by Jeff Wheeler
“This is a moment you must all trust me, friends,” Annon said. “I can hear it fully right now. It is speaking to each of us. It wants us to fight each other to claim it. Although I can hear it, it does not control me. You must trust me. If we do not work together, this trap will kill us. Erasmus, the final orb.”
The Preachán came the rest of the way down. As soon as his boots touched the floor, the creature shifted and started at him with slow, shuddering movements. Erasmus covered the final orb, plunging the chamber in darkness.
The creature stopped.
Paedrin breathed out, releasing the pent-up frustration and panic. He felt strange, his emotions jumbled. He wanted to kiss Hettie. He wanted to kill Annon. He wanted to drown Erasmus in the waterfall. The feelings were violent and went against every aspect of Bhikhu precepts. He struggled with his feelings, trying to control his breathing.
“Annon?” Hettie whimpered. “I feel sick…”
Paedrin heard the grunt in the darkness, then a muffled voice muttering, “It is too heavy.”
“Quickly, Druidecht,” Erasmus said, his voice sounding pained.
Annon’s voice rang out sharply. “Goule. Obey me. Open the trap door.”
The creature shuddered again and slowly returned to the alcove. There was a grating, grinding noise as the lid was dragged away. A hiss emerged in the room. There was light in the alcove, and Paedrin saw Annon’s face bathed in the silvery light. He stared at the dark space, his eyes wide with surprise. Then he reached inside his belt pouch, uncinched the drawstrings, and withdrew a set of sturdy gloves. After tugging them on, he reached gingerly into the pit.
The feelings intensified within Paedrin. Thoughts and images rushed through his mind that shocked him with their intensity and depravity. He trembled against the rush of feelings the images produced.
Annon lifted a silver dagger from the depths of the pit. There was a white stone embedded in the blade guard, one that glowed with a ghostlike light. Annon stared at it in awe and fear, his eyes widening with horror. Then slowly, deliberately, he withdrew a sheath from the pit and slid the blade inside.
The three glass orbs cracked, leaking a glowing reddish mist that dissipated, stealing the light slowly as the mist began to disperse.
There was a release of the emotions as the blade snicked inside the sheath. Its control vanished. The images in Paedrin’s mind disappeared. He breathed a sigh of relief. Never before had thoughts such as those tormented him. He had not been able to control the surge of them.
The reddish glow was replaced by the blackness of the chamber. The only source of light was the gaping hole in the ceiling. It too dimmed. There was a shadow on the floor below—an obstruction in the light from the world above.
Kiranrao’s voice descended into the gloom. “The day is fading. We are building a fire up here. Would you care to join us for a meal?”
“There is a Preachán saying I admire: If two friends ask you to judge a dispute, don’t accept, because you will lose one friend; on the other hand, if two strangers come with the same request, accept because you will gain one friend.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin knew his shoulder blade was probably broken. His entire left side had the stinging tingles that made gripping anything with his left hand useless. He was weary from the action and concerned at the blood streaking down Hettie’s face, at Annon’s half-terrified expression holding the dagger, and Erasmus’s sudden pallor. But never would a Bhikhu show his fear.
“I hope there are no onions,” Paedrin said loudly, lifting his voice deliberately. “I cannot abide them. But to be honest, we are not hungry and would not wish to intrude rudely on your supper.”
There was a chuckle. “We have enough provisions to starve you out of there,” Kiranrao replied. “I’m not a fool, and we did not rest. We have trailed you all the way here and know you are tired, wounded, and in possession of Drosta’s treasure. The treasure that Tyrus has successfully hidden from me these many years. I could as easily come down there and kill you all for it myself, but I’m rather lazy by nature as most Vaettir are. Besides, there is other information I want from you.”
Paedrin looked at Annon and cocked his eyebrows. Annon shrugged, confused.
“What information?”
“Where is Tyrus Paracelsus expecting you?”
Again, Paedrin was confused. “Where is he expecting us?”
“Where were you going to meet him after this was finished? Where did he say he would be?”
