Beneath the Vault of Stars

by Blake Goulette

  The setting suns had parted ways some time ago; now, Miryan—the second sun—disappeared in a ruddy haze. From the back of Kalas’ mind, the Song, ever-present, he realized, thrust itself toward his conscious thoughts. Curious, he looked around, not sure of what he expected to see until the Beloved Sun’s last rays glanced from the peculiar object half-buried in the sand.

  “Wait, Father, I think I saw something,” he said as he ran the one hundred or so feet toward the spot. When he reached it, he froze.

  “Boy?” wondered Tàran as Kalas gasped.

  Kalas stooped, retrieved something from the desert floor, and walked with a sober pace back toward his father.

  “Well?”

  He said nothing, simply held what he’d discovered for his father to see.

  It was Tàran’s turn to gasp.

  “That looks a lot like that knife Zhalera made for your birthday.”

  “It is that knife,” said Kalas as he turned it over in his hands. “There’s no mistaking it! But how did it get out here? We’re nowhere near where that thing attacked us!”

  The knife still bore traces of the animal’s blood, now black with age. Kalas scraped at them until they flaked away. Tàran reached beneath his cloak and produced a blade of his own: not quite a sword, but longer than a typical dagger.

  “Maybe not, boy, but keep that knife ready! It saved you once, and even though I’d hoped I was wrong, it may have to save you —save us!—again. Soon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For right now, just be ready. Show me where you think Dzharëth would have hidden himself.”

  “Father? All right, it’s this way…”

  A few minutes’ walk through the labyrinthine rocks brought them to a small opening, not much more than a crevice.

  “Through there,” said Kalas. He caught a faint waft of rotting meat and tightened his grip on his weapon. “Earlier in the day, the suns shine through holes in the roof: even then, it’s pretty dim, but now, I don’t know if we’ll be able to see inside.”

  “We will be,” said Tàran as he dropped the pack he’d been carrying. He snagged a pair of torches, handed them to Kalas, and struck his long dagger against a chunk of flint, showering the heads with sparks. Two strikes and they had fire.

  “Better call for him, boy, see if he’s in there,” suggested Tàran, now standing in front of Kalas.

  “Dzharëth?” he shouted.

  No answer.

  “Maybe he’s not here? Dzharëth?” he called again.

  Nothing.

  “I don’t think—wait!”

  Tàran heard it, too: something within the shadows moved. Groaned.

  “Dzharëth? Dzharëth, come on out! We need to get you back to town! Your—we—you really need to see a cleric.”

  Movement inside the cave stopped, but whatever was inside held its breath. Tried to, at least: the effort elicited another groan, more pained than the last.

  “Come on out, Dzharëth. You need help!”

  “Go away,” wept Dzharëth.

  “We can’t do that, boy,” said Tàran. In his peripheral vision, Kalas noted his father’s hands tighten on the hilt of his weapon.

  “I don’t…I don’t want to,” he mumbled. Without conviction.

  “Dzharëth, we’re coming in,” said Kalas, and before Tàran’s cautionary hiss registered, he was through the narrow doorway.

  Kalas’ flickering torch cast strange new shadows across the walls, framing Dzharëth’s emaciated form in its weak orange light. The fetor of rot clung to Kalas’ nostrils and he fought not to gag. Bones—some small, some surprisingly large: all recent—littered the cave floor. Recovered, Kalas stepped closer, heard Tàran’s footsteps behind him. In the light of both torches, Dzharëth’s plight revealed itself more fully.

  His eyes, now sunken and limned with red, had a yellowish sheen; he was naked, and his skin appeared raw and loose and bore a peculiar livid tracery. Patches of his stringy black hair were missing, and as he shifted his weight, something vile suppurated from a thin, vertical slit high on his chest.

  “I don’t want to…hurt…”

  “You’re hurt? We know, Dzharëth. C’mon, we’ll—”

  “That’s not what he means, boy,” growled Tàran. “Get back here. Now.”

  “What else could he mean? Look at him! He’s in bad shape, Father! Looks like something attacked him, too! We have to get him help!”

