by Aaron Yeager
“Now I feel like screaming,” Invini admitted.
Dr. Griffin knelt fearlessly before the pile of slugs and examined them clinically.
“What kind of magic are we dealing with?” Athel asked as she kicked away a slug that was venturing too close for her liking.
“Well,” Dr. Griffin began as he picked up a slug by the tail and held it up before his face. “They haven’t been modified physically that I can tell.” With his free hand he reached up and tilted the extra lenses of his glasses down in front of his eyes. “I’d call them garden variety, but I don’t think these normally live below the water line.” He scratched the top of his bald head and then opened his mouth widely, drawing the slug toward it.
“Don’t you dare,” Ryin began, but it was too late. Dr. Griffin dropped the slug in his mouth and began sloshing it around thoughtfully. Athel moaned sickly as Dr. Griffin tilted his head—as if impressed by the flavor—then spat out the slug onto the cave floor, smacking his lips of the clear slime that now glistened off of them. Invini placed his hands on his knees, fighting the urge to pass out.
“I can’t taste any residue from potions or medicines,” he assessed. “That means they took shape because they were compelled to.”
“That means our Beastmaster is near,” Spirea concluded, adjusting the rods in her headband. “But why force a bunch of slugs into the shape of an old woman who gives cryptic warnings?”
“The Hounds of Centerville,” Athel said aloud, snapping her fingers.
“What?” Ryin asked.
“It was driving me crazy, but I knew I had heard those lines before,” she explained. “In the second book there was an old lady at the entrance to the Cave of Marvels who said those exact lines.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ryin snorted. “Why would anyone recreate some stupid book character way down here?”
“I dunno,” Athel shrugged. “But he has good taste. The Hounds of Centerville was a bestseller.”
“Well, what happened in the book when they entered the cave?” Dr. Griffin asked.
“They all died.”
Another gust of wind like a deathly moan came up out of the cavern.
“Stop that,” Spirea snapped, slugging Invini on the arm.
Carefully, the group walked past the pile of slugs and entered the mouth of the choked tunnel. The incline was steep, and the walls offered no root or crag to use as handholds. Athel and Spirea found leverage by planting their staffs into the softer parts of the floor, while the others were forced to crouch down, nearly skidding along on their rumps as the angle grew steeper.
“Hey, old man,” Ryin whispered as he tugged on the back of Dr. Griffin’s gray ponytail. “What did it taste like?”
“They’re actually kind of salty,” he admitted.
“I thought salt killed those things.”
“Yeah, it does. Strange, huh?”
The ground beneath Ryin’s feet gave way and he began sliding down, picking up speed at an alarming rate. Quick as lightning, Athel drew her pistol and fired; the small seed whizzed past Ryin’s head then burst in the air. Roots and vines burrowed into the cave walls in all directions, and Ryin became entangled in the spider web shaped growth. His body flopped and bounced, finally resting with his feet dangling below him, pointing further down the tunnel.
As the group worked their way down to help Ryin, he began screaming violently. At first Athel thought to say something flippant, but quickly she realized that Ryin was in real pain and she hastened her descent.
“Just what did you do to him?” Spirea said accusingly as she reached Ryin and began to cut him free.
“Nothing, there’s no venom in these vines,” Athel defended as she joined her. Cutting him free, Ryin pulled his knees up to his chest and his screaming became even louder. His boots were completely gone, as if eaten away, and his feet were bleeding uncontrollably, trails of blood trickling down the incline of the tunnel.
“Doctor,” Athel called back, “you better get his feet bandaged up right away.”
“Why, what’s wrong with them?” he asked as he skidded along in the dark, holding his torch above him.
“All the skin is gone.”
Dr. Griffin joined them and began attending to the wounds. Bone and muscle trembled with pain as bandages were applied. Ryin’s screaming became absolutely unbearable, and no one could help but feel for the amount of pain their shipmate was enduring. Mercifully, Spirea reached over and scratched his cheek with one of her fingernails; Ryin’s screaming ceased and his eyes glazed over as the venom dropped him into unconsciousness.
