by Dorian Hart
When Ernie looked up from the mortally wounded thing, he found that yet another was flying straight at his face. There was no time to duck or bring his sword to bear. His mind wasted his final thought wondering if it would eat his nose.
Mom always told me I had the cutest nose.
He was spared having to find out. Aravia shouted something he couldn’t quite make out, and the monster changed course in midair as if it had been knocked sideways by an invisible frying pan. It tumbled head over wings and splatted against the wall, bursting into a cloud of blood and brown fur.
Slowly Ernie’s muscles unfroze, terror reluctantly releasing its grip. He turned to see how the others were faring, and at first things seemed good. All of the monsters had been killed, or at least none were still flying about and posing a threat. There were now two stuck on the spikes of Morningstar’s weapon, and the remaining critters had been chopped, crushed, or impaled.
But Grey Wolf was kneeling down beside Mrs. Horn, and his hands were on the old woman’s throat. Grey Wolf had gone mad and was throttling her! But no—blood was fountaining out between Grey Wolf’s fingers. Mrs. Horn’s face was almost as pale as Morningstar’s.
“She’s bleeding to death!” shouted Grey Wolf. “Damn thing bit right through a vein in her neck.”
“How did we miss it?” asked Morningstar, just as loudly.
But he hadn’t! He had seen it, but that one banged into his head, and in the rush of panic and excitement…oh Gods…
Dranko hurried forward, pushed Grey Wolf aside, and put both hands on Mrs. Horn’s neck, heedless of the blood gushing forth. “Lord Delioch, I pray for healing, that this woman be made sound and whole.”
Nothing happened. Bright blood continued to jet from Mrs. Horn’s neck in sickening spurts, and the woman’s eyes were wide and confused.
“Gods damn it, Dranko!” shouted Grey Wolf. “Are you a channeler or aren’t you? What are you waiting for?”
“I can do this,” Dranko growled. “Shut up and let me concentrate!”
Dranko had medical supplies in his pack. Shouldn’t he be using those instead? Ernie thought about speaking up but feared distracting Dranko from his prayer. Grey Wolf loomed over Dranko and Mrs. Horn, angry, muttering, which couldn’t be helping Dranko’s focus. But Dranko ignored him and continued to pray, whispering entreaties to Delioch, his hands now as red as if he’d dipped them in paint. Ernie held his breath. The blood coming from Mrs. Horn’s wound was slowing down, but he didn’t know if that was a bad sign or good. Mrs. Horn closed her eyes, her face the color of birch bark.
“Dranko!” Grey Wolf shouted again. “She’s going to die!”
“Delioch, please!” Dranko whispered. His face was nearly as pale as Mrs. Horn’s. “I pray for…” His face contorted and he slumped to the side, shaking hands falling away from Mrs. Horn’s neck. Blood continued to pump out, more and more slowly.
Ernie knew he should do something but seeing Mrs. Horn bleeding on the floor left him stunned. His head swam. This was all wrong.
“Worthless,” snarled Grey Wolf, as he rolled Dranko onto his stomach. He tore open Dranko’s pack and pulled out bandages.
“Morningstar, hold these against Ysabel’s neck. We can’t let her lose any more blood.”
Morningstar did as she was told, taking the cloths and pressing them to the poor woman’s throat. Grey Wolf tossed items from Dranko’s pack until he came up with a handful of small pots.
“Dranko, I don’t know which of these to use!” he barked. “Does one of them stop bleeding?”
But Dranko was barely conscious. His mouth moved slowly, and nothing intelligible came out.
“Dranko!” Grey Wolf was frantic, shouting directly into Dranko’s ear. “She’s dying! Do something, you miserable bastard! It’s the only reason you’re here!”
Ernie knelt and took Mrs. Horn’s hand; it was cold and brittle. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Ernest,” she whispered.
“I’m here, Mrs. Horn. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you in time.” His tongue felt as thick as a rope.
She smiled, and her face filled with laugh lines, but her eyes were unfocused, staring at something far away. “Abernathy kept his promise.”
“What promise?”
“Ernest,” she whispered. “Stay positive.”
And then she was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WORLD CONTRACTED.
