by Alec Hutson
Nel had also approached to examine the Chosen’s remains. “Was this . . . was this the child connected to Keilan?”
Alyanna shook her head. “I don’t think so. It felt different to me. But it gave me another name: the leader of these demons.”
Cho Lin blinked. “Names? You know their names?” She sounded incredulous.
“Yes. There is a girl whose name was Ko Yan. And this demon mentioned another, their brother. The strongest of them, I believe.” Alyanna thought back to the hoarse, sibilant whisper of the Chosen, trying to remember what it had said. “Wan Ying. He is the one dominating the others. If we can destroy him first, the corruption sustaining the rest of them might fail.”
Cho Lin shook her head. “Wan Ying. That is not a name in Shan.”
“I am certain that is what I heard.”
Cho Lin grimaced. “It must be, for those words do have meaning. If it is the demon’s name, it might have forgotten who it once was. Wan Ying means the Shadow King.”
The crunch of boots slogging through the snow drew their attention. Vhelan and a handful of the Dymorian soldiers came hurrying through a gap between the wagons; the magister’s face brightened when he saw them, but to Alyanna it seemed like something was wrong. At least a few of the soldiers looked disturbed, their faces pale.
“Ah!” he cried in relief. “I’m glad to see you ladies all survived the battle unscathed. A great victory.” He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. “Mistress Alyanna,” he said formally, “would you mind accompanying me, please? There’s something you must see.”
Puzzled, Alyanna followed the magister as he turned away, the soldiers falling in behind them. She glanced back at Cho Lin, who had returned to crouch beside the ashes. Was she right to trust the Shan girl? She still felt uneasy giving up such a powerful artifact.
Vhelan led them across a snowy field towards where a lone wagon waited. A few Skein corpses were here, feathered by arrows, but the bulk of the fighting seemed to have happened elsewhere. Alyanna hoped nothing had befallen Keilan – he was supposed to have stayed far away from the fighting, but she knew that the blood of young men sometimes ran hot.
The magister turned back to her when they arrived at the wagon. His face was troubled, and Alyanna reflexively summoned a ward. He jerked his head in the direction of the wagon. “It’s in there.”
“What is?”
For once, the sorcerer seemed at a loss for words. He chewed his lip for a moment, then sighed. “I think you should see for yourself.”
Preparing herself for anything, Alyanna crept up the stairs at the back of the wagon and eased open the door. Once, it had been secured by a great metal bolt, but now it was slightly cracked.
The first thing that struck her was the smell. It was the musty reek of a stable that hadn’t been mucked in far too long: the sickening stench of an animal wallowing in its own waste and sweat. And rot – something had died in here recently, or was dying. Alyanna smelled corrupted flesh and stale blood. She nearly gagged, covering her nose and mouth with her hand. Straw covered the floor, and the only light in this space was what was spilling in from behind her. She couldn’t even see the far wall, though she sensed something was there, shifting in the darkness.
With a thought, she summoned her wizardlight.
“Mistresss.”
Alyanna recoiled, her wards flaring, a nimbus of killing light swelling around her upraised fist. She came within a heartbeat of unleashing her sorcery, and only stayed her hand because she saw the miserable state of her old slave.
The genthyaki slouched against the far wall, draped in layers of iron chains sunk into the floor of the wagon. Its skeletal horse-head lay pillowed on its sunken chest, which was laced with wounds, some of which were scabbed and others that still leaked black blood. Half of the shape-changer’s head was scarred by fire, but she knew that had been caused by Keilan long ago. She found what her own dreadfire had done to the beast – one of its long arms ended in a stump, and Alyanna shuddered when she saw tiny white maggots squirming in the glistening black flesh. Metal spikes had also been driven into the genthyaki’s spread wings, nailing the strips of ragged flesh to the wall like it was a specimen in the insect collection she had once seen in the Reliquary of Ver Anath.
If she hadn’t heard its voice, she would have thought the genthyaki was dead.
“You look terrible,” she said, taking a step inside the wagon.