“I’m telling you, I didn’t do this to him,” Athel insisted as she rolled up a sash and placed it under Ryin’s head.
“Well, you must have used the wrong kind of seed,” Spirea accused.
“I don’t even own any of those. Cruisao seeds are forbidden.”
“Yeah, well, so is this tunnel, but here we are, aren’t we, princess?”
Athel huffed in frustration. She wondered if she had made a mistake. She could hear her mother’s voice, carefully planted in the back of her mind. Of course you made a mistake. You’re wasting your time and hurting others.
Athel hung her head and looked down at the slick ground, and that’s when she noticed something strange.
“Hey, look at this,” Athel pointed. The trails of blood abruptly ended a few feet down the tunnel below them. The blood didn’t pool up, it just ended, and the leading edge gave off a slight sizzle and an acrid whiff of burnt blood.
“What in the Mother is that?” Spirea asked before picking up a stone and tossing it down. When the stone reached the end of the trail of blood it sizzled and shrank, its outer layers flaking off until there was nothing left but a wisp of smoke.
“It’s some kind of barrier,” Spirea guessed, “Ryin’s feet must have dangled into the leading edge of it when he was being tossed around.”
“It seems you saved this young man’s life after all,” Dr. Griffin mentioned as he secured the bandages. “Did you know that in Ferrusian culture that means the two of you are to be married?”
“Tell him to get in line with the others,” Athel chided, unable to shake the feelings of shame and worthlessness that threatened to overcome her. She hated her mother for that. She felt programmed. Programmed to think that the only thing of worth she could ever do was sit on the throne, eternally sabotaging any other endeavor she could ever undertake. No matter how hard she tried or how far she excelled, deep down she would feel like it was a waste and subconsciously sabotage herself. Failing at everything else she tried until she finally gave up and gave in to the one thing her programming would not interfere with. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
“All right,” Athel said, shoving aside her insecurities and getting a hand under Ryin. “There’s no getting through that thing. We better head back up and find another way down.”
“Wait,” Invini commanded, his voice unusually stern. He grabbed another rock and tossed it up the tunnel behind them. The stone bounced a couple of times then flaked apart as it hit another invisible wall.
“I thought as much,” Invini despaired. “The second one must have activated once we came down the tunnel.”
“So we’re trapped here?” Spirea complained.
“At least now we know why no one ever came back out.” Dr. Griffin chuckled.
Suddenly the ground beneath them began to shake, and they all experienced a sense of vertigo and fought to keep their balance. The angle of the tunnel was increasing, becoming steeper, as if the entire tunnel around them was rotating slowly toward vertical.
“What kind of wizardry can turn a whole section of rock on its end?” Spirea called out as she grabbed Ryin’s arm and wrapped it in one of Athel’s vines, preventing him from sliding further down.
“The rock isn’t turning. It’s a gravity mine,” Invini explained as he scrambled to find footing.
Within a few moments the entire group was hanging from Athel’s vines, the
tunnel seeming to stretch down directly beneath them. Loose rocks pattered down on them then fell below, flaking apart as they hit the barrier.
“You know Invini,” Spirea said spitefully, “if you and I had stuck to our plans we’d be eating dinner right about now, do you realize that?”
“This might not be so bad,” Dr. Griffin said as he hung off a vine by both arms and one leg, looking like a bunch of bananas. “The barrier seems to take a moment for full effect. Perhaps if we drop straight through it all at once we can pass through with only minor damage.”
A large boulder came loose from the rock face above them, streaking downward and completely disintegrating against the barrier.
“Then again, maybe not.”
The vine Athel was hanging from snapped, and she tumbled downward. Two of the vines split and grew to save her, wrapping around her ankles and stopping her in midair upside down. The sudden stop jerked her violently, and her arms flung out into the barrier.
