The Twelve Plagues (The Cycle of Galand Book 7)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Waran Artag!" A sharp-looking woman emerged from the middle tower and glided toward them. Like the other Cantag, her face was gray, though her eyes were more green than gold. She wore a wintergreen dress of some fabric that almost seemed to float along on the air. As she stepped before Artag, she gave a small bow and touched her fingers to her forehead. "I will alert the Sovereign of your return."

  "Please do," Artag said. "But I must first speak to the Pursuer of the Ways. There is no more important matter than this."

  She blinked, glanced at the foreigners, and brought them inside the tower next to the one she'd come out from. The interior was much less stark than its exterior, filled with rugs and hangings and intricate wooden furniture that looked as old as it was well-cared for. Nearly everything about Bagrad smelled unfamiliar and the palace was no different: there was a mustiness to it, but also a vaguely and mostly pleasant barn-like smell that Dante couldn't place.

  As they walked deeper into the palace a small honor guard formed around them. They came to a high iron door which the woman opened and entered. It closed behind her with an echoing thud.

  Officials of all lands, no matter how foreign or exotic to each other in all other ways, shared the same tendency to make those who called upon them wait and wait. Yet the woman returned to them in less than a minute.

  "The Pursuer of the Ways is most happy to see you." She inclined her head as she spoke. She made some tiny gesture and a pair of redgen practically threw themselves at her to hold open the door for the guests.

  They entered a round room whose domed ceiling hung a full thirty feet above them. Shelves had been carved out from the walls. A few bore the usual allotment of books and scrolls and the like, but the large majority were stuffed with the preserved bodies of a staggering number of fantastic beasts. Two ladders, wheeled and buttressed like siege engines, were used to reach the upper shelves, and there were currently a handful of redgen scurrying about in the heights dusting off the impressive catalogue of remains.

  All of that practically demanded to be looked at first, so it was only after Dante had taken that in that his eyes drifted to the man standing on a low dais near the back of the room. He wore the wildly impractical garb of what could only be a priest of some kind: crowned with an iron ornament of interlocking circles; draped in a patchwork of hides and cloths reminiscent of Artag's armor; carrying a rod wrapped in iridescent scales and capped with a ball of gods-iron, the metal traced with shining patterns that gleamed as if wet.

  "Pursuer." Artag touched his forehead and bowed. "I thank you for seeing me. I come with a matter of the gravest importance."

  "It surely must be, if you have brought three non-Cantag inside our only city." The Pursuer was at least two decades older than Artag and his hair had turned a lighter gray than his face. "Tell me of your story."

  "That would take far more time than I have, for I have not stepped within Larcarn for nearly three years. But I will speak the part that concerns the rising of the Hell-Flood, and how we might stop it."

  He launched into the tale, starting shortly before stumbling on the body of Weltendet, who Dante had nearly forgotten already. The Pursuer switched his gaze to the three foreigners during that part but said nothing. Artag had a direct and compressed way of speaking that allowed him to convey all the critical bits in about half the time it would have taken Dante.

  "It is vital that we reach the Fountain of Iron," Artag finished. "That is why we come here. Is its present location known to us?"

  The Pursuer gave them each a brief glance. His eyes were the color of amber and incredibly hard to read. "You would trust these men enough to bring them to it?"

  "As you have heard, they are the ones that ended the flood. Without their work, Larcarn would soon have been drowned."

  "I do not trust them as fully as you do. But I believe the Hell-Flood will destroy us if it is not stopped. The Fountain remains in the cavern at Nandang."

  "That cannot be. For that is just where we went to find the Fountain. Nandang was empty—the Fountain had moved."

  "Then we face a severe problem, for I have heard of no such thing."

  Artag grimaced up at the high ceiling. "How many other Cleansers are within the city right now?"

  "Not including you, there are three. Kade, Orcard, and Edring."

  "That few?"

  "Does it surprise you? The Hell-Flood has pressed all your kind into great service."

  "I was hoping for more. Please, summon them here at once."

  "I can do that." The Pursuer stared at the Cleanser. There was a stillness and a solidness about them that would have marked the Cantag as a different people even if they had looked like the average Mallisher. "But you must be aware none will be able to tell you where the Fountain has moved to, or else they would have already said as much to me."

  "That much is certainly true. But now that we know the Fountain has moved, it may be that one of them might remember some hint as to where it has gone."

  The Pursuer nodded and delivered quick orders to the green-eyed woman and a few others like her, half of whom immediately ran off while the other half delivered orders of their own to the redgen, who listened very intently. In almost no time at all, two men and a women were delivered to the chamber. Each one was dressed like Artag and built like someone whose life was spent out in the wilds.

  They were as glad to see him as they were intrigued by the news he'd brought. Yet once he got to the point, the mood turned to disappointment, even despair. The Cleansers didn't seem to think they had anything for him. After some initial discussion, they sat down at a table for what looked to be a lengthy discussion. Being ignorant of local geography, Dante and the others had almost nothing to offer and could do little more than sit around and listen to a bunch of jabber they barely understood.

