by Dorian Hart
Tor ought to stop them.
No, he ought to kill his friends—that was what he had forgotten, and it was important, though also nonsense. Of course he wouldn’t kill his friends, but he absolutely should do that because Lapis had told him to. Caught between those two conflicting desires, his muscles twitching, he simply stood, listening to the sounds of the frantic melee behind him, watching as Certain Step dragged Lapis onto the carpet, then boarded himself and grabbed the tassels. Kibi surged into Tor’s view, lumbering toward the carpet while dragging three of the villagers, one riding piggyback and battering Kibi’s head with his fists, two more hanging onto his legs. They slowed down Kibi too much, Kibi who already didn’t run very fast. The carpet with its two passengers rose and flew away toward the jungle, trailing its braided ribbons of smoke.
Lapis’s mind control wore off; it felt like a sharp splinter was drawn out of him, a quick twinge and gone. The villagers ceased their hostility, stopping in mid-punch, releasing their desperate holds. One by one they backed away and dropped to the ground, pressing their heads to the grass.
Yuja was among them; she spoke without looking up. “I cannot explain, and there can be no excuse for assaulting the blessed of Posada. Lords, how shall I atone?”
Dranko sat up, grimaced, and massaged his leg. “There’s a perfectly good excuse. That blue woman is an evil wizard who cast a spell to make you attack us. There’s nothing to forgive and no atonement necessary.”
“What just happened?” asked Grey Wolf. “Tor, why didn’t you stop her? You had plenty of time.”
The details of the past two minutes were growing hazy. “I…Lapis, she did something to my mind, too. Tried to control it. Told me to kill you, made me want to kill you. But I also didn’t want to, so I…”
“It’s all right,” said Aravia. “If Lapis commanded you to kill us, you did well to resist her. Serpicore always said that psychomancy could be tremendously potent. These poor people couldn’t stop themselves, but you did, which is a testament to your powerful sense of self.”
Tor’s pulse quickened at Aravia’s praise. Even better, she had complimented his mind. Again!
“What do we do now?” asked Ernie. “Step knows where Calabash is. He and Lapis could be there days before us!”
Grey Wolf did that thing he often did when agitated, pushing his fingers through his hair. “We follow on foot. I don’t see any alternative.”
“An hour ago we were hoping the city would be visible from above,” said Morningstar. “Now we’d best hope it’s not. That will make their head start less insurmountable.”
“And we outnumber them,” said Tor. “That could matter.”
“I don’t see how,” said Grey Wolf. “What makes you say that?”
“Let’s say the city is a huge ruin, and the Crosser’s Maze is hidden somewhere in it. They’ll have only two people looking while we still have seven, so they may not have found it by the time we show up. And if we arrive before they do find it, we can take out Lapis and rescue Step.”
Grey Wolf stared eastward toward the moonlit jungle. “Rescue him? He stole the carpet and ran off with her! He’s probably been working with Lapis since the day we met him.”
“I don’t think so. Obviously Lapis used her magic to control him, just like she did to the villagers and tried to do to me. Step’s a good man, I can tell. Didn’t Naradawk do something to your memories from when you met him? You of all people must know how awful it is to have someone messing around with your brain.”
Grey Wolf’s face went very still.
“We should sleep,” said Morningstar. “Tomorrow we’ll want to get as early a start as possible.”
“People of Lakeside!” Dranko spread his arms as he addressed the crowd of locals, half of whom were still prostrate. “You are all forgiven. Our enemy tried to control you, but you fought off that control, which tells me that Posada has blessed you every bit as much as he has blessed us. Also, do you have any spare beds?”
* * *
The first day in the jungle hadn’t been so bad. It had rained off and on, just enough to make everything damp and annoying, but it could have been worse.
To be truthful, there had been some dicey moments. In the very first hour of their march Ernie had fallen into some kind of sucking quick-mud and nearly suffocated. Only his right hand had been visible when Tor was able to grab onto it, and it took the whole company, linked arm in arm in a chain anchored by Kibi, to pull him out.
