by Jack Massa
“Yes, that’s it,” Draven said. “I feel a tremendous need to take care of her, protect her … to help her bear the burdens she carries.” He was gripping Glyssa’s hand tightly. “Do you think she will be strong enough to survive what lies ahead?”
Glyssa relaxed her thoughts, focused on listening to the impressions that came, the way the witch had taught her. “Oh, I think Amlina is like a downy feather—light and delicate, can be bent and twisted, but almost impossible to break or tear apart. I think the voyage has been hard for her. Waiting, inaction, these bring out her fear. But when the time comes to act, then she is strong and sure. Then she is the toughest of us all.”
* O *
The Iruks arose before dawn and put out the fire. They spoke words of thanks to the klarn and affirmed that its strength beat in their hearts as one. Then they picked up their spears and walked down the hill, singing softly the chant they had sung when the klarn was first formed:
Through wind and sharp wave
Through ice and blood
We hold to the klarn
We are fearless
Many hands, one heart
Many eyes, one soul
Many spears, one hunter
We hold to the klarn
We are fearless
Seventeen
Beryl floated in an immensity of darkness, her body resting cross-legged as if seated on a cushion, perfectly still. From time to time a luminous sphere drifted into sight. She would draw it near with her will, and peer inside as into a bubble. Thus her deepsight penetrated veils of time and distance.
A small-month had passed since her rejuvenation. Nourished by the life-force of the sacred lion, her full powers had returned. Now at last she could turn her attention to other matters, such as that spike of dark power she had noticed entering the world many days ago. She had traced its source to some region to the north and west, but that was as much as she could discern. Whomever wielded this power was deliberately concealing themselves. This of itself was no surprise. Any mage capable of such workings would know the importance of secrecy.
But Beryl could not escape the nagging thought that this magic was hidden specifically from herself. And when she peered into the bands of obfuscation, she sensed the signature of Amlina’s mind.
Beryl’s former apprentice, it seemed, had conjured something vast and deadly.
Tonight, new ripples of the power had manifested, drawing Beryl’s gaze. Either the ensorcellment had suddenly strengthened, or the concealments around it had weakened or flickered. From what Beryl could see now, the source of the emanations was on the move: still in the north but no longer so far west.
If it really was Amlina, where was she traveling, and why?
Another bubble of light drifted into view. Beryl attracted it with her mind. Here was a new insight: a second practitioner of the Larthangan arts. This one was young. She had potential, but no developed skills—a rank beginner. Perhaps Amlina had acquired an apprentice of her own? Peering deeper, Beryl drew in a sharp breath of excitement. This neophyte had a flaw, a psychic wound.
Here at last was a weakness to exploit.
Beryl scrutinized the wound for some time, probing, prodding. Yes, she could use it as a vent to infiltrate the mind of this would-be mage. In this way, she could discover the secret of the dark power and know for certain who wielded it.
And, if in truth it was Amlina … Well then, penetrating the mind of this apprentice might be useful indeed. Beryl could easily imagine turning this neophyte into a weapon—by making her a thrall.
* O *
Amlina was in Valgool, the night of the moons’ alignment. She stood on the rubble of an ancient step-pyramid, her body suffused with power.
She had arrived in time. She had succeeded in summoning Kumokaon, the being who could create the Mirror Against All Mishap. He was a godling, native to the place, reptilian in nature. In the time of Valgool’s ascendency, he had grown to vast size and power by partaking of countless blood sacrifices. In Larthang, he would have been called a dragon. Here he was simply known as ‘the Devourer.’
But now, as Kumokaon hovered before her in circles of flame, eyes like blood rubies, teeth like swords, Amlina knew she had not succeeded at all. She lacked the strength to control him, to compel the dragon to do her will.
She woke from the nightmare to the sound of dreadful howling.
It took her a few moments to realize the howls belonged to the physical world—gallwolves in the hills. She sat in utter darkness. Although the cabin was warm, she groped for her coat and wrapped it over her shoulders. She had spoken with Meghild in the afternoon, explaining about the Devourer. Undoubtedly, that talk had engendered the nightmare. But now … she sensed the queen’s head was missing from the shelf.
