earthquake beginning behind her. The cavern trembled, and the cotterphage came slipping down the steps like some strange long-necked seal, knocking stones aside as if they were pebbles. Lizneth was off the last step and heading toward the tunnel when the cotterphage gave a grumble so loud she felt it resonate in her chest. It threw itself off the last step and careened toward her on a great slimed belly, sliding on the gravel like butter over burnt toast. It opened its maw while the great clawed limbs churned up the ground.
The tunnel was just ahead. Lizneth would’ve kept going, but she could see it clearly from where she was, and she liked the way it narrowed. She could also feel; the tincture that cooled her tail also heightened the sensitivity in her whiskers, letting her sense every vibration on the air with utter clarity. So she knew in that moment that while the cotterphage was hurtling toward her at an incredible, ravenous speed, it was also a speed that was unsustainable. A speed assumed by a predator who thinks it will catch its prey because it is larger, stronger, and faster.
Lizneth dug her feet in and shifted her weight. Instead of going down the tunnel, she slammed into the wall beside it, letting it bring her to a dead stop. The cotterphage reacted, twisting its head sideways to snap at her. Its body, however, kept going. It couldn’t straighten out in time, so rather than shoot down the tunnel like a bullet through a gunbarrel, it stuck like a clump in a drainpipe.
Lizneth peeled herself off the wall and began to follow the river down the side passage. She felt like she’d fallen from a height, but now wasn’t the time for stopping. She wouldn’t risk being anywhere near the lake when the cotterphage broke free. The big slippery beast was grumbling uncomfortably, scrabbling for purchase. Dirt and stone exploded as it scraped, trying to free itself from the awkward positioning.