  “He’s in bad shape all right, but I’m telling you, boy…Look, you’re right: something did attack him, but not what you think. Not how you think. Please: get back here!”

  Kalas turned toward his father, regarded him with a quizzical look, but once he grasped the fear in his eyes, he obeyed.

  “Father?”

  Tàran said nothing else, but kept his eyes on Dzharëth.

  “No more goats!”

  Goats?!

  “I don’t want to go back—I can’t! After I…I killed…my father! My mother!”

  “What are you talking about?” said Kalas.

  “But not before I tried—I tried!—to kill you!”

  “What are you talking about?!”

  Dzharëth stood. It took more effort than it should have, and once on his feet, he staggered, braced himself against the wall. When he’d first spoke, his voice had the same high-pitched quality that it had always had, but with every syllable, it changed, became more guttural, more gravelly, more dark.

  “I watched you from the shadows while you ran, nëshriyilkursh! I waited, in the dark, for the opportunity. And when it came, I moved! But too slowly!”

  Dzharëth made an enraged gesture toward the seeping wound between his pectoral muscles.

  “I knew you were one of hers—we can always tell!—but I had no idea how much power you hide behind that unassuming guise!”

  “‘Power?’ What are you talking about? Dzharëth, talk to me! What’s happening!”

  “He’s gone, boy,” consoled Tàran. “Your friend is gone: that’s—”

  “Kalas!” said a weak, nasal voice with Dzharëth’s crooked mouth. The figure lost its balance and landed on its knees. “Kalas! I’m sorry! I tried to fight—I tried! But it’s too—it’s—aaagh!”

  Whatever the last vestiges of Dzharëth’s old self tried to say drowned in a viscous black sludge that poured suddenly from his mouth, his eyes, ears, and nose. His limbs spasmed, wrenched free from their sockets, and split his sallow skin, spilling more of the oily filth and leaking smoke the color of unpolished jet. Its gurgles became howls—Kalas shivered reflexively; something discordant seemed to reverberate throughout the chamber—as its insides twisted and it somehow knit its broken bones into an all too familiar shape.

  This time, it stood on two feet, like a man, though it had to stoop to fit within the small cave. It stepped toward Kalas, held him for a moment with its jaundiced gaze, but before the boy could move, a streak of silver whistled past his ear and Tàran’s blade plunged into the beast’s chest just to the left of its other wound.

  “Run, boy!” shouted Tàran. “Dzharëth” lunged for them, but he was already weak, and his new injury slowed him down. He fell, hit the ground with a palpable thud as Kalas and his father scrambled for the exit.

  And they ran.

  5.

  Out of breath, they stopped once they’d retreated past the small arroyo. Dzharëth hadn’t followed them: why didn’t really matter.

  Maybe he’s…Kalas wouldn’t finish the thought.

  The remaining sun hung low in the sky, and soon, it would join its partner behind the horizon.

  “What happened to Dzharëth?!” said Kalas between wheezes/ Tàran held up a hand, allowed his heart rate to level before responding.

  “That, boy, was a zhàrudzh. A rudzhegu.”

  “They’re real?!”

  “Most people today like to pretend they’re not, but, well, what do you think?”

  Kalas said nothing, tried to comprehend what had just happened
to his friend. Tàran watched him think, then continued: “You’ve heard the stories, I’m sure. Your mother and I probably used them as a warning a time or two: but they’re not just stories.

  “That woodcut you found, with the battle: from what I remember—Tzharak knows more, I’m sure—long ago, before the world held the shape it holds today, something happened, something beyond horrific, and the boundary between material and immaterial blurred.

  “Zhàfàrokme—another kind of spirit-being—fought against the zhàrudzhme. The odd thing is that to this day, no one remembers why. No one knows who won. For all I know, those armies might still be at war with one another.

  “There’s more, but I’m not sure if it’s…safe to reveal it. Not yet. I…your mother and I made a promise to someone a long, long time ago…”

  Kalas considered his father’s words, wanted to hear more, but remained quiet.

  For a moment.

  “Father, Dzharëth said something about power. I don’t know what he was talking about, but then again, I don’t remember what happened that night. Do you know what he meant?”

