by Alec Hutson
“I . . . I don’t think that girl was evil. It felt to me like she’s lost and lonely.”
Alyanna threw up her arms in frustration. “Well, I hope you didn’t get too attached to her! We are still going to destroy them, yes?”
Vhelan cleared his throat. “Ahem. So what is your news?”
A triumphant smile spread across the sorceress’s face. “Rejoice, magister. Your Crimson Queen is alive.”
D’Venish was still deep in conversation with a pair of soldiers when Vhelan and Keilan returned, trailed by Nel and Alyanna. He saw them making their way up the mound and raised his eyes to the darkness above in obvious exasperation.
“I haven’t changed my mind in the half watch since you left, Magister.”
“We come bearing news of tremendous import, Commander,” said Vhelan.
The Dymorian officer seemed taken aback by the giddiness in the sorcerer’s voice. With a frown, he dismissed the grizzled soldiers he’d been speaking with.
“What is it?” he asked after the soldiers had drawn far enough away to give them some privacy.
“The queen isn’t dead.”
D’Venish reeled back like he had been struck. The annoyed impatience in his face changed to shock.
“Impossible,” he hissed when he’d gathered himself, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Don’t you dare jest about such a thing, Magister.”
Vhelan shook his head, grinning. “I would never, Commander.” He turned and swept a hand out towards Alyanna. “The sorceress who arrived with Keilan and my servant has sensed her. She must have been captured by the Skein.”
Several conflicting emotions warred across the officer’s face. “Who is she? And why can she sense Queen Cein, but you cannot?”
“My power is far greater than his,” Alyanna stated, stepping forward. Keilan noticed she ignored his first question; if d’Venish realized she was the sorceress who had challenged Cein d’Kara atop Ravenroost then convincing him that they should be allies now would be that much more difficult.
“I have communicated with your queen before through her dreams. It is an art lost to the sorcerers of Dymoria. Last night on a whim I tried to reach out to her, expecting to find nothing but emptiness. Yet there was something. A distant flickering – I tried to draw her into my own dreams, but she would not come. Sometimes, if another mind is drifting between sleep and wakefulness, it cannot manifest itself completely in the dream worlds our consciousnesses create. But she is most definitely alive.”
D’Venish’s brow furrowed as if he was having trouble following what Alyanna was saying. “Her dreams, you say?” He turned back to Vhelan, his frustration evident. “Is this a ploy to get me to agree to your mad quest, Magister?”
Vhelan held up his hands, as if to quickly forestall this line of thinking. “Commander, no. This sorceress’s power dwarfs my own – dwarfs any in the Scholia save the queen herself. She has the ability. And you must know I would never lie about such a thing. I do believe she is telling the truth.”
The commander slowly pulled off his leather glove and wiped a hand across his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose. For a moment his hard countenance fell away, and Keilan saw how young d’Venish truly was – a junior officer thrust into a position of authority far beyond his years and experience. He had certainly suffered the same trauma as the soldiers he was trying to keep alive, but because he was the highest-ranking surviving officer, he had been forced to shoulder all the burdens. Keilan felt a pang of sympathy for the commander.
When d’Venish dropped his hand and looked up again, it seemed as if he’d come to a decision. There was still wariness in his face, but Keilan saw hope as well. The commander took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“If there’s any hope the queen is alive, we must try and rescue her. Our lives are nothing when weighed against hers.”
Vhelan clapped his hands together. “Excellent!”
D’Venish’s hand slipped to the pommel of his sword as he gazed out at the scattered flames flickering in the cave’s darkness. “A score of the men are too injured to travel. I’ll have to leave a few others behind to care for them, and at least two of the rangers should head south. Vis is much closer than Herath – perhaps they can convince the prince to rescue those we leave here.” He turned back to Vhelan. “And that leaves thirty men. Not enough to overcome a Skein warband, but perhaps large enough to rescue the queen.” His voice was strengthening as he spoke, as if he was growing more excited about the idea.