Annon spoke up. “I mean no disrespect, but Tyrus was not planning on…”
“Don’t waste my time, Druidecht. Please. I abhor it when people play themselves as fools. All of Kenatos is abuzz with the news. I do not rely on wagon trains for my information, surely you realize that. And I do not believe he is dead, or there would not be such a grand reward for information regarding his whereabouts. You were the last to have seen him before the explosion. Surely he told you where he was going?”
Even Hettie was perplexed. She pressed her sleeve against her forehead to stanch the bleeding. “Explosion?” she mouthed.
“Well?” Kiranrao said. “Obviously he sent you here for the blade. Yes, I know it is a blade. But to what purpose?”
Paedrin massaged his shoulder, and it throbbed with agony, nearly making him gasp. He stopped the effort at once. “What business is it of yours where we go and what we do?”
“All business is my business,” he replied testily. “You want to be coy then. Very well. Girl. Finder. Come into the light.”
Hettie stepped forward slowly, gazing up at the gaping hole in the ceiling.
His voice was full of disapproval. “You are Romani. Your assignment here is through. Come up here and tell me what this fuss is all about. You are Tyrus’s niece. I know that to be true. You will not find a more wealthy bidder than I. Not even Tyrus himself, though he chooses not to bid for you. Come.”
Paedrin stepped forward, moving until he was also in the light. He looked up at Kiranrao balefully. “She isn’t yours.”
They stared at each other, Vaettir to Vaettir. “A pity you are wounded, Bhikhu. It might have been interesting otherwise.”
“I’m not the one cowering at the top of a cave. Come down and see how spent I am.”
Hettie gave him a warning look, which he promptly ignored.
“You are Romani, girl. You know you must obey me.”
Hettie gave them an imploring look. “My uncle sent us here for the treasure to buy my freedom.”
Kiranrao chuckled and then laughed long and hard. “The most amazing part is that you actually believe it! Really? I am astounded.” His voice fell serious. “Tyrus serves no man but himself. He used my services to steal that dagger from the Arch-Rike. He knew that I would want it, so he hid it in these forsaken mountains. Your coming to Havenrook was a personal insult to me delivered by yourselves. Instead of seeking my aid, he sent you to a brain-fevered Preachán. This is my lair. This is my country. You are intruders here. The dagger is already mine. You found it, fair enough, but I claim it as my own and challenge you for the right to it. Who will defend your claim on it? Hmmm? Who will bid for you, girl, when I state my intent? I own the dagger. I own you. The only piece of information I am interested in purchasing right now is Tyrus’s whereabouts. I’ll gladly spare your lives, save one. You can argue amongst yourselves as to which one of you must die. I don’t care.”
Paedrin’s mouth went dry. His mind went through a flurry of thoughts. How many were up there with Kiranrao? A dozen? More? His staff was shattered on the floor. His arm was broken and useless. The other two could summon fire, so that would be of help, though the thought of killing them all was distasteful.
“You are bluffing,” Paedrin said. “You are probably up there all alone.”
Kiranrao sighed. “Now you have really insulted me. I think it is you who must die, Bhikhu. The girl is interesting. The Druidecht is bothersome, but at least he is respectf
ully silent. Erasmus, do you really want to die down in that Cruithnean stink hole? Girl, come closer. I will drop a rope down for you.”
Paedrin scowled and took a step closer.
“No,” Hettie said.
Paedrin stared at her in surprise.
“I was freeborn. I would rather die down here in the dark than be called Romani again. I belong to no man,” she spat.
Kiranrao sighed deeply. “It will be dark soon. You will be hungry. And you will change your mind. I will not tolerate disobedience. You belong to me, girl. I claim you.”
Paedrin saw her fingers begin to glow blue. “No,” he warned.
Some dirt and pebbles tumbled over the edge as another man approached Kiranrao. Furtive whispers came from above.
“What do you mean?” Kiranrao snapped. “He hasn’t returned from fetching water? Why should that…”
There was a roar.
