by Greg James
“Speak your mind, Councillor Mikka. We would know all you have to say.”
“My Queen, you wish to entrust the future of this city and the Three Kingdoms to a Wayfarer—a wandering old druid who knows no more of ruling and governing than he does of herding chickens in a farmyard.”
“What would you have us do, Councillor?”
“I move that this idiotic and foolish scheme be dismissed by the Council, and that we instead send word that we wish to treat with the Fallen One. Legends are no basis upon which to make informed decisions.”
“You think me uninformed, Councillor?” Ianna asked.
The Warden’s hand fell on Venna’s shoulder, gripping hard until the child bit her lips and became quiet. Ossen noticed this, with a flicker of his eyes.
“Lady Warden, I believe you to be as informed as the rest of us on the situation. However, I believe this suggestion from the Wayfarer to be misguided and one that would put the people of the city at risk were we to follow through with his quest. Such things are fine as tales to be recited around campfires and over flagons in a street tavern, but not when we are talking of the hair’s breadth difference between war and peace.”
“The Wayfarer has a name, Councillor.”
“I give my respectful apologies to you, Ossen, if you consider me to have spoken out of turn. My concern is merely for Highmount and its people.”
Ossen nodded, giving no sign of emotion otherwise; his aged face remained an implacable mask.
Ianna smiled her coldest smile and addressed the Council. “Lords and Ladies of Highmount, I ask you now to vote on the matters at hand. Those who wish to hold the pass and honour the oath of our Founders, say aye.”
A low chorus of ayes rippled around the room.
“Those who wish to treat with the Fallen One, say aye.”
Mikka’s sole aye was a lonesome sound.
“Finally, those who agree that we should take heed of the Wayfarer’s words and trust him to retrieve A’aron from the Fellhorn, say aye.”
There were more ayes than there were nays, but only just enough to carry the decision. Lord Della’s aye decided the vote.
“Thank you all. I call this meeting of the Council to close,” said Ianna.
With a scraping of chairs and inconsequential chattering, the Council dispersed.
~ ~ ~
Councillor Mikka returned to his chambers. Once inside, checking his windows and doors were secure, he retired to a small room between his bedchamber and personal library. The room was in darkness and unlit. In the centre stood something tall and wide concealed by a covering of black velvet. He carefully unfastened the velvet cover, folded it, and placed it in a corner. Then he stood and stared deep into the highly polished surface of a mirror. Its burnished solid silver frame was a tangle of obscenities: the naked, mutilated corpses of men and women strung together and tormented by rotting creatures that were themselves flayed, limbless, and deformed in many foul ways. With his hands, Mikka made a series of passes over the opaque surface until there was a sign of movement within the glass. The opacity seemed to writhe and surge in on itself, as if it were a body of water and he had just dropped a stone into it. With a final gesture, Mikka made the glass flare cold and bright, and then he was looking in upon a great underground cavern. It had the proportions of a cathedral, although the rank appearance of a funeral vault. At the centre of the cavern was a carved edifice and upon it was a sculpture of a colossal hunched and hooded figure. Though it was only stone, the sight of it made Mikka’s flesh crawl and his skin to become pebbled with a numbing sweat. Flexing his fingers and blinking hard, Mikka drew in a deep breath and walked towards the mirror.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
And then he strode through it into the Great Hall of the Fallen One beneath the Shadowhorn Mountain. It was like passing through a layer of ice, and Mikka could not stop the cry that came from him as he set his feet down on rough, lichen-crusted rock. Frost and ice glistened upon black stalactites and stalagmites that sprouted throughout the Great Hall. Rubbing his arms and torso against the encroaching cold, Mikka took tentative steps forwards.
“Welcome, Mikka. What news from the world of the living?”
Robed and hooded like the stone colossus, the speaker stepped out of the shadows. The little light cast by phosphorescent lichen in the cavern briefly illuminated his face, even as it was hidden beneath the hood’s darkness. Mikka felt his stomach turn over as he glimpsed the white bone of a skull.
