by Jack Massa
“We will have to camp here tonight,” she said. “There are protections I must prepare before we enter.”
* O *
Late that night, Glyssa walked the perimeter of the camp, armed with a single spear. Her sword and dagger, like most of the klarn’s weapons, had been taken by Amlina. Glyssa could see the witch’s shadow, cast by an oil lamp inside the small tent. Amlina’s shoulders were hunched, her long fingers moving as she wove magic over the blades and spears—designs to make the arms more effective against the enemies they would likely encounter in Valgool.
Except for that one lamp, the camp was dark—illumined only by stars and the faintly wavering body of the eidolon. Firewood was not to be found on this barren plateau, and the party needed to preserve their supply of lamp oil.
Glyssa gathered the woolen cloak tight at her throat. The night was cold, though not nearly so cold as winters in the South Polar Sea. Her mates lay sleeping, huddled on the ground under bed furs—all except Lonn who shared the watch with her. As they passed each other he reached out his hand. Glyssa smiled and let her fingers brush his, happy for his touch.
She walked on, past the weird figure of the queen. Meghild’s head floated atop a column of light that flickered into shadows. Since being roused by Amlina at dusk, the queen had not spoken at all, only stared with a lost, dreamy gaze at the distant ruins of the city. Meghild had wildly enjoyed the ceremony and feasting with the torms, but since then had seemed dull and faded. Her mind and soul were once again leaving this world, Glyssa surmised, draining into the Deepmind.
Glyssa scanned the darkness, wishing they had a fire or that the eidolon shed more light. Though she heard nothing, she could not escape the feeling of being stalked, as though some fearsome beast was creeping out there in the darkness, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
No, she told herself, it was the shadow within that unnerved her—the lingering dread she had come to call the fishhook. The fear had fled from her, banished in the flush of triumph from crossing the bridge and the exhilaration of flying with the winged people. But in the last day and night it had crept inexorably back. Glyssa wondered if she would ever be free of it.
Lonn stepped up beside her, glumly staring into the night. “I wish Amlina would finish her magic-making so we could have our weapons back.” He too was armed only with a spear.
“I know,” Glyssa whispered.
Lonn clenched his lips. “I’m beginning to feel like Karrol, that I will be happy when this voyage is over.”
Stoical by nature, Lonn seldom voiced feelings of unease. His confession was a mark of how the hard journey, and now the eeriness of this place and talk of ghost creatures, had worn on him.
Glyssa experienced again a twinge of guilt. Her awful weakness was the reason her mates had to come on this journey. She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I am glad you are here with me.”
His smile warmed her heart. “My Glyssa, I would rather be in the worst of places with you than the best of places without you.”
His eyes held hers for just an instant, then a scream tore the air.
They both whirled to look at Meghild, whose mouth hung open with shock. Creatures were rushing into the camp—naked, gray things that moved with a slithering, four-legged run. Amlina had called these things ghost dogs, and Glyssa thought the name most apt. She no sooner spotted them raging through the camp than one fell on her shoulders, dragging her to the ground. She glimpsed red, feral eyes, raised her arm just in time to keep jaws from snapping on her throat. She thrust the spear at the thing’s body, but had no leverage.
Lonn kicked the creature off her and pinned it to the ground with his spear. “Mates, wake up!” he roared. “We are attacked!”
Glyssa rolled over, scrambled to her feet. Another of the ghost dogs rushed her. She crouched low and ran it through. It looked shocked for a moment, then growled and kept coming, reaching for her with swiping nails.
“Amlina!” Lonn shouted as he ran across the camp. “Our weapons!”
Grunting in disgust, Glyssa braced her foot on the ghost dog’s belly and yanked the spear free. The creature stumbled backward and fell. Looking around, Glyssa spotted more of the things leaping on her mates. Waking to this nightmare, the Iruks were shouting and struggling to fight.