The ancient creature rasped a wet chuckle. “You always find me at my worst, mistress. Though it seems you are deteriorating as well. Is that a gray hair I see? Both our stolen lives are finally nearing an end.” It chuckled wetly.
Alyanna outwardly ignored this jab, but the creature’s words still struck true. The last of her ancient sorcery was fading, and she was aging again.
“Who did this to you?”
The genthyaki raised its head slightly, baring long yellow fangs. “The shaman of the Skein. Lask, it calls itself.”
There was something chilling in how the shape changer said the sorcerer’s name. “It?”
The genthyaki clacked its teeth, its tail thumping.
“You should fear it, mistress.”
“Why?”
“It is a nas’achek.”
She knew that word – it was one she had come across in the oldest written records, used to describe sorcerers whose natures were so attuned to the ravenous Void that they became something more and less than mortal. The Kalyuni had another name for such a creature: a Hunger.
The coldness in her chest deepened. “Impossible. That is a legend.”
The tail thrashed harder, splintering the wood, and Alyanna had to stop herself from taking a step back.
“They are no legend! One ruled in Menekar, during the age of the old empire.”
The Warlock King.
“I was there, in the court,” the genthyaki continued in its ragged voice. “I looked into its eyes and I knew that that human was no longer prey. It had become a predator, like my people. It had changed, as we once did.”
“What do you mean?”
The genthyaki hacked a wad of vile green pus into the rushes near her feet, and she flinched away in disgust.
“I know the Skein is a nas’achek,” it said, and Alyanna heard its madness, “because we became nas’achek as well. It was how we conquered death, mistress. The greatest sorcerers of my kind embraced the Void. We brought that hunger upon ourselves, so that we could consume the weak, and the ravages of time would not fall upon us.”
“You ate your own people,” she said, not bothering to hide her distaste, “and when they were gone, you turned to us.”
The genthyaki wheezed with hissing laughter. “As you did.”
Alyanna’s sorcery swelled within her, outlining her hand in crackling green light. She wanted to wipe the stain of this creature from the world, but she held back for a moment.
“The Skein sorcerer. You say he is like you?”
“As much as any of you pathetic worms could be. It does not understand what it truly is, but it knows that by consuming others it stays young and grows stronger.”
“Like the old emperor of Menekar.” She had always suspected the ancient stories had exaggerated the evils of the imperial court – how the Warlock King had practiced cannibalism and dark blood magic to fuel his sorcery and dreams of immortality. But it seemed there had been more than a kernel of truth to them.
“I knew him to be a nas’achek. I thought it meant that your species was walking the same path as mine . . . but then the Pure emerged, and the Warlock King was slain, and those of my kind who dwelled in the court were driven back into the shadows.” A line of drool hung suspended from the genthyaki’s jaw. It did not seem to even have the strength to wipe it away. “Now another nas’achek has come. And it means to feed upon the carcass of this world.”
The ge
nthyaki lapsed into silence, its slitted black eyes staring at the floor. Alyanna could hear nothing save the buzz of the insects feasting on its ravaged stump. If not for the very slight rise and fall of its chest, she would have thought its spirit had finally slipped away.
Staring at this dying creature, Alyanna felt a welter of emotions. Hatred, yes, for the humiliation and pain it had caused her beneath the Selthari Palace. But there was something else as well. The genthyaki had been the tool she had used to bring about the end of the old world. Its soul had been twined with hers for a thousand years.
It had done what it needed to survive, just as she had.
She felt a presence appear beside her.
“What is that?” Cho Lin asked, disgust and fear twisting her voice.
The genthyaki’s head slowly rose, nictating lids sliding rapidly across its eyes as it tried to focus on the newcomer. Then it smiled horribly. The shape-changer’s flesh trembled, and for a moment the visage of a Shan in his middle years briefly overlaid its fire-ravaged face.
Cho Lin gasped.
“Shan. Come to avenge your father?”
Alyanna blinked in surprise, a coldness swelling in her stomach. Oh, no.