Athel felt the most sickly sensation of burning and instinctively withdrew her hands, cradling them, fearful to even look at it for what she might find. It took a few moments for her to realize that it was only her left hand that burned and only a small part of it on her wrist. Slowly she uncurled her hands and forced herself to look at them. There was no damage that she could see, but the snail-shell spiral brand on her left wrist glowed a deep blue, burning within her, reminding her of the pain when it was placed on her wrist for the first time.
It was then that Athel realized that the others were cheering. She looked around her and saw that the barrier was now visible, humming a faint blue, and had opened like an iris around her.
“How is this possible?” Invini asked, terrified.
“It’s the key that our Stonemaster put on me,” Athel called out in relief, her face beet red from the blood rushing to her head.
When Invini saw the mark his eyes grew large and fearful. “Blasphemer!” he called out, releasing his grip on a vine and plummeting toward her. Invini crashed into Athel, snapping the vines that held her, and the two tumbled downward. As they passed the crystalline gravity mine, their downward fall turned into them rolling sideways, and Athel found herself completely disoriented as Invini punched and kicked at her with a ferocity unlike anything she had ever seen.
As the pair stopped rolling, Invini grabbed a handful of red hair and jerked Athel’s head backward, drawing a thin blade out to slit her throat. Athel punched upward like Privet had taught her, hitting her attacker squarely in the throat. Invini released her with a painful wheeze and wrapped his fingers around his neck, hacking and coughing for breath, as Athel brought herself to her feet and drew her pistol.
“Just what is wrong with your head?” Athel demanded, still reeling from the suddenness of it all.
“That seal,” he gasped. “No one outside the Stonemasters order can have one.”
“I didn’t ask to have this put on,” Athel said. “It was an accident. Just pretend you never saw it.”
“Laws may not mean anything in your girl kingdom,” Invini hacked out, “but they mean something to the rest of us. If I don't kill you then my life is forfeit.”
“I thought you said Wysteria was wonderful,” Athel said, keeping her distance.
“It is wonderfully entertaining,” Invini admitted, his eyes now a deep red color. “Little girls learning to read and pretending to rule. It’s quaint, like dressing up a monkey and teaching it to pour tea.”
“You would have only swine rule?” Athel inquired. “Men allow their appetites to lead them around by the snout.”
“And women allow their pride to render them incapable of sound judgment,” Invini retorted. “If women ran this world there would be nothing but endless war.”
“You are the aggressor here,” Athel pointed out. “There is no need for us to fight.”
Invini drew his cutlass. “The oaths between Stonemasters and Stormcallers go back thousands of years. If I don’t kill you they will kill me.”
With a rush or air propelling him, he charged at Athel. Drawing her own sword, she pulled the trigger on her pistol but no shot discharged. The air around the flint was held tight and refused to ignite.
Invini slashed at her neck, attempting to decapitate her. Rather than block, Athel ducked below the blow and slashed upward, desirous to end the duel with a single blow, but the flat of Invini’s blade was already there, stopping her blade before it could connect with his midsection.
Man, this guy is really fast, Athel thought to herself as she was forced back by a solid gust of wind that felt like an elbow to the gut.
Another gust struck her on the shoulder, and she dropped her pistol as she was thrown backward.
Athel hit the ground and rolled upright as Invini charged, chopping his cutlass downward as she blocked. Their swords caught in a hilt lock, Invini used his greater physical strength to force Athel down to her knees, and then he pushed harder, forcing her back to the ground.
Athel could feel herself beginning to panic. She felt blind to her surroundings. There were no plants this far down. Invini bore down even harder, their blades trembling just inches from her throat. Behind him, Athel thought she could see her mother's eyes hovering in the air.
You should have taken the throne.
“NO!” Athel yelled defiantly. She stomped her foot onto her pistol where it lay on the ground. The seed inside grew out from the barrel and into the ground. The earth beneath them rumbled and then long roots erupted around Athel, whipping out at her opponent with all the force and anger she could muster. Invini rolled left to avoid one root, but another struck him in the hip, spinning him long ways and sending him to the ground beside her, where more roots grew forth, entangling and binding him where he lay.