And then there was the tri-horned auruk that the people of Lakeside had warned them about. The creature ought to have been called a hundred-horned auruk since its spine and flanks were studded with dozens of little horns, but it was undeniable that the three protruding from its head had been the ones they needed to worry about. The auruk was the size of a bull and as ferocious as a gopher bug and had charged out of the undergrowth right into their line. Between their four fighters—himself, Grey Wolf, Ernie, and Morningstar—they had brought it down, but not before the thing had opened up a long shallow gash in Grey Wolf’s shoulder. They had debated for a few minutes afterward whether Dranko should channel, but they had decided against it. He was recovering well after his treatment in Aggantis, and they didn’t want to risk draining him badly enough to have to carry him through the jungle. Dranko had stitched up Grey Wolf’s injury, smeared on some disinfectant he had received from the goblin healer, and on they went.
Grey Wolf guessed they traveled eight miles that day; Aravia thought ten. The greatest obstacle had been the sheer dense tracklessness of the jungle. Tor’s arm was sore and tired, not from the auruk (against which the battle had lasted less than two minutes) but from hacking through saplings, bushes, vines, and various unidentifiable masses of greenery. Many times they had deviated from a due-east course simply because there was no way forward. The Tangled Green at its thickest and most resistant was as impassable as a brick wall.
They also lost an hour to finding a place they could safely ford a small river that cut its way through the jungle north-to-south. It hadn’t looked very deep, and at first Tor figured they could just wade across. He made sure to go first in case something went wrong, and a good thing he did! Three steps in something bit his calf, so he had hopped back out and discovered a small fish, not more than two inches long, clamped onto his leg by its needle teeth. They couldn’t pull it off without tearing out a chunk of his flesh, so they had waited for it to die in the open air, and even then it had been hard to dislodge. Rather than risk getting chewed on by dozens or hundreds or however many of those things were in the river, Horn’s Company had bushwhacked upstream for half an hour before finding a narrow spot with some rocks they could use to hop across. It was not the first time they lamented the loss of the flying carpet, with which Tor could have easily ferried everyone across without risk.
It was no good marching in the dark using their light-rods. (Aravia had replenished their supply after most of the company had lost theirs in the plunge into the mountain river. She had grown so wonderfully adept that she could make half a dozen of them with almost no effort.) Unfortunately, the lights attracted such a cloud of moths and other winged bugs—some of a stinging kind—as to make it a pointless exercise. So when the shadows had deepened enough, they stopped at the first area that was even remotely like a clearing. The spot was sort of flat, the trees farther apart than normal, and the vegetation only came up to their shins. They were unlikely to find anywhere more promising. Horn’s Company gulped down a hasty dinner in the last of the vanishing light.
Aravia sat next to him as they ate, and this time Tor was absolutely certain that he didn’t imagine her odd looks toward him. Pewter sat curled in her lap. When the others had moved off a bit to spread out their bedrolls, and Aravia hadn’t gotten up even though she had finished eating, Tor took the plunge before he even knew what he was doing.
“Is everything all right? Have I done or said something wrong? I’ve noticed you staring at me a lot these past couple of weeks—ev
er since you met all those cats.”
Pewter started purring.
“No, Tor, you have not done anything wrong. I am sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.”
She stopped talking, which was odd because she obviously could have said more. She hadn’t denied staring at him, more the opposite, as not disputing it was the same as admitting it, in which case wouldn’t it be normal for her to explain?
“I wouldn’t say uncomfortable, not exactly. But if there’s something on your mind, I’d hope you’d feel comfortable telling me.”
Like you’d tell things to a big brother, he almost said, which would have been the chivalrous thing to say, but he couldn’t force the words out of his mouth.
“There are some things I should say,” she admitted. “But I’m not ready to say them. When I discovered that I’m a Spark, I learned something else…unexpected. I need to work through the implications. It has caused me a great amount of confusion, consternation even. Pewter has been helping me untangle the ramifications. I promise you that as soon as I properly understand how I…what I think…I’ll be ready to talk to you. Will you accept that much?”