“Commander!”
They all turned as another soldier appeared atop the rocks. He was gasping for breath, as if he had run here.
“Ben?”
“Commander, the Lady Numil has awoken. But Xan says she doesn’t have much longer. She’s requesting to see the newcomers.”
The Crone of Lyr looked to have aged a decade since Keilan had last stood in her presence. The lines on her face had deepened, her tiny black eyes receding into the waxy folds of her skin. Her skeletal fingers were curled into claws and clutched at the hem of the blanket drawn up to her chin. He might have thought she’d already sunk down into the Deep, except that her hands were shivering.
Her head shifted slightly as they approached. The torchlight made her eyes glitter like flecks of obsidian.
“Took your damn time,” she muttered. Her voice rasped as she struggled to draw forth words.
“I’m sorry,” Keilan replied. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I’m done with sleeping,” snapped the Lady Numil. “The ones here want me to just float away into oblivion.” She shook her head. “Bah. I’ll stride into the dark with my wits about me, thank you very much.”
“A little more rest, good lady, and you’ll be back on your—”
The Crone interrupted Vhelan with a snort. “Ha. I’m never leaving this horrid cave, I know that. I’m no fool.” She squinted at the magister. “Wait. Vhelan, eh? Surprised to see you alive. How did you manage to survive those demons?”
Vhelan blinked, apparently surprised by the Lady Numil’s questioning. “Sorcery enveloped the ridge. I remember a bright flash, then darkness, and when I awoke I found that I’d tumbled onto a ledge below where we’d gathered. I could hear sounds coming from above . . . the demons desecrating the bodies, I believe.”
The Crone’s mouth twisted as a spasm of pain went through her. “Eh. You always had the Silver Lady’s own . . . ng . . . luck.”
“The queen is alive,” Keilan interrupted, and her eyes snapped to him.
“Truly?”
He glanced at Alyanna, who had stayed back, half-hidden in the darkness. “Yes. We are going to try and rescue her.”
A thin smile crept across the Crone’s face. “Good. Perhaps there’s hope yet.”
Keilan crouched beside her and covered her hand with his. “There is, Lady Numil. We will find the queen and destroy the demons with the weapon we found. I promise you.”
“You promise me,” she murmured, her gaze unfocusing. “Sweet boy.”
“Lady Numil!” Keilan cried, his fingers tightening around her hand.
For a moment, her attention sharpened again. “Eh. The darkness is creeping closer, Keilan. But you’ve lifted my heart. Take comfort in that. Oh.” She pulled her hand free and pointed with a shaking finger at where packs and blankets were heaped near the torches. “The swords.”
For a moment Keilan was confused, and then he saw the twisting silver serpents of the sword hilts emerging from the piled supplies.
“Telion . . . he was a good man. He . . . had a son.” The Lady Numil grimaced, struggling with every word. “Just a boy. But those swords should go to him.”
Keilan nodded, and the Crone let her hand fall. The strength seemed to be slipping from her as he watched.
“Good lad,” she said. “Now . . . go save my city.”
&n
bsp; Her eyes fluttered closed.
Recessed among a thick copse of pine trees, Cho Lin watched the men approach. She’d heard them from far away, their harsh laughter and voices raised in raucous song, but she hadn’t been sure of their number until they crested the snowy hillock and emerged onto the field bounded by the woods in which she waited. Given the clamor, Cho Lin had been expecting a great host; she was slightly surprised when she saw it was only a couple dozen Skein. More than a few of their faces were flushed by drink, and they swayed unsteadily upon their shaggy horses. Some were taking lusty swigs from bottles of green and blue glass, and this also surprised her, as she’d not seen any such containers during her time in Nes Vaneth. The Skein drank ale and mead from tankards and horns, not wine from glass bottles.