Invini called out in the fell and dark words of his native tongue, weaving a spell around them.
Suddenly Athel’s ears popped in her skull and she felt the air sucked out of her lungs, as if some giant hand had squeezed her insides and forced everything out of her. Everything grew completely silent. She struggled to breathe, but there was nothing around her. Her eyes bulged painfully within her skull and she staggered sideways. She could see Invini's mouth continuing to move, but no sound reached her. Black spots filled her vision, and her sword fell out of her hand.
Staggering forward, Athel threw herself on top of him as he lay there entangled in her roots, and Invini’s face turned from triumph to panic as the air was forced out of his lungs as well, placed inside his own vacuum with her.
Quickly Invini dispelled his charm, and they both gasped for breath and fought for vision as the air rushed back in around them. Athel could feel the faint trickle of amber-colored blood coming from her ears and the corners of her eyes as she took her staff and tapped it against the roots that bound her attacker. Small poisonous thorns grew in all directions, piercing his skin, and sending him into unconsciousness with a look of disbelief on his face.
Chapter Twenty Four
Most Precious Cargo
It took Athel some time before her vision began to clear, and once it had, she started walking back up the tunnel toward her companions. Once she passed the gravity mine, she had to climb vertically until she reached the barrier and opened it again with her seal so that the others could climb down as well.
By this time, Ryin’s bandages had completely soaked through, and Dr. Griffin feared that some charm in the barrier was designed to prevent the blood from clotting properly.
“You Forsythians certainly have a way with people, don’t you?” Spirea said as she heaved, laying Ryin down next to the unconscious form of Invini, still encased in Athel’s vines.
“Well, I’m glad. The guy was a twig. He’s been laughing at us the whole time,” Athel said, rubbing a sore shoulder. “It was like he was a completely different person.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll let you be the one to tell Mina that you ruined our chances of getting a real Stormcaller on the crew.”
The image
of Mina’s lavender eyes staring coldly at her in displeasure flashed through Athel’s mind and she shuddered for a moment. She swore she could feel cold hands grabbing at her then realized that it was not her imagination. Cold hands were touching her calf. Athel looked down and saw Dr. Griffin, grabbing her leg and attempting to tear the hem of her dress.
Athel yelped and pulled away. “Just how many times do we have to beat you before you learn your lesson, old man?”
“I need to make some fresh bandages for Ryin’s feet,” Dr. Griffin explained.
“Then tear up your own clothes!” Athel insisted, shivering at the memory of Dr. Griffin’s touch.
Dr. Griffin clucked his tongue insolently and took off his white coat. Laying it out before him, he whispered a few words to himself, then the coat fell apart into long strips as if cut by an invisible blade.
Spirea tried to hide a wry grin and adjusted the rods tucked into her headband, then walked a few paces forward. As her torch penetrated the darkness it became clear that the area around the tunnel exit was actually a ledge. Athel joined her and the pair of Wysterian females looked down over the edge. They expected to see darkness far below them, but instead they saw a dimly illuminated cavern, with a small single-sail schooner sitting among rocky pillars, looking as out of place as snow in the desert.
The illumination came from lit torches attached to the stalagmites. The flickers of light caught the edges of piles of crates and barrels which were being slowly loaded onto the schooner by a few short, misshapen sailors.
The rods against Spirea’s head slipped free and fell down over the ledge. She swiped her hand at them but missed and watched helplessly as they fell, tumbling end over end silently in the wet air. Suddenly they burst into flames and exploded, reducing themselves to little more than ash in the blink of an eye.
Athel grabbed Spirea and pulled her away from the edge of the ledge. The two young women were frozen breathless as their ears strained for any sounds of alarm. After a few moments they allowed themselves to breathe again, feeling incredibly lucky that the explosion had gone unnoticed by the sailors hundreds of feet below.