Early in the voyage, Amlina’s magic had been necessary to raise the eidolon body. But after a time, Meghild had learned to rise and wrap herself in the light form purely by the force of her will. Since then, she had risen whenever it pleased her, usually at night, to walk the decks of the cranock.
Blind in the darkness, the witch got out of her bunk, found her shoes. Bending low at the waist, she moved to the hatch. Stepping onto the deck, she found the night overcast, nearly as black as her cabin. A faint, lonely light shone above her on the foredeck—the eidolon.
On starless nights, away from the sea, it was remarkable how dark the world could become. It reminded Amlina of her childhood in the hinterlands of Larthang, the only period of her life when she had witnessed such impenetrable gloom. She found it unnerving.
The Iruks, she knew, found it appalling. They had never been so far from the open sea and its abiding witchlight. Yet, they had not once complained to her, just as they had not protested about their aching backs or blistered hands in the five days they had rowed up the river—although they grumbled enough to each other in their native tongue. As was their way, the Iruks showed stoic demeanors to everyone outside the klarn.
As the boat traveled up the river, the flat ground had risen into hills, increasingly rugged, farms and tended groves giving way to woods and pastures. Since navigating at night was impossible, the crew pulled into the shallows and anchored at dusk. They all slept the same hours now, except for one who kept watch. Tonight it was Brinda, who leaned with her back to the mast and gave Amlina a curt nod. Brinda was usually the most taciturn of all.
Away in the hills, a gallwolf howled, another answered, and then the whole chorus started again. Repressing a shiver, Amlina climbed to the foredeck and went to stand beside the queen.
“Ah, Amlina.” Meghild gave her a faraway glance. “It’s so dark up here, so far from the sea. Luckily, I make my own light now.”
Amlina smiled faintly. But then her shoulders twitched at a sharp yowling close to shore.
Meghild laughed harshly. “No need to worry. They won’t cross the water—no matter how much they might like to eat us.” Her expression grew vague once more. “I have a certain sympathy for the gallwolves … roaming in packs, hunting, as I did for so long as a pirate. But all of that seems long ago … another life, another Meghild ... I am hardly Meghild at all anymore, you know? I am changing into something else.”
Amlina stared at the gray face, the sharp shadows of jaw and cheekbone cast from the eidolon light below. The queen’s volatile mental state gave her constant worry.
“But that’s all right,” Meghild said. “It is something else you need me to be. And Wilhaven will make it into a saga … All of us must choose how we live our songs, you know.”
“Indeed, my queen. And you have lived yours bravely.”
“Hah. That I have.”
The chorus of wolves howled in reply, mournful and bitter.
“Aye, they would like to eat us. But it’s that other Devourer I am thinking of. What do you suppose it will feel like, Amlina, to throw myself into its mouth?”
“I do not know,” the witch murmured. And she thought, Perhaps we will all know, soon enough.
* O *
Later that night, Glyssa stepped out on deck to take the watch. She had not been sleeping anyway, between the intermittent howling of the wolves and her own raging emotions.
With neither sealight nor stars, the night was fearfully dark. The only dim glow came from the prow, where the eidolon stood motionless. Learning against the mast, Brinda watched Glyssa approach.
“You can get some sleep now, mate,” Glyssa said. “If you can sleep with all the wolf calls.”
“They’re quieting down, I think,” Brinda said. “Besides, you know me, I can sleep through anything.”
“How are your hands?” Glyssa asked.
Brinda glanced down at her blisters, which Wilhaven had treated with an ointment. “Not so bad. Yours?”
“Terrible.” Glyssa laughed grimly. All of the mates had blistered palms and aching backs from the rowing. The thought of their suffering rose as a pain in Glyssa’s chest. With it came guilt and a lonely feeling of shame. They had traveled so far, endured so much, all because of her.
Her voice had a ragged edge. “I am so sorry, to have brought you all such troubles.”