  “Son,” said Tàran, using that rare appellation, “I have my suspicions, but to explain would require that I break that promise. I have to ask you to trust me right now: when the time is right, when it’s safe, I’ll tell you a story—a true story—that I’ve wanted to tell you ever since you became a part of our lives.

  “Will you do that? Trust me?”

  Without hesitation, Kalas nodded: “I will. I do, Father.”

  Tàran smiled even as his shoulders sagged, as though shifting the weight of an unbearable burden. His eyes bored into Kalas’ as his rough hands swallowed one of his boy’s and shook it, grateful.

  “Thank you, Kalas.”

  “What will we tell people about Dzharëth?” asked Kalas once they’d resumed their trek. In a few minutes, the barrens would give way to the outskirts of Lohwàlar. “I mean, we can’t just tell people, ‘Hey, my friend killed his parents—tried to kill us—and, oh yeah, he’s a wolf monster,’ can we?”

  “No, I don’t suppose the townsfolk would react well to that, even if it is the truth. For now, we’ll let everyone know we saw a rudzhegu near the Southwest Cracks, that they should stay away from there. That is the truth, and Ëlbodh and Hwena—and Dzharëth—are dead: it’s over now, and there’s nothing to be gained from soiling their memories.”

  “He was my friend for a long time. He wasn’t always like that—he wasn’t always one of those things, was he?” said Kalas, after a moment’s thought.

  “Some people might disagree, but no, I don’t think so, boy. In the stories I remember, the rudzhegume were heavenlies at one time, but now, to interact with the material world, they have to acquire the means, and since one’s body is bound to the immaterial through one’s kelâ—one’s soul…At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I don’t know for sure.”

  “What if one comes for me? For my kelâ?”

  Tàran nodded, acknowledging Kalas’ concern, but answered, “In all my Sevens, Dzharëth is the only zhàrudzh I’ve ever seen or heard of, but more than that, even though no one knows for sure how the spirits ‘choose’ their tethers, most of what I’ve heard hints that it’s not a one-way decision.”

  “You mean Dzharëth asked for this?!”

  “Not exactly, boy. Evil is subtle, and like I said, no one knows for sure how it all works. Least of all me! But again, it’s over now. Your friend—no, that creature!—was in bad shape when we found him, and I put another dagger through his chest. I don’t imagine we’ll be seeing Dzharëth again.”

  Chapter V.

  Within the Wall of the Empty Sea

  T

  àran had spread the word that the Southwest Cracks might not be the safest place, that he and Kalas had dispatched a large wolf that was most likely the one responsible for Ëlbodh’s, Hwena’s, and, he added, Dzharëth’s deaths. This news tickled the townsfolks’ ears for a day or two, but soon after, the Ïsriba delegation returned, and it seemed everyone’s interest tacked toward the travelers and their new companions. As the party entered the Crescent, choked with people, Sàrush, beaming, cleared his throat and prepared his remarks. From a not-too-distant balcony, Kalas and Zhalera watched the procession.

  “How many people did Sàrush send out?” she asked.

  “Seven, I thought,” said Kalas, straining to make out the arrivals.

  “That’s what I thought, but it looks like there’s maybe, what? twelve people altogether? I thought Sàrush said Ïsriba would send an army!”

  “It’s still strange to me that you don’t call him ‘Grandfather,” Kalas opined. “Maybe because I never knew mine?”

  “If Sàrush was your grandfather, it wouldn’t seem strange at all,” she almost growled. Kalas dropped it.

  “Well, maybe seven or eight soldiers is enough. I mean, I think Father and I might have put an end to the recent attacks.”

  “I still can’t believe it was Dzharëth!” exclaimed Zhalera.

  “It wasn’t. Not really,” defended Kalas. He thought of the wretched figure’s twisting form, its stench and frothing putrescence. “Not anymore, at least. You should have seen it—no! I mean, no, you shouldn’t have!—but the way it…changed, the way it broke itself apart and put itself back together!”

  Kalas shuddered at the memory.