Tor felt like a fool; this wasn’t about him at all! Something about her being a cat goddess had introduced uncertainty into her mind, which Aravia simply hated. She probably wanted to talk to her “adopted big brother” about it and didn’t know how to broach the subject.
His relief at reaching that understanding vied with his disappointment, his hope that perhaps she would come around to seeing him in a different light.
“Of course I accept it. As soon as you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.”
“I know. I don’t deserve a friend as good as you, Tor.”
“Oh, nonsense. I can’t think of a single good thing you don’t deserve.”
Oh, gods, did I really say that out loud?
Maybe he imagined it, but it sounded like Pewter’s purring grew louder.
* * *
Tor lay looking up at the black undersides of the treetops, listening. The jungle at night was full of noises—nocturnal animals scurrying about, water dripping down from the canopy, and (louder than the rest) a million insects chirping their high-pitched rhythms to one another. Little lights blinked on and off high up, something akin to the fireflies he used to chase through the orchards behind his father’s castle.
Not even the raucous bugs were as loud and distracting as the thoughts bouncing around in his head. He remembered a similar night, lying awake in a damp wood back in Charagan, near the Kivian Arch, mind full of similar distractions. That was when he first realized he was in love with Aravia, first tried to reconcile those feelings of happiness and helplessness, the certainty of his emotions with the uncertainty of what to do about them.
What exactly did she want to talk to him about? How confusing it must be for her, discovering she had a divine nature imbued by a foreign god. Whatever it was, he’d help her through it, give her whatever support she needed. That was the thing about love, he supposed. Even unrequited, you couldn’t help but do everything you could.
Tor, you will protect.
He could hear the snores of his friends. They all snored; he could pick out six different patterns if he concentrated, listened hard past the noise of the insects. Kibi’s was the loudest, Morningstar’s the most even. Aravia’s was the quietest. So engrossed did he become in matching the snores to the sleepers, he almost didn’t hear the rustling from the darkness, a low, quiet encroachment from every direction. And just as he became convinced that it was something new, something odd, a light flared up. Aravia held her light-rod and sat bolt upright.
“Wake up!” she screamed. “Wake up!”
Tor was on his feet in a second, sword in his hand. Grey Wolf was only a half-second behind. The others didn’t take much longer; months of constant danger had taught them all to sleep lightly.
“What? What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Get away from me!” Aravia shouted. “That way!” She pointed into the darkness. “Go, that way, right now! Take your packs! As far as you can get, but have your lights shining. Go! GO!”
The others, awake but disoriented, didn’t question her. All five of them fled, hastily snatching up their belongings and pushing, crashing through the trees and vines and bushes as the sound of whatever-it-was grew louder. Was it the knife-leg ants the villagers had warned them about, which would from time to time swarm through the jungle destroying everything in their path? Tor picked up his sword, brought out his light-rod.
“Tor!” Aravia’s voice was frantic. “Go! Run!”
“I’m not going to leave your side. What’s wrong?”
“Tor, do you love me?”
Heretofore Tor had assumed that “time standing still” was just a thing people said about unusually emotional moments, an exaggerated romantic phrase with no real meaning behind it. But that’s exactly what time did. He couldn’t answer. Later he couldn’t even remember if he had nodded, which was what his stupefied brain had tried to do in lieu of speaking.
“If you love me, then trust me. Run. I’ll be fine.”
Tor shouldered his pack and ran. He ran so fast that he caught up with Kibi before there came the sound of Aravia speaking a fast string of words. He couldn’t stop himself from turning around to watch in the light from his rod and from those of his friends doing the same.
The ground around Aravia was alive.
It wasn’t ants.
It was rats.
They converged on Aravia from every direction except for the one she had directed them to flee, hundreds of rats, maybe thousands, he couldn’t tell. The ground roiled with them, they trampled down the undergrowth, and these were huge, the size of cats, their long naked tails waving in the air, and they’d be on Aravia any second. Every instinct, every muscle, every thought in Tor’s head urged him to rush back to her, pick her up, carry her to safety.