Glyssa started toward them, tripped and fell. The creature she speared had lunged again and grabbed her foot. Glyssa rolled over and brought her point up just in time for her foe to impale itself. Still not killed, it gurgled and raked at her face with its claws. Growling, Glyssa heaved it off of her. She got to one knee and drove her spear point through the creature’s neck again and again. Only when the head rolled free from the body did the thing at last lay still.
Standing, Glyssa saw that the battle had turned. Amlina had rushed from her tent, carrying weapons that she tossed to the Iruks. The mates hacked and stabbed, swords and spears gleaming blue with witchlight. The magic-imbued steel seemed to burn the flesh of the ghost dogs, who dodged and yelped with pain. Wilhaven had rushed over to protect the queen—though it appeared none of the intruders had assaulted her. When Karrol decapitated one creature with her blade, the others—six or seven—turned and fled howling into the night.
Glyssa hurried over to join her mates, whose shoulders slumped as the fury of battle left them. Brinda and Eben grimaced, clutching bitten forearms. Lonn stared down at the witch who knelt over—Glyssa’s gut twisted. Draven lay unmoving, legs splayed. Amlina’s hands pressed down on his neck, which was torn and leaking blood.
“Help me,” the witch cried. “Bring something to stop the bleeding, or he will die.”
* O *
Stunned and silent, the Iruks stood over their fallen mate. Through the klarn soul, all of them could feel the wound, feel Draven’s life slipping away. Karrol moved, half-heartedly, to find the medicine bag in the klarn’s gear. The bag contained needle and sinew to bind wounds, strips of rabbit skin for bandages. But from what Glyssa had seen, it was hopeless—too much of Draven’s flesh was torn away.
“Here, my lady, let me look.” Wilhaven spoke softly, kneeling beside the witch. He shifted Amlina’s hands and examined the wound. “If we stitch it up at once, we may save him. I have supplies in my kit. Bring another lamp or two.”
He went to rummage through his pack, returning in a few moments with a small canvas bag. He spilled the contents on the ground: needle and thread, a skein of bandages, small bottles and vials. He directed Amlina to press lower on the neck, then poured spirits over the wound. Draven’s mouth lolled open and he whimpered in pain.
“This is my fault,” Amlina cried. “I did not think they would attack so far from the city.”
“Sure, and how could you know that either way?” Wilhaven asked. “We are in unknown lands, my lady.”
Dexterously, he threaded a needle and set to work stitching the wound. The Iruks stood over him, staring in numb, desolate grief. Glyssa sensed again that it was hopeless: the wound too severe, too much blood lost. Meghild had drifted over to stand at the edge of their circle. The queen too stared in silence, with a solemn, dejected expression.
After some time, the bard finished with the needle. Lifting Draven’s head, he wrapped bandaging around the neck. When the bandage was tied, he stood.
Amlina looked up at the Iruks, her eyes glistening. “Will you carry him into the tent, please?”
Lonn laid a hand on her shoulder. He and Draven were cousins, raised together since infancy. Their love was that of brothers. “Is there a chance your magic can save him?”
Amlina touched him with her bloodied hand. “I will do all I can, I swear it on my soul.”
* O *
Two nights later, Glyssa again patrolled the edge of the camp, sword and spear clutched in her hand. A fire of sticks and grass burned behind her, casting her long shadow over the ground.
They still had not entered the city. Instead, the morning after their arrival, three of the Iruks had marched off to explore some low hill
s in the north. They’d returned in the afternoon carrying fuel and fresh water. On a second foray, they’d managed to bring down a small deer to supplement their rations.
The ghost dogs had not attacked again. From the talking book, Amlina had learned that the creatures were thought to be animate only at night, and that they shied away from fire. Glyssa could hear them though, yipping to each other, rustling in the darkness around the camp. The Iruks slept in shifts day and night, so that three warriors always stood guard. Tonight, along with Glyssa, it was Karrol and Wilhaven.
Glyssa walked past Karrol, who glanced at her drearily. The helpless inaction weighed on all of the mates, but perhaps on Karrol most of all. Although Draven still lived, he had shown no sign of recovering. Through the medium of the klarn-soul, Glyssa could sense his life flickering. She thought it only a matter of time.