“I am E’blis of the Fallen, Mikka Wyrlsorn. Come. Speak!” He thudded a polished black staff, which was surmounted by a horned ram’s skull embossed with blood-red script, upon the floor.
Mikka shuffled nervously on his feet, licking lips that were as dry as old leather. “Th-the Wayfarer, Ossen, has come to Highmount, as was known. And he has put the journey to the Fellhorn to the Council. It was agreed to, as was expected.”
“You bring excellent tidings, Councillor. What news of the party that is to make the journey?”
“I-I do not know yet. The Wayfarer said that A’aron—”
The syllables of the legend’s name reverberated around the cavern, making Mikka feel as if he were caught in the interior of a great, tolling bell. There was a terrible grinding sound from the unmoving stone figure of the Fallen One. The sonorous sound of the name gradually lessened, and so then did the shaking of His statue.
“Take a care which names you speak aloud in His presence, Mikka Wyrlsorn. It sleeps atop the Fellhorn. The Master feels it and hates it. The sword must not be taken by her, and the Living Flame must be extinguished. We will see to it now that the Path is set. We have a willing agent, well schooled in our plans. And, in exchange for your good service, the city of Highmount and its Three Kingdoms will be yours, as Warden, once Venna falls.”
Mikka's eyes flicked for a moment to the stone shape on the great throne. He could feel it now, the cold that was eating away at his flesh and bones here. Its source was the Fallen One, and that slow, arctic death was emanating in bleak, barren waves from the statue. How could such a thing possibly be threatened by any force in this World?
Hurriedly, he continued speaking, ripping his eyes away from the Fallen One. “Highmount will open her gates to the Fallen-born and the last Three Kingdoms shall come under His Shadow. I will see to it in His name.”
“Indeed. It shall be so. See it is done and done well. Return, Mikka Wyrlsorn, and prepare the way. The Shadow of His Darkness go with you.”
“And with you, E’blis of the Fallen.”
Mikka turned and crossed back into the small room in his chambers. The cold was gone, but the blackness of that place came with him through the portal of the mirror, rooting itself in his soul, binding him to the Fallen One, E’blis and the Shadowhorn Mountain. He thought of the way that damned Shadow of His Darkness moved, ebbing and flowing like a black ocean, preparing to drown all things.
Mikka Wyrlsorn sank to his knees and began to weep.
Chapter Nine
Sarah awoke with a start. The house was as it had been in her dream, only it was not quite as dark outside. Not yet.
It had been so real, felt so real, she thought.
She dressed and pulled her boots on quickly before hunting for a weapon. She found Woran’s axe by the fireplace, where it always was. Woran trusted Esiah, despite everything. Their families had shared blood and ties too long for him to truly suspect anything worse than rough words and backwoods gossip.
So why had the axe not been there in the dream? So I wouldn’t hack the Wayfarer's head off? Why would he be afraid of that, if it were only a dream? Can someone die in a dream?
“Too many questions,” she muttered as she hefted the axe.
It was a small, single-handed axe made for cutting firewood, not people, and it was weighted just right for a frail old man and herself. How much damage could it do?
“I’ll cut them open if I have to. If they’ve hurt him badly...”
Her words
were cut off by a sound coming from outside. It sounded further away than it had been in the dream, but there all the same: high, feral, and forlorn. Without a moment’s more thought, Sarah left the house and hurried down the hill. If she ran, she could make it to the woods before it got dark.
“I’m coming, Woran. I’m coming, Barra.”
~ ~ ~
She ran for the border of trees that seemed to rise and fall on the horizon as she traversed inclines and slopes. Sarah felt like she had been running for hours. Time got lost as the dark gathered in around her, and the last traces of sunlight ebbed away across the landscape. As she ran, she found herself listening for that horrible howling, but it did not come again. She kept her eyes on the valley—the houses, the hollows and the old sheds. She watched for Taproots and Saltwines. Even thinking of the names made her fingers tighten on the haft of the axe.