“I will make his spirit smile, monster,” Cho Lin said, steel rasping as she drew one of her swords.
The genthyaki grated another chuckle. “Then cut off her head, Shan.” It raised a trembling claw and pointed towards Alyanna. “She was the one who commanded me to kill your father.”
Cho Lin whirled to face Alyanna.
By the dead gods. “Lying monster,” she hissed, raising her hand. Blue flames erupted from her palm, billowing out to envelop the genthyaki. It screeched, thrashing in pain as her sorcery charred its flesh. Whatever pity she felt for the genthyaki had vanished.
Alyanna turned and clattered down the steps of the wagon, Cho Lin a step behind her. Tongues of eldritch flame licked the air as her sorcery spread with unnatural speed, until the genthyaki’s prison was a raging inferno. She could hear the dwindling screams of the monster as it clung tenaciously to life. Then the sound stopped, and she knew that it was finally dead.
Cho Lin gripped her arm, turning Alyanna to look at her. “What did it mean? About my father?”
Alyanna shook her head. “I do not know. Its nature is lies.”
Cho Lin let go of her, but her face was troubled. Alyanna kept her own expression one of grim resolve. Beside them, the roof of the wagon collapsed in a rush of flames, spraying blue sparks into the sky.
Keilan watched the battle unfold from afar.
At first it was almost serenely beautiful, with ribbons of colored light falling from where Alyanna hovered, but then the sounds of rending explosions and pained screams began to drift across the field. Moments later, the first Skein stumbled out from among the circled wagons; some collapsed after taking only a few staggering steps, while others left behind dark trails in the snow as they fled the devastation. These warriors were barely able to lift their weapons before the charging Dymorian soldiers overwhelmed them. Despite the success of the ambush, Keilan wished he could be there; but as Alyanna had rightly pointed out, his control over his sorcery was tenuous, and he was as likely to strike down an ally as a foe. So instead he had stayed behind with the few soldiers who were too wounded to join the attack, hoping that none of his friends would die in the battle below.
The Skein did not look like they would last long.
“Right tired, aren’t they?” growled the grizzled ranger crouched beside Keilan. He had lost three of the fingers on his sword-hand, but Keilan had heard he was still the finest hunter among the Dymorians, and it was his snares that had caught much of the small game they’d eaten on their journey north.
“They look like they’ve been drinking,” Keilan replied, surprised at how slow and clumsy the Skein warriors appeared as they reeled across the snow.
The ranger cleared his throat noisily and spat. “Could be, lad. They certainly didn’t expect a fight this deep in their land. But I think it’s that.” Keilan followed the Dymorian’s outstretched hand and his lone finger that indicated the hole in the side of the mountain. “You sorcerers can feel it as well, eh?”
Keilan nodded. The scrabbling in his head had intensified as the mountain swelled larger and larger. But the Skein down below actually seemed disorientated, as if many of them could barely keep their feet.
“Might get worse the longer one stays in the shadow of this place,” the ranger mused, rubbing his stubbled cheek with the hand that still had all its fingers.
He could be right, Keilan thought. Most of the Skein were now sprawled in the snow, and the Dymorian soldiers that moved among them finishing off the dying did seem more sluggish than even a few moments before. The largest knot of Skein warriors had been broken, and only a handful remained, each swarmed by Dymorians. It had been the arrival of the magisters that had extinguished any hope of the tide being turned – Vhelan and Seril had been well behind the initial charge, but when they had arrived, they had struck with glittering sorceries, slaying the few Skein who had been putting up resistance.
“Come on, lad. Fighting’s done.” The ranger rose and began to pick his way down the rocky slope.
As they followed the path of churned snow, Keilan noticed that several of the Skein wagons now crawled with sorcerous flames. One of the wagons that was set slightly apart from the rest had been almost entirely consumed, reduced to a blackened shell by the ravenous blue fire. Vhelan and Alyanna were slogging through the drifts as they left this wagon behind them, and Keilan angled his approach to intercept them before they rejoined the gathering of surviving Dymorians. As he neared them, he saw that Cho Lin there as well, though she had lingered behind to watch the fire finish devouring the wagon.