“That is nonsense,” Brinda answered firmly. “We hold to the klarn. It is what we must do.”
“But I have made it harder—so hard for all of you.”
“Through no fault of yours. It might have been any of us, and the klarn would have done the same.” Brinda set a hand on her shoulder. “The only difference, dear Glyssa, is that for you we all do it more gladly.”
That brought tears to her eyes, and Glyssa looked away.
Brinda gave her a hug. “Be cheered, mate. At the end of this voyage, we will kill a great witch and sail home with a boat full of plunder. And best of all, the klarn will still be whole.”
“I hope so,” Glyssa whispered, and returned the tight embrace.
She watched as Brinda headed off to bed. When the hatch closed, Glyssa took a deep breath, seeking to calm herself. But her attention settled on her heart, and there she felt once again the dreadful pain she had come to call the fishhook.
In recent days the pain had sharpened, like an old wound pulled open, trickling blood. Glyssa had first noticed it at the oars, as she and her mates struggled to accustom themselves to rowing. The discomfort, the sense of impending doom, had deepened each day they journeyed farther from the sea. Once, Glyssa almost thought she sensed a presence, another mind probing her, trying to slither into her soul the way the sorcerer had done. But she shrugged this off, deciding it was only fear from the past rising up to haunt her.
Fear was natural, she told herself, as they were heading into unknown and dangerous territory. But she was an Iruk warrior, who must face her fears and cast them aside.
* O *
The hills grew steeper, the current swifter. Three more days rowing brought the Phoenix Queen to the foot of cascading rapids. A settlement called Blaal’s Landing had grown up here, the farthest point inland where boats could travel. Piers stretched out from the muddy riverbank. Log and wattle buildings rose in a hollow between grassy slopes. The village had no wall or stockade. But, remarkably, a ring of tall poles surrounded the settlement, supporting a canopy of stout netting.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Amlina said. “As if they’re protecting themselves from the sky.”
“Aye, to be sure,” Wilhaven answered. He stood on the middle deck, coaching the Iruks at the oars as they maneuvered toward the dock. “We are near the realm of the torms, you see?”
“So the winged people raid here?” Eben grunted as he shifted his oar.
“I don’t know how often, this far down the river,” the bard said. “But they are known to raid along the borders, carrying off sheep and woolgoats, even aklors.”
They brought the cranock near the dock, and Lonn and Wilhaven used stout poles to guide them alongside. As they tied lines from bow and stern to bollards, a few villagers gathered to watch them. Dogs ran up, barking with excitement. No other boats were moored at the landing, as this was not the season for trading wool and hides.
Amlina wore an embroidered gown of bright yellow and blue, silver bangles, earrings, and her moonstone fillet. Her baggage rested on deck, including a trunk containing some magic baubles, the talking book, and the head of the queen, cushioned and wrapped in oilskin. Meghild’s presence in this world was fading again, as the eidolon’s power strengthened in the Deepmind. She had not objected to staying concealed while the party made arrangements at the village.
More people were assembling at the end of the dock, staring at the cranock and muttering with uneasy curiously.
“What language will they speak in these parts?” Amlina asked Wilhaven.
“Oh, the barbarous Nyssanian tongue, I should think. I have a pinch and smattering of it, perhaps enough to get us by.”
“No need,” the witch answered. “I will speak for us.” She knew Nyssanian well enough from her seven years in Tallyba.
She climbed over the gunwale and onto the pier, the others following. The Iruks wore their leather armor and carried spears. Wilhaven had his dagger and sword. As the travelers approached the end of the pier, the crowd grumbled fretfully. Several men pushed their way to the front, armed with staves and butcher knives.
“Let’s be friendly now,” Amlina muttered. She smiled, lifted a hand, and called out in Nyssanian: “Greetings.”
A squat, broad-shouldered herdsman took a step forward. He wore leathers and a fleece vest. His wild black hair and beard were flecked with gray, and his wide smile crafty. “Greetings, richly-attired little woman, and to your stout companions. I am Izgoy. I am boss here. What brings you so far up the river?”