Amlina had tended him day and night, emerging from the tent only a few times to take water and a little food. For long periods she could be heard singing over him, her voice rising and falling in lilting Larthangan chants. Once, Glyssa had peeked into the tent and saw the witch lying beside Draven under the cover, her arms wrapped around him, her body pressed close. In that moment, Glyssa had known how much the witch loved Draven, how desperate she was to save him.
The tent flap parted, and Amlina stepped out, straightening her back as though in pain. She shuffled wearily toward the fire. Glyssa and Karrol marched over to her.
“Any change?” Karrol asked.
Amlina shook her head. She took a drink from the water skin, grunted to clear her throat. “I am going to try something else. It requires me to go into trance. You must make sure I am not disturbed, no matter what you may hear.”
“All right,” Glyssa said.
“But for how long?” Karrol asked.
Amlina seemed unprepared for the question. “I don’t know … Three days, I suppose. If I am not returned by then, you may enter the tent. You will likely have to part with us both.”
Glyssa took hold of the witch’s wrist. “What are you going to do?”
Amlina showed a fragile smile. “As I promised, I will do anything to save him.”
* O *
Returning to the tent, Amlina sat cross-legged on the ground next to Draven. She opened a small book bound in red leather—the Canon of the Deepmind. It was the basic volume of Larthangan lore, containing instructions in the “Five Revered Arts of Magic” and their “Thirty-Five Respected Applications.” As a trained witch, she had read the volume through many times. But now she turned to a section near the end, a practice she had never attempted. Whispering to herself, she read the title: “The Way of Summoning the Dead Through the Deepmind.”
Draven was not dead, not yet. But his soul was already on the journey. Amlina had exhausted all other means of healing him. This was her last, desperate hope, one she was determined to try, even at the risk of not returning herself.
She read the chant in Old Larthangan, murmured it over and over as she formulated her design, visualized Draven walking alone in the night. She saw herself meeting him, and then their walking back together—back to this world.
Soon, she slipped into trance.
In her vision she was sinking, slowly, as though in bubbling water. The space around her brightened, the bubbles becoming stars and clouds of starry dust. After a while she no longer floated but walked through the star-strewn sky. With an ache, a longing in her heart, she kept going, seeking her lost friend.
Time ceased to have meaning. There were only the stars all around her and the endless, lonely march.
Then, at last, she spied a figure far ahead, striding resolutely. Amlina quickened her pace, desperate to reach him. As she closed the gap she called his name.
“Draven. Draven!”
The third time, he stopped and turned around. She ran to him, hope surging wildly in her heart.
He looked at her, perplexed. “Amlina. How can you be here?”
“I came for you. I came to bring you back.”
He gazed around, as if trying to recognize where they were. “Is that possible?”
“It is—if you’ll come with me now.”
“But ... I am on the Star Road. Are you dead also?”
“No. We are both still alive. It is not too late!”
Draven frowned. “You know, we Iruks believe that if a warrior dies while on a hunt, the soul travels on with the klarn. But I see now, it is only a bit of my strength that stayed with them. My soul is here …”
“I want you to come back with me.” Her voice broke into a sob.
“Oh, it is not so bad,” Draven said. “I am returning to the Mother. There will be peace and rest, then after a while, I’ll be born again into my people … Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t know. Different peoples tell different stories. I only know I want you to return with me now. Your mates need you. I need you.”
For the first time he seemed to consider the possibility of returning. “But I can’t do that. I was too badly wounded. I would be a burden to the klarn, to all of you.”
“You can recover. I am sure of it. Your mates want you to live, and so do I.”
He peered around at the stars, as if listening. “I can see much from here. I can see that … even this, even your coming here, is dangerous for you. You’ve risked the strength you need, risked everything you set out to accomplish …”
“I don’t care.” She flung her arms around him, hugged him close. “None of it matters if I can’t save you. Yes, I wish to defeat Beryl, to return the Cloak to Larthang. But if you can’t go with me, it means nothing.” She was crying now. “No one … No one has ever loved me as you do. And I have never loved anyone else.”