Dranko’s mind was a distant thing, seeing his surroundings from far off. His chest was cold, as though his heart in one frantic surge had pumped out all of his blood and left him hollow. He had wanted so badly to channel, so Gods-damned badly. (Did he, though? Now that he knew the cost?) It didn’t matter. Just the attempt had left him dulled, enervated. It had all been for nothing. Mrs. Horn was dead.
Above him Grey Wolf was in a rage. “What in all the Hells is wrong with you? You were lying this whole time about being a channeler, weren’t you? Are you even a healer? She needed you! Ysabel needed you, and…”
There was more, but Dranko hardly heard it. The sound of Grey Wolf’s anger came to him distantly, as though he sat at the bottom of a cold dark well hearing noises from the surface. He closed his eyes and wished he would pass out, but that relief was denied him. Now Kibi was speaking.
“I promised I’d protect her.” His voice caught in his throat. “Just a few days ago. But when them things started flyin’ around, I lost my head. I didn’t…”
“It’s not your fault, Kibi.” That was Morningstar. “We all should have been watching out for her.”
Dranko opened his eyes again. He was lying on his side, looking into the pallid face of Mrs. Horn, his hair matted to the floor with her drying blood. Ernie was sitting beside her, massaging her hand as though he could knead life back into her if only he tried hard enough. His chest heaved with sobs while tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with snot and blood from the battle.
“It’s my fault.” Tor sounded so young. Dranko flicked his eyes upward to look at him. The boy had a vacant stare. “I shouldn’t have rushed in like that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
“No.” Grey Wolf’s voice was a blade of anger cutting through the shock and sadness. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his.” He pointed down at Dranko. “Have you ever actually channeled? Have you?”
Dranko tried to answer; his mouth opened and his lips moved, but nothing came out, not even a breath. Yes, he mouthed. Then there was a sharp pain in his ribs; Grey Wolf had kicked him in the side. The pain jolted him back into focus.
“You are useless!” Grey Wolf shouted. “Worse than useless. Ysabel was worth a hundred of you!”
He made to kick Dranko again, but Kibi grabbed him around the torso and pulled him back a step. “Grey Wolf, you ain’t makin’ anything better right now.”
“Yes,” Dranko croaked. Everyone around him became quiet. His words came slowly, but they came. “The…day before Abernathy summoned us, I…healed an injured beggar in the street. Delioch’s power shot through me, and I healed his…broken leg. I thought I could just…do it again. But it was hard…hard…”
A surge of fury welled up inside him, coursing through the hollow spaces in his body. Was he angry at himself? At his god? It hardly mattered; both of them were failures. He had called upon Delioch at the moment of his most desperate need, and the God of Healing had abandoned him. Even if Dranko was an unfit vessel, was it fair for a god to punish Mrs. Horn for His son’s inadequacy? It was a doubled cruelty—first to deny Mrs. Horn her life, and then to place the responsibility on his mortal shoulders, leaving him to the unavoidable judgment of his companions.
“You failed,” said Grey Wolf flatly. “Ysabel needed you, and you failed.”
Dranko stared into Mrs. Horn’s glassy eyes. Grey Wolf was right. Sadness and anger and resentment warred in him. He pushed himself to a sitting position.
“It was because you were yelling!” he shouted hoarsely. “I couldn’t concentrate! With the beggar I co
uld focus, but with you swearing in my ear, I—”
“Don’t you blame this on me!” snapped Grey Wolf. “If you thought there was a chance you couldn’t channel, you shouldn’t have wasted time with it. You’ve told us you’re a healer. You had a bag full of remedies. You should have practiced your Gods-damned medicine. You should have—”
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it!” Ernie was shrieking and shaking. “Why are you fighting? Who cares whose fault it is? She’s dead. Mrs. Horn is dead. She was so nice, and now she…she…” He burst into fresh tears.
Dranko’s eyes fell to the pool of blood beneath Mrs. Horn. “It wouldn’t have worked. That thing’s teeth cut her jugular. As a healer, I can tell you that’s a death sentence without divine intervention.”
And where was divine intervention? Delioch, this is your fault. Your fault!