Cho Lin receded among the branches as they neared where she hid, though she suspected they were too deep in their cups to notice her unless she walked out into their path and waved her arms. Now that they were closer, she saw the deer tines affixed to some of their helms – these were Stag warriors, like Verrigan had been, sworn to the thane Kjarl. Her stomach sank as the implications of this came to her. The Stag were allies of the White Worm, and must have gone south with Hroi’s army to confront the Dymorians. If they were returning to Nes Vaneth in such high spirits, drinking southern wine, that could only mean they had defeated the invaders. Utterly defeated, for if the Dymorians had merely been beaten back she suspected the Skein would have chased them across the Serpent. The threat must have been extinguished—which meant the Crimson Queen was dead if she had accompanied her army into the Frostlands.
If that was true, Cho Lin needed a new plan.
The thought that she could convince Cein d’Kara to reforge the Sword of Cho had always been unlikely. By the Four Winds, she didn’t even know if that would restore the blade’s potency. But that vanishingly slim chance had been what she was clinging to, and seeing the Skein returning triumphant made her feel like she’d swallowed an iron ingot.
She wished she could confront them about what had happened to the south, but if they remembered her at all, it would be as a prisoner.
Grinding her teeth in frustration, Cho Lin slunk away, retreating deeper into the woods. Her boots crunched in the snow and a flurry of bright red birds burst from the branches above her, rising shrieking into the sky. She did not worry about drawing the attention of the Skein, as the savages were clearly not worried about encountering enemies on their way back to Nes Vaneth.
Her horse snorted and tossed his head when he saw her approaching, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. She unlooped his reins from around the dead tree where she’d left him tied up and patted his cheek affectionately. His wet nose nuzzled her hand and she offered him a handful of oats before swinging herself up into the saddle.
Cho Lin gave the horse a moment to finish his breakfast, and then she kicked him lightly in the flanks. Grumbling, he resumed the plodding pace she’d gotten used to in the days since leaving Nes Vaneth. She suspected they could make better time if she left the forest, but there was far less likelihood of encountering others here among the trees. And now she knew the warriors who had gone to fight the Dymorians would be returning north. Hopefully, those thousands of Skein in their small warbands would avoid the woods; though there might be foragers, she reminded herself, so she should still be careful.
Cho Lin wished she knew what other dangers might be lurking. During the day the woods seemed empty, but she had seen tracks in the snow that had unnerved her – paw prints as large as dinner plates, and once she’d come across the eviscerated corpse of a large buck, its stomach flensed open and the remnants of its organs strewn about. A bear’s work, she’d hoped, but truly she did not know what large animals dwelt in the Frostlands. At least the pine trees of these woods were spaced far enough apart that she wouldn’t be taken by surprise while the sun was high.
The nights were more frightening. She kept her fires small and tried to build her shelters in the lees of boulders or dead trees, but still she felt a creeping dread when she stared out into the darkness, and every creaking branch or clump of snow sloughing from somewhere higher brought her hands to the hilts of her butterfly swords. For that reason, she hadn’t been sleeping very much, and despite her best efforts to remain wary of her surroundings she kept finding herself nodding off in her saddle.
The waking and the dream world seemed to be blurring for her. If it wasn’t for the incessant prickling cold, she wouldn’t have been surprised to suddenly awaken in her cell back on Red Fang, the air clotted with the smell of incense. Her entire ordeal in Nes Vaneth – particularly after Jan had led her down into the bowels of the Bhalavan – had taken on the hazy edges of a half-remembered dream. Had she really followed a spirit below the ruins and been confronted by the ghost of her father? Could she trust the vision she’d seen in those blue flames?
Assuming that everything she had experienced was real, what should she do now? Cho Lin pondered this as she guided her horse around a fallen tree blackened by rot. Perhaps the queen still lived, despite the celebrations of the returning Skein. She could have been captured, or escaped with the remnants of her army. Cho Lin clung to these thoughts as she rode – she had no idea what other course of action she could take if the sword was unable to be repaired. She could try and find the door set in the mountain she had seen in the vision, the one the Betrayers were trying to open, but attempting to find that particular location in the vastness of the Frostlands would be like searching for a particular blossom in the imperial gardens of Tsai Yin. The truth was that even if she managed to track down the Betrayers, she had no way to fight them. All the old stories she’d been raised on had been very clear that no normal steel or iron forged by men could harm them.