Every thought except one.
If you love me, then trust me.
Light shone out from her head; she had tucked her light-rod behind her ear while her arms and hands moved in intricate patterns. Her words poured out in a single thread of unbroken syllables, and the leading edge of the rats was only a body’s length away, then at her feet, and they began to climb up her legs, biting, boiling, a sea of rats in which Aravia would surely drown.
She brought down her arms, and there was fire. It erupted around her like an inverted volcano, the crimson flames enveloping her own lower body and exploding outward across the ground, a rolling, billowing inferno that consumed everything in its path. Plants and small trees and rats all vanished into the rushing fires while Aravia stood at their center like an angel of wrath.
Tor shielded his eyes from the searing red light, trying to keep his eyes on Aravia as long as possible. Only at the last minute did he realize the leading edge of the flames rushed towards him; he dove away, praying that Aravia had controlled her blast enough not to burn her friends.
Of course she had. A wave of heat and force roiled the foliage around him as he landed, but no fire touched him. The pain was nonetheless considerable. He forced himself to stand back up because if Aravia had burned herself, or some of the rats had survived, she might still need help. Around him his friends were like shadows on the ground, silhouetted by their dropped light-rods, but he had held onto his. Tor staggered into the circle of crisped vegetation and rat corpses, drawing his sword, but there was no need. Not a single rat moved, and most of them weren’t even recognizable as rats anymore, their bodies black and charred. Aravia, surrounded by their remains, had fallen to the ground. A haze of light smoke hung in the air.
He ran three steps forward and stopped. Something new emerged from beneath the shadows of the trees, something huge and horrible—a monstrous, hairless rat the size of a cow. Its dirty pink body was spotted with black splotches, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but it seemed as though those dark spots moved, slid across its bulk, blots of oily ink trapped just beneat
h a translucent layer of its skin. Its tail slashed the air like a great pink whip, the claws on its feet were sickle blades, its teeth were cleavers, its maddened eyes—
Meeting the gaze of that impossible rodent was like getting punched hard in the gut. Tor shook away the feeling, ran forward as the rat shambled directly toward Aravia, and of course, it all made sense. Aravia was possessed of feline divinity, so no wonder rats despised her, and maybe this one was their leader, maybe even a Spark like she was, a rival, a mortal enemy. But Tor was faster, he’d arrive at Aravia first, in time to save her…except that the closer he got to the rat, the slower he became. It was like forcing his way through an invisible headwind that grew stronger with every step; somehow this rat projected a hot, oily force, a pure evil turned tangible that blew at him in a bitter spray.
You will protect.
Aravia was propped up on an elbow, helpless, doubtless weakened by her fire spell, looking into the crazed eyes of the monster, and Tor screamed his anger and forced himself forward, arriving at Aravia a mere second before the rat.
It lunged for her, and he threw himself in its way, heard himself yell once more, swung his sword with a fury. But the rat was quick enough to spin its head away from the blow; Tor’s sword sheared a deep gash into its shoulder, but it was not a telling wound. Black ichor sprayed from the cut and fell upon Tor’s skin like droplets of burning acid.
The world became simple, and quiet, and slow. He heard his own beating heart and the rasping breath of his enemy. The smoking blood of the rat whispered madness through his skin. What he had seen in the eyes of the beast sank into him, poisoning his mind, and he thought perhaps he ought to kill Aravia instead of save her. Lapis had been right.
As Tor’s sword hung limply at his side, the rat spun, slamming its bulk into him. He bounced off its slick, muscled body and fell to the ground, and time and thought sped up again, and out of the corner of his eye Tor saw that help was not coming. The rest of the company was still down, certainly not recovering as fast as Tor had done, so no one else could save Aravia, and that horrible, evil thought of betrayal vanished from his head at the sight of the rat swinging its head back to her, lowering its snout.