“If they’ve hurt him badly, I’ll crack their heads open like old soup bowls.”
Every nerve in her body was straining, every muscle tense. She saw the border of the trees dip and rise, the thin dark line slowly growing thicker, coming closer.
Too slow, she thought. I’ll never get there in time.
But she did not stop running. She pushed on, pushing herself harder than before.
~ ~ ~
It was quiet in the woods as she entered, crossing into shadow.
“Woran? Barra?”
Her call was the slightest whisper. If Esiah was still about, she didn't want him to know she was here. He might have others with him, and there was no sense letting them get the jump on her. Dim light leaked through the canopy of branches and leaves.
Just like the Wood Beneath the Worlds, she thought. Three years ago now, and I’m back where I started. Except I started at home, and I don’t know how to get back there.
Biting back tears, Sarah swallowed hard and ducked low before creeping on into the undergrowth, rising onto the balls of her feet.
A scattering of twigs crackled underfoot.
Loud, she thought. Far too loud.
She waited, looking and listening, barely breathing.
Nothing. No sounds. No shouts. No cries.
Time to move.
She went on, deeper into the trees.
It wasn’t until she had gone on for some time that she realised what had made the woods seem like the Wood Beneath the Worlds. There were no sounds of animals or birds, no rustling leaves, not even a nightingale’s song.
It wasn’t right.
She emerged into the open of a clearing.
The bodies of the dead had been left where they had fallen—Taproots and Saltwines, all of them. Sarah tried not to look at them. She tried not to think of what their presence meant. She crept on past the dead, as if she were still in the trees. A hand snatched out and wrung her ankle, tight and hard. She didn’t scream, although she really wanted to. She kicked at it, tried to shake it off. It held on, tighter and tighter. She tugged at the fingers, trying to ignore the glottal choking sound coming from the throat of the dark-haired woman the hand belonged to.
Elssa Taproot.
Sarah could see light in Elssa’s dead eyes, flickering and dim.
“We are the dead.” Elssa spoke. “We are with you. Always with you, Sarah Bean. We are the same. We are the same, O Flame.”
Then, the fingers went loose. Sarah shook them off. Her worried eyes were on the trees ahead.
That light in Elssa’s eyes, did I see that? Did I hear her speak? Was that real, or is this still the dream? Am I still back at the house? Am I still on the bus on the way home from school in Okeechobee?
Wake up, Sarah! Wake up!
Sarah shook her head violently and then opened her eyes. Tears were running down her face. She was still in the dark, in the woods of the Norn Valley, in a strange World she didn’t know. She wiped at her nose and eyes. Then she closed her eyes and pinched herself. Breathed in. Breathed out. Opened her eyes.
Still here. This is real. Not a dream.
A dead woman talked to me.
Mother, save me.
“It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Sarah crept across the rest of the clearing’s open ground, making sure she did not look at the dead again. Trees loomed ahead, their branches and boles looking like colossal stalactites dangling from the lightless cavern of the sky. No stars were out tonight. It had been a clear enough day, but now there were masses of craggy grey clouds overhead. Keeping her breathing as steady as she could, Sarah went on into the heart of the woods.
I don’t want to go on, she thought, but I must.
The stilled woodland folded in around her, brushing her face with leaves. The air tasted of mould. Sarah could feel the sweat pouring from her. Shadows clung to her like trailing ghosts, making her feel stained and soiled.
Then, the gathering storm broke overhead.
Rain tumbled from the heavens, a barrage from on high that cut into her as surely as if the rain had been cold swords and freezing knives. The undergrowth churned into thick rivers, soaking through her boots, catching at her with vines and the knotty fingers of tree roots. Head bowed to the downpour, Sarah slogged on.
Maybe they’ll be just up ahead.