Something pulled her from these bleak thoughts. She blinked, returning to herself as she gazed around the empty clearing. What was it? Nothing moved among the trees. Even the birdsong had stopped. That was a bit odd, she realized, as she’d grown accustomed to—
The ground exploded. Her horse whinnied in terror and reared back as a shape erupted from where it had been hidden under the snow; Cho Lin glimpsed white fur and yellow eyes and then she was thrown from her saddle. She landed hard, her breath driven from her, and a moment later a hoof came down a half-span from her head, spraying her with snow. Fighting through the shock, Cho Lin rolled farther away from her panicking horse and leapt to her feet, trying to make sense of what was happening.
A great beast clung to her horse, trying to bring it down. Its claws were sunk deep in her mount’s flank, a long tail lashing the air. Her horse stumbled and screamed, tossing its head in desperation as jaws snapped for its throat. The beast looked like a huge white-furred tiger, though its snout was long and lupine, and there were too many legs scrabbling to find purchase in her poor mount’s flesh. Six, she counted in a quick glance.
“No!” Cho Lin cried as the beast’s teeth found her horse’s throat and a spray of blood arced into the air.
She reached for the Nothing, drawing her butterfly swords as the cat-wolf ripped away a chunk of flesh, its white fur spattered crimson. It was so intent on savaging her dying horse that Cho Lin suspected she could have fled. But she was angry now. She watched the light fade from her horse’s eyes, its back legs kicking feebly in the snow.
Cho Lin stalked forward. The creature raised its dripping jaws, a flap of skin hanging from its mouth. Its yellow eyes found her and the beast growled a warning, shifting its weight, its legs shivering as if it was preparing to leap.
“Come on!” she cried, clashing her blades together.
In response, the beast roared, baring fangs as long as her forearm.
Cho Lin charged.
This was not what the creature was expecting. She thought she saw a flicker of surprise in its eyes before it bounded from the horse’s corpse. Despite its great size it landed lightly in the snow and whirled around to face her
, the fur on its back bristling.
Cho Lin followed it, leading with her butterfly swords. The creature swiped at her, its claws flashing, but with her grasp on the Nothing it seemed to be moving in water; she dodged the blow and her blade lashed the blood-stained paw. The cat-wolf yowled and jumped backwards. Its gaze flickered between the steaming, sliced-open corpse of her horse and Cho Lin, as if deciding whether its kill was worth fighting this strange clawed little animal.
In this moment of hesitation Cho Lin closed the gap and leapt. Every detail of the roaring monster was etched in excruciating detail: she saw its pupils tracking her as she hurtled closer; the droplets of blood dripping from its wound as it cradled its paw; the notch in one of its ears.
She drove her swords point-first into the monster’s throat. The blades slid in, half of their tapering lengths vanishing into the white fur. She let go of the hilts as her momentum carried her past the beast, tucking herself so that she struck the snow with her shoulder, and then rolled to her feet in one smooth motion.
The beast writhed, blood spurting from its ravaged neck. Cho Lin stood there, panting, and watched as its frantic movements and heaving chest slowed. Its tail was the last thing to show any life, and when it finally finished twitching, she strode up to the beast and ripped her swords from where they’d been embedded. A final gushing of blood accompanied this, soaking the white fur of its chest.
She glanced at the dead beast, then at the ruin of her horse. The supplies she’d dragged from Nes Vaneth, which she’d hoped would be enough to last for weeks, were strewn about in the snow. It was far too much for her to carry.
“Black hells,” she muttered, staring into the glazed eyes of her unfortunate mount. What was she going to do now?
What a motley band they were.
Alyanna drew her knees up to her chest and held out her hands to the crackling flames, studying her companions seated around the campfire.