  “I am glad I found the knife you made for me,” he finished. He’d cleaned and oiled it so that it shined; now, as he held it out to her again, the suns-light danced along its razor-fine edge.

  “Me too,” she said with a smile.

  The pair watched as the spectacle unfolded beneath them. Eight lightly armored men, all astride powerful-looking war horses, seemed to fill the Crescent, dwarfing the four remaining townsfolk who escorted them. Most of the riders’ armor—naught but a few well-secured plates connected with shimmering green leather straps—gleamed in places, though now a light rime of dust blunted its shine. At their sides hung swords in scabbards constructed of the same green leather. Each wore a headpiece that appeared ill-suited for desert climes, although at some point they’d added veils to hold the sand and dust at bay.

  At first, Kalas and Zhalera only managed to catch fragments of the conversation, but it wasn’t long before Sàrush’s voice swelled with ire, making it impossible not to hear.

  “Eight men? Eight men?!” roared the magistrate. He cast a withering glance at the delegation. “Did these men—where are the others? Did they fail to make known the extent of our circumstance? That a rudzhegu—yes, a wolf demon!—has been murdering our people without the slightest provocation?

  “Because I know the Queen would have sent her very best warriors had these…these fools acquitted themselves with any measure of propriety!”

  Before the “fools” could react, one of the soldiers—their superior, Kalas guessed—barked a condescending laugh. From atop his destrier, the formidable and more heavily-armored figure peered down at the magistrate. Most of his men began to chuckle, too, although from his vantage point, Kalas noticed one man taking in his new surroundings, gauging the particulars of his environment: he seemed little interested in the worsening conversation.

  “Queen Ësfàyami refused even to see your envoy—the half that survived the journey, that is!” the imposing man exulted as he removed his veil. His voice, pitched high with an oddly musical quality, dripped with a perverse glee as he delivered his retort.

  “But most of these men, these dhëmme—children—have never stepped beyond Ïsriba’s illustrious gates, and it seems as though breathing that rarefied air for so long has made them soft. Weak. Why, their operational readiness rates somewhere south of pathetic! What better way to burn away the chaff than to march them through lesser frontiers like…what do you call this place? Lohwàlar? Bah! If a few weeks in this desolate waste, shoulder to shoulder among their inferiors, should prove insufficient motivation for improvement, then maybe they’re more suited for a life of…whatever it is you
do around here: they’ll stay behind while the rest of us return to civilization!”

  Addressing his men, he added: “Ladies? What will it be? An unhappy existence in this blasted desert? Or a name for yourselves after we’ve delivered the blighted denizens of Lohwàlar from this…zhàrudzh?”

  “By your word, Commander Valderïk!” said six of the remaining men, making no attempt to camouflage their derisive chuckles: the seventh, whom Kalas thought looked much older than the others, continued assessing everything around him in silence.

  “That Valderïk sounds like a little girl!” Zhalera whispered with a giggle. Kalas nodded even as he bristled at the commander’s pomposity.

  Sàrush seemed at a loss for words. From the balcony, Kalas watched the magistrate’s color drain from his face, only to darken with embarrassed rage before he managed to collect himself and say in his most diplomatic tone, “Should that be the case, then Lohwàlar welcomes you and your men and looks forward to improving your perception of our admittedly modest estate. Commander Valderïk, if you will permit us the privilege of escorting your company to the garrison?”

  “So they do have manners here in these nether regions!” the commander declaimed with an unexpected nod. “Very well…Sàrush, was it? Show us to our quarters!”

  The seven trotted after the magistrate; the eighth, however, lingered a moment longer. He casually raised his head in Kalas’ and Zhalera’s direction as though he’d been well aware of their presence ever since entering the Crescent. He locked eyes with Kalas, and though most of his face was still veiled, his gaze sparkled with some indescribable quality wholly unlike that of his compatriots. He smiled as his mount canted toward their balcony, touched the side of his headpiece in what appeared to be a salute of some kind. Just loud enough for the two of them to hear, he said, “Lushà vam, sàme.”

  “‘Good day, friends?’” repeated Kalas. “What do you make of that?”