  After an hour of this, Artag leaned back in his chair and gazed across the middle of the table. "This is pointless. It has been made more than clear that we do not know where the Fountain of Iron has gone."

  "Is this a disaster?" Blays said.

  "That is not to say that it cannot be found. As I said, this happens often, and we have always found it again."

  "How long are you guessing it'll take to track it down?"

  Artag raised his elbows at the others. "Several days. If we are lucky. But I don't see the hunt taking any more than two weeks."

  "This is a disaster!"

  "I don't like the idea of waiting two days," Dante said. "If we have to wait out another two weeks, the entity will have so many ways to kill us our only hope of survival will be if he can't choose which one to go with. Is there any way for you to speed up the search?"

  "Marginally so," Artag answered. "But not meaningfully so."

  "Then we are meaningfully doomed."

  This dropped them all into silence. Which was broken by Gladdic, as he let out a testy sigh. "The answer is obvious: we do not let those days be wasted. We return to Maralda and see to the fourth member of the Four That Fell. Once we are finished with it, we will return here and see if the Fountain has been relocated."

  "We're just going to walk away?" Dante said. "And hope everything will be worked out while we're gone?"

  "Yes. For it is quite possible that it will be, whereas if we stay, we will be throwing away our time like empty corn husks."

  "If you wish, I can lead you back to where I found you," Artag said. "The others will search relentlessly in my absence."

  Dante was disgruntled enough at the interruption of their plans to be tempted to be irrational about his decision. But a brief discussion convinced him there was nothing else they could do. The day wasn't done, but Dante was too demoralized and tired to do any more traveling. They'd set off for the portal first thing in the morning.

  They were taken to see the Sovereign, who was old enough that he couldn't walk on his own, but remained sharp enough to ask them penetrating questions about what was going on. Once he was done with them, he spoke to Artag in private while t
he others were served dinner. The main part of the meal was a huge mushroom cap in a savory broth that tasted of minerals. With it came stacks of crumbly black bread that Dante thought was pretty good until he noticed some of the bits inside it were suspiciously shiny.

  Artag rejoined them halfway through. When they were done, he asked the green-eyed woman who'd been tending to them if they might have drinks out on the patio. She brought them "outdoors," which had an uncanny feeling, since there were no stars or moon, and no weather or temperature to be worried about either. Did the Cantag just get used to it after a while? Or did they live their whole lives feeling like something was vaguely wrong with their surroundings?

  The drinks were very sweet, with the taste of something precious that had been smuggled down from the surface. Yet Artag didn't look to be enjoying himself in the slightest, gazing across the quiet cavern toward the gates they'd entered through.

  "Tell me." He twiddled his fingers around the base of his iron cup. "What is it that you're fighting for?"

  "It's a bit theoretical. I'm not certain you'll be able to understand." Blays tipped back his cup. "But we are generally opposed to the world being disintegrated."

  "But you're not really fighting for the world, are you? If this force was only set to devour Bagrad, I very much doubt you would have traveled all the way here to risk your lives for us. Or say that ten kingdoms were set to be destroyed—a hundred, even—but you'd never heard of a single one of them. Would you die for them? If not, what parts of the world are you fighting for?"

  "My wife," Blays answered without the need to give it any thought. "The family we'll have after this. I suppose my friends are all right, too. I have to admit, a part of me is only here because nothing feels better than knowing how angry we're going to make Taim when we thwart him yet again."

  Artag turned to Dante. "And you?"

  "For Narashtovik and its people," Dante said. "Though there are some other lands I'd fight for as well. The Plagued Islands, most likely. The Norren Territories for sure. Collen, maybe. But this is also about upholding the idea of order itself. And restoring justice in the face of an unjust war."

  As with Blays, Artag gave no indication what he thought of this answer. "And you, Gladdic? Something tells me that you are not here in the name of some noble ideal."

  "No," Gladdic said. "I am not here to fight for a pretty idea nor a favored people. I am here to fight for my soul."

  "Your soul?"

  "That is what I said."

  "I see." Artag gazed into the distance again. He lifted his cup to his lips but found it empty.

  "What about you?" Dante said. "Or is it just to save the Cantag?"

  "Not in the way that you would think. As I have told you, we have often had to rebuild after losing almost all of what we had. That prospect does not trouble us." A glint of humor entered his eye. "That is how we came to look the way we do in the first place. You didn't think that we always looked like something that crawled out from the Fountain of Iron, did you?"

  "Yes?" Blays said.

  "The shade of our skin was once much closer to your own. It was as easy to scratch as yours is, too. Then, after a woman with child was attacked and wounded by a vile beast from the depths, she gave birth to a boy named Vanning. He looked much as I do now—which came as a great shock to the Pursuer of that era, who decided to throw the infant down a pit. However, one of the Pursuer's monks convinced him that they couldn't be certain the gray child was a bad omen, and that if the child was a warning of some kind—or even an omen of good fortune—then destroying the infant would be to curse themselves.

  "The speaker-of-bone could tell us nothing. In search of guidance, the Pursuer went to the Fountain to seek its wisdom. The Fountain told the Pursuer that Vanning would play a great role in the future of the Cantag. And so Vanning was spared. To protect him further, he was taken from the city to be raised in the hidden village instead.