Amlina stopped a few paces from him. “My name is Olicia Wor-T’sing, from distant Larthang. We are travelers, seeking knowledge. We wish to hire pack animals, and a guide to take us into the mountains.”
Surprised and suspicious muttering rippled through the throng. Izgoy’s feral grin scarcely flickered. “Into the mountains, you say? And what would you think to find in the mountains?”
Amlina perceived no advantage in dissembling. “We wish to cross to the high plateau. Our destination is the ruined city of Valgool.”
Moans and gasps escaped the villagers. Izgoy chuckled. “Valgool? No one goes there. It is full of ghosts. Besides, you cannot cross the mountains. The winged folk live there. They will tear you up and eat you!”
Amlina regarded him calmly. “Nevertheless, that is our destination. The guide need only take us to your border and point out the route. We will find our way from there.” She had pulled out her purse and now her fingers played with gold coins. “I will pay you well: A guide to take us to the mountains, two aklors to carry our gear.”
Now the headman’s eyes sparkled like his teeth. “Ha ha! Of course I will help you! Three pieces of gold for the aklors. Three more for the guide. I will send my own son—but mind you, only to the border.”
“Four gold pieces in total,” Amlina said. “That is more than generous. And one other thing: your people must keep watch on our boat and care for the windbringers—fresh water every few days. If any harm comes to them or the boat, or anything is stolen, my warriors here will be very angry when we return.”
Izgoy scanned the stern faces of the Iruks. Then he burst out laughing. “Don’t worry about your boat. You will never miss it, because you won’t be coming back! The torms will see to that.”
Amlina fixed him with an icy stare. “On the contrary, we will return. And our boat must be as we leave it.”
“All right, all right.” Izgoy threw up his hands. “I will guarantee your boat and the care of the windbringers, for four or five months, till the trading season. Fair enough?”
Amlina nodded. “Acceptable.”
Izgoy wagged a finger. “But I tell you this, little pale girl who is so sure of herself: I would not wear that jewelry in the mountains. The torms are fond of shiny things, and will rip off your arms and ears to get them.”
* O *
The travelers stayed that night in Izgoy’s house, a round dwelling with a single chamber twenty paces across. A wood fire burned at the center of the dirt floor, smoke rising through a hole in the roof. Glyssa and her companions shared the fire with the headman, his extended family, and assorted village leaders. They feasted on roast lamb and sipped a strong, sour liquor made from fermented sheep’s milk. The scene reminded Glyssa of a gathering in an Iruk lodge house.
And yet she felt uneasy. The Iruks kept their weapons close at hand and their baggage at their backs. Amlina had expressed confidence that the villagers would keep the bargain the headman had made. Still, she advised, there was no harm in keeping on guard.
Through the smoke, Glyssa surveyed the assembly. Amlina sat at a place of honor beside the headman. On his other side were two elderly women; Glyssa gathered they were shamans. They stared at the strangers with grim, hawkish eyes, though they smiled benignly whenever Glyssa caught their glance.
“I wonder if these torms are as fearsome as people claim,” Eben said, refilling his cup from a wooden bowl. As usual, he was drinking more than the others, and it was beginning to show. “And if they are so formidable, what good is that netting over the village?”
“Amlina asked Izgoy about that,” Draven answered. “He said a few torms fly over from time to time and drop carcasses or dung on the village, just to make a nuisance of themselves.”
“These winged folk sound more like an annoyance than a danger,” Lonn said. “Anyway, I imagine we’ll meet up with them sooner or later.”
“I look forward to it.” Karrol slapped down her cup. “I haven’t had a fight at all since we left Kadavel. Remember, I missed that brawl in Meghild’s castle.”
“Hardly a brawl,” Eben answered, bleary-eyed over his cup. “A few swipes and a dash really. Wouldn’t you say, Wilhaven?”
The bard sat with his back to the trunk that contained the head of the queen. “Aye, that I would. And I’d also say this sheep’s milk is stronger than ale, and we’d all do well to drink less than too much of it.”