Draven’s embrace grew firm, with the strength she remembered. “Oh, do not cry, my beautiful girl. If that is how it is, then of course I will go with you.”
* O *
Amlina opened her eyes. In the sputtering lamplight, through a blur of tears, she saw Draven watching her serenely.
“Oh!” She leaned over, touched his forehead, his cheek. “You’re awake.” Sobbing, she lay down with her head on his shoulder.
He stroked her long hair, his voice a dry whisper. “You called me back, so I am here.”
She wept harder, clinging to him like an injured child.
Twenty-Two
Next day they marched into Valgool.
Amlina led the way on the ancient, dusty road. She was dressed in her long, fur-trimmed coat, the moonstone fillet in her hair, the talking book clutched in her arms. Behind her came Wilhaven, with the basket containing the head of the queen strapped on his back. The Iruks followed, weighed down with packs and luggage, grasping their spears, warily scanning the empty plain and the trail ahead. Eben and Brinda both carried lighter loads, their bandaged forearms still sore from the bites they’d suffered in the attack. Fortunately, the other klarnmates had suffered only scratches and bruises.
Draven rode on Lonn’s back. He had taken broth and a little meat in the morning, the color returning to his tawny complexion. He had insisted he’d be able to walk on his own, but after a few moments standing his legs had given out. His mates treated him with all gentleness and consideration, so relieved to have him back, to have the klarn whole again. They disputed happily over who would have the honor to “serve as his aklor,” and joked about what services Draven would have to perform in recompense once his strength returned.
Every few paces Amlina looked over her shoulder to check on Draven. Her emotions rushed like a torrent in many streams—elation for Draven’s recovery, dread at entering the haunted city, pricking doubt about her ability to accomplish her mission. The weight of the blood magic ached low in her belly, seeming to grow heavier with each step. And yet, the journey on the Star Road had not drained her after all. On the contrary, the passion roused in her for Draven, the alluring, overpowering love, nourished her intention and strength.
She no longer felt alone.
Pas
t the tumbled outer wall of Valgool, they entered a broad avenue strewn with weathered bricks and piles of rubble. Collapsed buildings on either side displayed jagged facades and fallen beams. Lizards warmed themselves in the faint sunlight, and a fat black toad eyed them balefully. No rats were visible, no birds—no warm-blooded creatures at all. Below the empty sky, the city lay silent.
Turning a corner, the witch spied a hairless, human-shaped thing lying on a doorstep. Spotting the intruders, the ghost dog roused itself and crawled sluggishly away. Karrol and Eben dropped their baggage, drew swords and started after the creature.
“No,” Amlina warned.
“Could be leading us into a trap,” Lonn agreed.
“Possibly,” the witch said. “But I don’t think they’re capable of harming us in the daytime. We’d best get to the pyramid and set up camp.”
* O *
The step pyramid stood at the heart of the city. Built of granite quarried in the western mountains, it had withstood centuries of wind and rain. Black stones, stained with gray lichen, rose to a summit ten stories high. In the days of the Nagaree, thousands of captives had climbed the steps, to have their hearts cut out by obsidian knives and offered to the moons. Many of those captives had been resurrected as ghost dogs, and in the ruined temple complex surrounding the pyramid, scores of them still nested.
Exploring the area, the travelers discovered rooms and courtyards where the creatures sprawled on their backs or slumped against walls. Some of them scuttled away listlessly at sight of the intruders. Others only stared as though in trance.
At night it would be different.
For their campsite, the witch selected a pillared hall across the plaza from the pyramid. Part of the roof was intact, and storerooms adjacent to the hall had solid walls and no windows. Amlina would need a safe, enclosed place to weave her magic.
The Iruks spent the afternoon gathering broken rafters and scraps of dry wood. In one of the storerooms, they discovered sealed jars full of oil. From split beams and tattered rags, they fashioned torches. By nightfall, a bonfire blazed at the entrance to the hall, and torches burned along the edges of their camp. Amlina spied ghost dogs creeping across the plaza, their red eyes glaring in the firelight.