Thinking blasphemous thoughts was nothing new to Dranko. How many times had he cursed his god beneath his breath while Mokad applied the scarring blade to his skin? When he had channeled for the beggar, he had felt—no, hoped, rather—that he and his god had reached an accord, that his roguish soul had been absolved. But no, it was all just more punishment. Delioch had given him a taste of what rewards might accrue to the devout, only to yank them away when it truly mattered.
“We need to stay focused,” said Aravia. There was no emotion in her voice. Gods, how could she be so calm?
“Focused on what?” snapped Grey Wolf. Was his anger more about Ysabel’s death, or Dranko’s failure? “The job? Screw the job! As far as I’m concerned, Abernathy just murdered Ysabel. He can take his magic portal and shove it up his arse.”
“That’s not an option,” said Aravia. “We promised we’d perform this task, and Abernathy didn’t want us to waste any time. I’m sorry about Mrs. Horn, but we can’t bring her back.”
“How can you be so cold?” said Ernie, probably more loudly than he’d intended. “Mrs. Horn just…We can’t keep going like nothing happened. What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we bury her? And head straight back to Abernathy to tell him that…that…”
“No,” said Aravia. “We should investigate the ruins and learn what we were sent to learn and then go back. Morningstar? Kibi? Don’t you agree? Tor?”
Morningstar was staring at Mrs. Horn’s corpse, and her voice was distant. “Yes,” she said with obvious reluctance. “I suppose so. We need to mourn her, but…in the meantime, it will help to have something immediate to do.”
Kibi didn’t answer at all. He had released Grey Wolf but not said another word. Tor nodded, dumbly.
“That’s right,” said Aravia. “She’s not going to become more dead if we get back to work.”
“Gods, Aravia,” said Grey Wolf. “That’s heartless.”
Coming from the guy who had just kicked him in the ribs. You’re all heart, Grey Wolf.
“Maybe,” said Aravia. “But it’s true nonetheless.”
Dranko stayed quiet; his instinct to make pithy comments had fled. He thought he had pegged the reason for Mrs. Horn’s inclusion in the group: she’d be the old, wise head to keep the youngsters in line. She’d be their source of compassion, their voice of reason. But not anymore. Now she was just a body, her soul doubtlessly ascending to the heavens. Why had she been included if this was to be her fate? Was she just an object lesson? A warning? Was the idea that they’d all be more careful now, take this monster-prison business more seriously? For Abernathy or Delioch or anyone else to sacrifice her on an altar of expediency was beyond the pale.
“Grey Wolf’s right,” he said quietly. “I suppose I’m a failure. We’re all failures. I think we’re done. I say we head right back to Tal Hae and tell Abernathy he can find a new band of flunkies. He promised Mrs. Horn that if she came with us, he’d help her find her husband. How’d that work out for her? Why should we think his promises to the rest of us will turn out any differently?”
“We should vote,” said Aravia. “It’s the—”
“Vote?” Grey Wolf snarled. “When did this become a Gods-damned guild council? No vote. I’m leaving. This was an idiotic idea from the start. A bunch of random nobodies from nowhere picked by a senile wizard to help him save the kingdom? Dranko, you may be a fraud, but you’re right about this.”
“No, you ain’t neither of you right,” said Kibi. “We oughta stick it out.”
When did Kibi start having opinions? Not that Dranko wasn’t grateful he had stopped Grey Wolf from delivering more angry kicks.
“And why is that?” snapped Grey Wolf. “I thought you didn’t believe in fate. If there’s no destiny for us to be Abernathy’s saviors, then what’s keeping us here?”
“Our promises,” said Kibi. “Not to mention it’s the right thing to do unless you think Abernathy was lyin’ about all the trouble his monster’s gonna cause. I don’t think he was lyin’.”
Ernie had stopped rubbing Mrs. Horn’s dead hand but hadn’t let go. “Kibi’s right,” he said through his sniffles. “Mrs. Horn wouldn’t have wanted us to give up. And the last thing she said to me was ‘stay positive.’ For her sake we ought to see this through. At least, we should find Abernathy’s magic doorway and carry out our mission. And we need you, Grey Wolf. And you, Dranko. Without Mrs. Horn, we’ll all need each other even more.”
Grey Wolf threw up his hands. “Oh, for Pikon’s sake.”