As the storm pounded at her, she came to another clearing, and there were Woran and Barra. The corpse of Esiah Taproot was not far from them, on its back. The eyes stared upward, the face fixed in a pained expression of shock and disbelief. Sarah rocked from the balls of her feet to her heels and back again. The rain shrouded all movement in the clearing, but she was sure it was being watched by whomever, or whatever, had slain the Taproots and Saltwines. This was a trap; she knew it. It was plain to see, but that also made it so perfect. As she watched Barra protectively circling Woran, who was as unmoving as the dead Esiah, she knew she could not leave them even if they were bait meant for her.
The man in my dream said I would not be alone, she thought.
Alone or not, Sarah knew what she had to do.
She stepped out into the clearing, brandishing the small axe. Holding the haft tight, ready to swing at the slightest sight or sound, she crept towards the man who had cared for her these three long years. Barra licked at her hands and face as she knelt down by Woran. She smiled, despite the dark and the rain. She could see the old man's chest rising and falling. Each breath was a laboured sign of life. Woran’s eyes flickered. She could see a dark patch spreading across his shoulder. Reaching for it, wincing, Sarah drew back the torn cloth and saw the wound. It was deep and already ulcerous, even with the rain washing it.
What could have done something like this?
Rustling came from all around her. Barra began his circling once more, now around Sarah as well as Woran. He jumped and barked at the shadows that fringed the clearing. Sarah got to her feet, axe in hand.
We are so small, she thought, Barra and I. What chance do we have?
Five shapes arose from the shadows, stalking out to stand around them. Swords were drawn, scraping rustily from aged scabbards. Sarah could not see whether they wore hooded cloaks or were still embraced by the clinging dark. Her eyes hurt as she tried to look at them. They were not quite there, seeming to blur and fade and flicker like the black ghosts cast by dying candlelight.
Like my dream, she thought, before I came here. All those years ago. The dream on the bus. The mountain I climbed. These things were there.
They cut my head off.
“Oh, god. Okay.”
She gritted her teeth to try to stop the shaking of her body. They closed in, tightening the circle around her just as she had dreamed, though this was a forest clearing rather than a mountain peak.
I’m going to die.
Then they stopped. Still flickering, but frozen. Still as statues. Sarah felt a pulsing knot of tension relax inside her, just for a moment. Then she heard it—an awful rising sound, the feral howl that had haunted her all the way here. It was coming from all around her, from the black shapes. And they were suddenly moving again
, faster than the falling rain, passing in and out of sight, their swords raising and dashing down. Sarah shouted her own wordless cry as she struck out, spinning awkwardly, falling clumsily, dodging and weaving, missing sword slashes by a hair’s breadth each time. The blows that fell on her axe tore chunks from the wood of the haft, and she was sure they were blunting its blade more and more. It was as much as she could do to defend herself from the storm of shadow-swords. Striking back at them was beyond her strength and skill.
She was driven to her knees. Her arms, legs, and back were aching from the strain on her muscles. Peals of thunder underscored the screams of the black shapes. Flares of lightning illuminated faces that Sarah wished she had not seen—bleached bone, torn skin, hollow eyes and hanging mouths. She fought on, rolling and scrambling away from their swords. The wet earth seemed to steam as the poisonous metal bit into it. The haft of the axe was now little more than a splintered stick, and the blade was a battered lump of flint. Soon it would be useless, and she would be at their mercy.
Then it all stopped.
The swords were no longer cutting through the air. There was only the relentless pounding rhythm of the rain about her, and the shapes seemed frozen once more. Sarah got gingerly to her feet, her wet hands raw on the worn wood of the axe. Her eyes passed from one shape to the next, watching, waiting. One sprang to life again. It came at her, lunging forward. Sarah raised the axe. The blow of the sword shattered the haft and sent her tumbling back down onto the ground. Sarah saw a smile form in the shadows of the creature’s pale face, a drawn rictus under its stark, staring eyes.
“I know you,” Sarah said.
And she did. She could see the familiar face there, though it was starved of life and worn so thin.
“Trianna!” Sarah felt frozen. She remembered the last time she had seen the girl. Trianna had been holding her down. Her eyes went to the other four shapes. Were they Geneva and the others? How could this be? How could they be there? And what had done this to them?