It wasn’t the roar of a bear or the snort of a wolf. It was a sound that penetrated to the deepest part of Paedrin’s heart, a place where shadows bred monsters in the dark. It robbed reason. It stole confidence. Paedrin stood there, knees trembling, and wondered what could make such a sound as that.
Annon had given it a name. The Fear Liath.
The roar was followed by several moments of silence. But the silence was abruptly disturbed as trees and branches gave way to something enormous and strong. There was another roar, this one closer, more terrible. Cries of confusion came from above. There were the sounds of weapons being drawn. Bowstrings twanged. Then a grunt and the gasp of a man smashing into stones before collapsing. Screams followed, shrill and full of dread.
Annon stepped forward into the ring of light. “Alloren morir,” he said softly in the Vaettir tongue. The stone hovering over the gaping hole slammed shut, sealing them inside the darkness, blocking out the screams from above.
In the darkness, there was no time. There were faint breaths, ragged breathing. The orbs of light had winked out after the blade had been retrieved and sheathed. Even the creature that had attacked them, the Goule, was motionless. Whatever power that had charmed it was gone. The feeling of fear was ever present.
Annon knew he could summon light by his fingers, but he could not sustain it all night. “Are you all there?” he asked softly.
He heard all of their voices murmur in response.
“Paedrin, you are hurt the most. How is your shoulder?”
“If you want, I could twist your arm, and you would know the feeling. Broken, I think. I need to bind it so that it doesn’t move.” His voice grunted as he sat down. “But without any light, it will be difficult.”
“I can help bind it,” Hettie said.
“How is your head, sister?”
“Bleeding still. Nothing is broken, though. It is so dark. I dread this place.”
Annon also sat down, tucking the sheathed blade in his belt. He dared not release it again. Even with it in the sheath, he was starting to hear it again. “We will do our best, even in the dark. There are no spirits here I can summon to help. The only spirit here is in this blade. It is a dark creation. What I do not understand is why Tyrus sent us to find it. Surely it is worth a treasure to Kiranrao, or he would not have hunted us. But a man like him with this. It would make him do awful things.”
Erasmus’s sigh echoed. “All is not as it seems, which is usually the case. If that boulder will not move again until dawn, we will be here for a while still. Better here than up there with that creature.”
“I am not so certain we are better off,” Annon whispered, again feeling the subtle urge to draw the dagger and kill them all in the darkness. He knew he would not sleep that night, knowing the others might be drawn to the weapon to try and take it from him. He doubted any of them would sleep.
The feeling in the chamber changed. Something had happened above. Was it dawn? Had the Fear Liath returned to the waterfall? Annon was bone weary and weak from the strain against his mind. As if awoken from a dream, he spoke the words again and the giant rock floated upward again, exposing the silvery-blue light of dawn.
There was a collective sigh of hope from the companions. They had lasted the night.
Paedrin stood beneath the open hole and inhaled deeply, floating effortlessly up to the opening and emerging from it. The signs of death were all about. Preachán bodies littered the debris field. But there was still some rope and he used it to pull the others out, using the floating stone for leverage and letting his bad arm rest.
One by one they emerged, dusty and pallid. Hettie began to crisscross the area, searching the ground for corpses and for signs.
“It was big,” she muttered, pausing at the distinguishing tracks it left. Paedrin noticed the claw marks and quickly averted his eyes.
“What are you looking for?” he asked her. But as he asked the question, he already knew. They all knew the answer.
That they would not find Kiranrao’s body amidst the corpses.