Vhelan turned to him as Keilan arrived beside them. The magister’s smile was broad, but Keilan could see the strain he carried.
“A magnificent victory, my boy!” Vhelan said. “The Skein king is dead, and one of the Shan demons has been destroyed.”
“Truly?” Keilan replied, hope rising in him.
“Aye,” Vhelan said with what sounded like forced cheer, laying a hand on Keilan’s shoulder and squeezing it hard. “The knife you brought sent the demon back to the abyss!”
“That is heartening to hear,” Keilan said. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to dare believe that their quest could succeed, that the vision he had glimpsed could be averted. He glanced at Alyanna, expecting to see triumph in the sorceress’s face, but instead a shadow lay over her, as if she was turning over something troubling. As Keilan watched, she examined a handful of her dark hair, then with a grimace ripped several of the strands loose and let them flutter free.
“What about the rest of the demons? And the queen, is she here?”
Vhelan’s gaze drifted to the hole scooped from the mountain’s side. Alyanna had called it a door, but if that was true it must have swung inward, as now it simply looked like the opening to a great cave. “They have already passed within,” the magister said, and from his tone it was clear he feared what the queen had found inside.
“We must follow,” Alyanna said, finally emerging from her reverie. “And quickly. The old histories speak of a chamber where the Min-Ceruthans laid down ancient magic to keep the Ancient asleep. If the demons reach that room and unravel the weaves, we will have no hope of repairing what they destroy.”
Keilan’s trepidation rose as he stared at the breached entrance. What would they find inside? What traps had the Min-Ceruthans left behind to ensure no one could ever wake the god-beast of the north?
The surviving soldiers waited for them near where they had defeated the Skein. The flames that had spread in Alyanna’s initial attack had subsided, and most of the wagons had escaped with little more than a light scorching. A few of the Dymorians were already dragging supplies from some of the wagon
s, haunches of dried meat and earthenware jugs. Keilan’s stomach growled at the sight of food – they’d been on tight rations since leaving the cave near the battlefield, and the small game the rangers had caught had not been enough to keep him from going to bed hungry nearly every night. From what he could see, the Skein had expected to camp here for quite a while. It was strange, though, that they hadn’t joined their shaman in venturing inside the Burrow. Perhaps the Skein king had found the limits of his warrior’s bravery here.
Nel was in conversation with one of the Dymorian soldiers, an older veteran who served as Lord d’Venish’s advisor. A small rush of relief went through him at the sight of Nel – he knew she could take care of herself, but still the swirl and chaos of battle was dangerous. The thought of a stray arrow or an unlucky sword catching her made his blood run cold. Nel raised her hand to forestall whatever the soldier was about to say; it looked like he wanted to argue about something, but instead she left him frowning behind her as she approached Vhelan.
“Boss, we lost eight men, including Lord d’Venish. Another three have suffered wounds that might kill them, especially since we don’t have a trained chirurgeon with us. Galen has agreed to take command, though he’s a bit hesitant. The others respect him well enough, but he does not see himself as worthy of leading.”
“Well, he’ll have to overcome his misgivings. There isn’t much choice at this point.” Vhelan shaded his eyes, squinting up at the Burrow. “We need to bring as many as we can inside. Leave those who are best at field dressing to care for the wounded, and another few to guard against wild beasts. And Seril. Where we’re going is no place for her.”
“We leave now?” Nel’s tone was incredulous.
“Now,” Vhelan said grimly.
Nel frowned in obvious disagreement, but still she turned away and made again towards the veteran soldier. Galen, he presumed.
A flash of light caught Keilan’s eye – the chavenix, floating from where Alyanna had left it hidden high up among the tree line. It settled beside her and she pulled her sack from among the rest of their bags and began to rummage through it. Keilan drifted closer, curious what other wonders she had brought with her. He saw her secrete a slim ivory wand among her robes and then slip on a pair of jeweled rings. She caught him watching her.