  "This proved wise. For Vanning was still a boy when Larcarn was overrun and everyone in it was killed. The village lived, though, as did he. He grew up to be the only Cleanser of his time. He took several wives from the few other survivors. All of his children looked as he did. An unusual number of them grew up to be Cleansers as well, while fewer needed to be transformed into redgen than was customary. All of these traits held true for Vanning's grandchildren as well. Within a handful of generations, it became so that everyone of the Cantag came to look like Vanning had."

  "That's one of the most interesting things I've ever heard," Dante said once it was clear he was done with the story. "But how does it have anything to do with what we were talking about?"

  "We exist to serve, honor, and worship the Fountain of Iron," Artag said. "It is true that, in order to keep doing that, at least some of us must survive the Hell-Floods. But it isn't ourselves that we fight for. It is the Fountain. None of us would be troubled if the only Cantag to survive this was a young man and a young woman, as long as they had enough children to rebuild and serve the Fountain once more."

  "Find us the Fountain, and we'll make sure it makes it through this. Everything depends on that." Dante rubbed his hand over his mouth. "There's one thing I don't understand about your story of Vanning. You said that after him, fewer children needed to become redgen? Are they afflicted with some…condition that makes them as they are?"

  The Cleanser shook his head. "When the children are quite young, they are tested for their potential to become Cleansers or sorcerers. Those that show the ability are sequestered for rigorous training. When the rest of the youth are about to come of age, they are again tested for their ability to become men-at-arms, or for their cleverness with crafts and the maintenance of the city, or other vital tasks. Not all pass these tests. Those who don't are treated with a fungus and a nethereal rite—and are made into redgen."

  Seeing the three outsiders staring at him as they were, Artag frowned, clasping his hands together. He leaned forward on the table. "Does this sound cruel? Know that it wasn't always our practice. But our way of life is very difficult. So often, our survival dangles by a thread. The redgen consume much less food than the rest of us. They want no luxuries and even in the meanest of circumstances they are as blissful as a summer day.

  "That bliss is far more important to our survival than the food and other resources they spare us. The city you see now is prosperous. It is often far grimmer. In such times, before the redgen, the lowest among us would stew amongst themselves, spurred on by the whispers of seditious priests, and revolt. The third time this happened, the chaos allowed the creatures to break through the walls. We were almost wiped out to the last of us. That is when the Pursuer developed the secret village, along with the redgen."

  "So you turn these dissatisfied people into, how should I put this…" Dante took a drink. "Mindless slaves?"

  "Those that don't pass the tests are given the option of exile. Almost none do, but the option is there." Artag leaned back, squaring his shoulders. "I can see that you see this as cruel. But so is our existence. I assure you, if we hadn't found this solution, my people would have been exterminated long ago. I would not be here to guide you. You would have no hope of finding the Fountain of Iron. And all the world would be about to join us in death."

  This stopped the conversation cold, and they soon retired for the night. The sheets were of a fabric even silkier than silk and Dante loathed to leave them in the morning and thought at some length about returning to Bagrad in the aftermath of everything in order to acquire some. Maybe a lot of them. But the pleasant mood his bedding had put him in soured as they departed Larcarn and headed through the undertunnels toward the surface. They were going to lose two days at the very least, and that was only if the Cantag were able to find the Fountain before they returned. Given how close Nolost had come to killing them here, even two lost days might make the difference between victory and annihilation.

  After the tunnels, the cloudy morning was very bright. Blays gave a little clap. "Well look at t
hat! It's not even raining."

  "Why isn't it?" Dante said. "He knows we're here. Why not keep trying to destroy us?"

  "We must have kicked his ass so badly he gave up and slunk away in embarrassment."

  "It might be pointless to try to flood the place again when we know exactly how to stop it. But he could assault us with the lightning again. Or with more of his hordes."

  Blays shrugged. "With any luck, we've worn him out and he's regrouping right now."

  "I do not believe that is the cause of our current peace," Gladdic said. "For surely his strategy for victory consists of more layers than direct attacks against us. If those attacks have stopped, it is only because he has shifted to a different layer of that strategy. One that we cannot yet see."

  "Then I hope he keeps it that way."

  There were a great deal of fallen branches and washed-out slopes, but the land had almost completely dried out, granting them easy passage back toward the portal. Small deer with striped fur picked at the grass while green and purple birds flapped among the boughs. Everything seemed quite placid, and they walked for several hours without encountering anything more threatening than some wasps.

  "The cavern that holds the palace," Dante said after thinking on it for some time. "Did you find it naturally? Or did you have to excavate it?"

  "What makes you ask?" Artag said without looking his way.

  "The walls were very, very smooth. I haven't seen anything like it before—except when I shape the stone with the shadows."

  The Cleanser held his tongue, then uttered a short laugh. "Yes. A few among us have the same skill. This has only just come to you? How else did you think we open the tunnels to hell? Where do you think this land's many monsters come from? They're certainly not of this earth!"