“There is much to be said about the Cruithne as a race. They are great experimenters. They study causes and effects. They are tall, in general, and robust, having great physical strength. Having spent thousands of years living among the volcanoes of Alkire, they are adept at trapping fumes and vapors, at learning which smells harbor danger and which can be curative. They have mastered the arts of the forge, creating new metals in their vast underground caves fed by living fires of blackrock. They excavate gemstones from the rock and shape them intricately. It is claimed that Cruithne have soot-colored skin because they dwell in a place full of smoke and ash. The pigment of one’s skin has little to do with chimney smoke. It is said that their race originated in the great deserts beyond the mountains. That seems a more logical explanation of their pigmentation. Some even accuse the Cruithne of slowness due to their great size, but that is a common misperception. Cruithne are large and quick, giving them ample force against smaller men like the Preachán. They learned long ago that to survive the Plague, it would be wise to settle amidst the highest mountains, thus making it difficult for traders to reach them. Some in Havenrook believe that it was their meddling in the earth’s depths that caused the Plague. A fool’s rumor.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The blade from Drosta’s lair was a living thing. Annon had heard its whispers and felt the growing intensity of its compulsion to kill. It took every bit of self-control he mustered not to draw it again from its sheath. It would drive him mad. It would drive anyone mad eventually, but a Druidecht would be the most resilient. As they hiked down from the Alkire, he finally resorted to untying the talisman from around his neck. Only then did the whispers cease.
At darkfall he found himself staring into the flames of the fire, his body aching and sore from the strenuous hike through the downward maze of iron-hard rocks and evergreen. Hettie was slumped next to him, a makeshift bandage around her head. Boulders surrounded them, offering shelter from the wind. Paedrin’s arm was bound tightly against his body, and he paced amidst the camp, staring at each of them in turn and searching the falling darkness for signs of Kiranrao or other pursuers. His staff was broken, but he held a fragment of it like a cudgel. Erasmus shook his head, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep.
Annon looked up, his mind a jumble of thoughts and ideas. “We are in danger in these mountains. One of us will need to be on watch all night long. The Fear Liath will start hunting us now that it is dark.”
“Wonderful,” Paedrin said, swishing the staff fragment violently. “We should keep walking and get free of the mountains tonight.”
“Too dark and too far,” Erasmus said. “Even you know that, sheep-brains. It took us several days just to climb in. Climbing out won’t be any easier. The chances of our success are still abysmally low, unless it rains in the next day. And storms usually do not occur in these mountains this time of year.”
“Do you think Kiranrao was lying?” Hettie said softly.
“About which part?” Paedrin said with a snort.
“I don’t hold much confidence in anything he told us.”
“He has ways of knowing things,” Hettie replied, bristling. “He has access…” She stopped, suddenly quiet.
“You don’t understand,” Paedrin said. “No doubt he is crafty. He would make a spider seem friendly. We cannot trust what he said because his intent was to misinform us and influence us into behaving irrationally.”
“And you can judge his intent?” Erasmus said mockingly.
Paedrin chuckled to himself. “Are any of you familiar with the principles of the Uddhava?”
Annon stared at him blankly. “Is it a Vaettir word?”
“A Vaettir word but a Bhikhu philosophy.”
“Which means no one could understand it unless he was both,” Erasmus said.
“Which I am,” Paedrin answered. He inhaled slowly, and they watched him begin to float in the air. He put his foot on the end of his broken staff and balanced himself with his free arm. He held the pose, drawing their eyes as he circled his hand fluidly in the air. Then he stepped forward and landed heavily on the ground, startling them.
“That was to be sure you were listening,” he said seriously.
Hettie snorted and Annon smiled.
Paedrin walked as he spoke, gesticulating with his free arm for emphasis. “The Uddhava is one word that describes a myriad of explanations. A chain of things. Let me try and give you the color and shade of it. The principal element of the Uddhava is the act of observing. Observing is a form of power, a very subtle power. It changes behavior in others and oneself. You behave differently in front of a crowd than you do when you are alone. The observations of others cause you to change what you would ordinarily do. I will be crude to illustrate.”
“As long as you are not disgusting as well,” Hettie said archly.
He ignored her. “You have some dust in your nose. All right, perhaps it is more than dust. All alone, you would flick it away and be done with it. But in polite company, you do so surreptitiously. The fear of being observed has influenced your behavior. It is the same thing with criminals. If they believe someone is watching them, they do not commit their crime. In fact, it is typically best to distract the attention of the person you intend to rob so that they will not observe what is being stolen from them. Simple enough?”