You don’t need me. Dranko didn’t see a single damn positive thing. Delioch had turned out to be a sadist. Maybe the scarbearers were right after all, that Delioch was all about punishment and healing in equal measures. Only for him, it was all punishment. The healing had been a mirage.
“I know you’re all angry,” said Aravia, as if she could read his mind. “Anger is a natural reaction to shock and grief. It’s normal for…for us to feel this way. But Ernie and Kibi are correct. Mrs. Horn would be appalled if we abandoned our quest the first time something went wrong.”
“Something didn’t ‘go wrong,’” said Dranko. “Mrs. Horn got killed, by monsters.”
“Ain’t nothing more wrong than that,” said Kibi.
Grey Wolf let out a long, frustrated sigh, and the edge of anger in his voice was replaced by something like resignation. “Fine. But now I’m doing it for Ysabel, and not for Abernathy. You understand that? Kibi, when we get back, you may need to restrain me again if our boss comes to check on us.” He rubbed his chin. “Ysabel told me on the road that I ought to be teaching you kids how to fight. We fought these, these gopher-bugs, like a bunch of idiot amateurs, which is what most of you are. Even you, Tor. From now on, every night between dinner and bed, I’ll give you some lessons on fighting as a group.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Tor. The boy couldn’t tear his eyes away from Mrs. Horn.
Dranko gestured to the other bodies still sprawled about the commons. “We need to bury her. We need to bury all these people.”
“And we need to search the rest of the inn,” said Grey Wolf. “Come on, let’s get moving.”
CHAPTER NINE
TRUTH BE TOLD, Aravia didn’t know what to feel.
Mrs. Horn was dead. For all the knowledge crammed into Aravia’s head, she didn’t know how she should react. She felt numb, but that couldn’t be right. If anyone was to die, Mrs. Horn was the one they could best afford to lose, having no fighting prowess, no magical talent, only basic survival skills and some knowledge of herbs. In a way they had been lucky it hadn’t been someone else, though Aravia knew not to speak those thoughts aloud.
Aravia had also known what buttons to push to get the others refocused on Abernathy’s mission. Emotions were a thing she could puzzle out; she understood them just fine. She just didn’t feel them much herself.
After a minute of reflection, and finally satisfied that things were back on track, Aravia sat at one of the tables and pulled out a book and quill from her pack. She began to scribble, her awareness of the others dimming as they moved about the Shadow Chaser calling to one another. During the a
ltercation with the gopher-bugs, she had made an experimental tweak to minor arcanokinesis that had proved far more effective than she could have imagined, so she wanted to get all of her thoughts down on parchment while they were fresh in her mind. She had condensed her arc spell down to half a second—two syllables and a fixed digital glyph—which as far as she knew was unheard of…or at least unheard of by Master Serpicore.
Aim, calibration, transfer of momentum, all of those had been adequate, and the little monster had been dispatched, splattered against the wall like a ripe tomato. It was gratifying to see results outside of Serpicore’s testing room. Her mentor had strongly discouraged her improvisation (and in fairness, she had caused no small measure of havoc and destruction in his home with her experiments), but this was exactly why she was endlessly tweaking the few spell formulae Serpicore allowed her. Minor arcanokinesis was a slow telekinetic, and had she stuck to the original, Ernie would have had his face chewed off, and there’d be two dead members of their group instead of one.
It was sad, truly, about Mrs. Horn. She ought to feel more sad, but what good would that accomplish? Master Serpicore had told her, often, that emotions were the enemy of arcanism. They spoiled concentration and prevented objective analysis. Serpicore had commented more than once that her outstanding abilities were largely attributable to her ironclad management of her feelings.
Her vision was blurry, and she was more drained than a typical arc should leave her, so there was that to work on. Accelerating the spell had sucked out more than its fair share of her arcane potential. But that could be mitigated, perhaps if she incorporated her left hand into the glyph or worked on the subtleties of inflection in the syllables. Even with such a compact variant, there was ample room for tinkering.
She scribbled for another ten minutes, until the mere effort of writing and thinking so hard nearly made her black out. On instinct she reached down to scratch behind the ears of her cat, Pewter, but of course her beloved feline wasn’t there. Pewter had been left behind at Master Serpicore’s house, and she missed him terribly, like a little piece of her soul was absent.