by J. C.
All Magiere saw was another murdering anmaglâhk with a bloody tear across her tunic's shoulder.
Fréth flinched once at the sight of Magiere, and then her gaze fixed with determination.
"Dead thing," she hissed. "You belong in the dirt, buried and forgotten."
"You… don't know," Magiere grunted out, "how to deal with un-dead… and I'm much more."
Fréth darted sideways, heading for the nearest tree.
Magiere had seen Brot'an use the same move on a column in Darmouth's crypt, stepping up to spring over her head, and drop behind her.
She chopped downward as Fréth lifted a foot.
Fréth jerked her foot back in midleap, and the falchion hit the tree's trunk. Bark and wood slivers sprayed off it. Fréth extended her foot again, but it landed too high. All she could do was push off and roll back across open ground.
Magiere whirled, blade up, facing off with Fréth.
Chap charged from the other side but stopped short, planting himself between Fréth and Wynn. He had fought at Magieres side enough to know when to attack and when to stay out of her way.
She feinted low and left, shifted right, and turned the falchion in an upward slash for Fréth's midsection. The stroke missed, but Fréth failed to get within arm's reach. They spun away from each other again.
Fréth was far enough away this time that Chap tried to close in.
Wynn groaned, and Magiere couldn't help but look. The sage rolled weakly in the brush, but the crossbow on her back caught on something.
"No!" Magiere shouted to Chap. "Guard Wynn."
The instant cost her. When her eyes shifted back, Fréth was gone.
Blinding pain shot through her side.
Chap dashed toward Wynn thrashing feebly in the brush. Blood ran from her mouth and spread through her teeth. She could not get free of the crossbow tangled in the bush. He bit into its strap, tearing at it until it snapped.
Wynn rolled onto her face, trying to push up to her hands and knees.
Load and fire! Chap shouted into her mind.
He was about to turn and pick an attack of his own, when Wynn faltered and fell to the ground again. Her olive face twisted in pain.
Chap dipped into her mind, calling up her memories of contented moments. Quiet nights sleeping by campfires or in the quilt-covered bed of an inn. Two kittens purring in her lap. Hot mint tea and spiced lentil stew. The smell of fresh parchment and the feel of a quill in her hand. Her fingers curled in his fur.
Wynn lifted her head, clutching at the crossbow.
Chap pulled an unbroken quarrel from the quiver with his teeth and dropped it beside her. She rolled onto her knees, heaving the crossbow's string back with both hands. With the string locked in place and the lever cocked, she grasped and set the quarrel.
Wynn looked up and hesitated, gaze shifting between the two conflicts.
Chap turned about.
Leesil fended off Én'nish as she slashed madly at him. He did not fight with the same quick instinct and brutality that Chap had seen in the past.
Then Magiere stumbled as Fréth stabbed her from behind. They were too close together now for Wynn's questionable aim.
Chap panicked, shouting into Wynn's thoughts: Én'nish!
He heard the crack of a quarrel leaving Wynn's crossbow as he charged at Fréth's exposed back.
Magiere felt Fréth's arm wrap around her neck and jerk tight. Then the blade slipped out of her side.
Hunger ate away the pain. She rammed her elbow back, but it never connected.
A bloodied stiletto came over her shoulder for her throat.
Magiere wouldn't release her sword. Unable to whip it back, she tried to grab Fréth's wrist before the stiletto touched her skin.
Fear should have taken Magiere as she struggled for air. Instead, rage whipped hunger into fury. She would not let Fréth win… or she would make her pay dearly for it.
Fréth's weight increased sharply as if her whole body lurched and slammed inward upon Magiere. The arm around Magiere's throat loosened as she toppled forward under the sound of snarls.
Magiere hit the ground face-first. Fréth's weight rolled off with an angry scream. Her voice was quickly drowned in growls and tearing cloth. Magiere spun on her hip, pulling her legs under as she twisted to a crouch.
Chap darted away from Fréth's wild slash, his teeth parted in a shuddering growl and fur bristling on his neck and shoulders. Fréth scrambled to regain her footing. The back of her cowl was shredded, and she ripped it off, sidestepping to keep her two opponents in sight.
Magiere rose up, her mind hazy with the heat welling in her body. Hunger fed on the tingling shiver the forest pressed upon her.
Instinct drove her to attack… to stop at nothing until Fréth was dead. This one had come at her and those she cherished, time and again, and now brought Én'nish, who served only one purpose—to kill all of them where no one would see.
Magiere held her place. A little reason remained and stirred inside her.
Each time she swung, Fréth came in behind the falchion's passing. The woman closed to advantage for her shorter blades and hampered Magiere's use of the longer and heavier weapon.
Magiere didn't need a weapon.
She could mangle this bitch with her bare hands. All she needed—wanted—was for Fréth to come in one more time. Magiere made the barest feint with the falchion's tip and then loosened her grip, ready to drop it.
Fréth's attention remained on Magiere, but she didn't come. Her left hand whipped to the side—and flung a stiletto straight at Chap.
The shudder in Magiere's body sharpened. Her grip clenched tight on the falchion. She lunged as Fréth took her first charging step.
Magiere caught Fréth's other stiletto in her free hand. She felt nothing as she wrenched the blade aside and rammed her falchion straight in. The sword didn't even jump in her hand as its tip sank into Fréth's gut.
It happened too quickly. Fréth's eyes didn't even widen until Magiere clamped her bloody hand around the woman's neck.
She squeezed until she felt Fréth choke, and then shoved hard.
Fréth's body arched backward, sliding off the falchion as Magiere jerked it loose, and Fréth hit the earth, writhing on her back.
Magiere raised the falchion to finish her.
A shout vibrated through her bones. "Stop!"
Én'nish lurched and stumbled before Leesil. A quarrel seemed to sprout suddenly from the back of her right shoulder. She didn't cry out, and only dropped one stiletto as her right arm went limp.
Leesil spotted Wynn kneeling in a flattened bush with the crossbow still against her shoulder. The little sage dropped the weapon and crumpled.
Én'nish lunged at him with her remaining blade.
Leesil slipped aside, again and again, staying beyond reach. Then he saw Fréth fling a blade at Chap, and the dog tried to duck away.
The blade missed his face and the handle clipped his ear as the weapon tumbled across his back. He snarled sharply.
The next thing Leesil saw was Fréth on the ground, holding her belly. A dark stain was spreading quickly through her tunic and between her fingers.
Magiere raised her falchion.
Én'nish lunged at Leesil again, throwing her whole weight to take him while distracted. He tried to deflect and brought up the punching blade on instinct.
Its edge sliced the back of Én'nish's hand and down her forearm, splitting her sleeve open. She cried out, jerking away, and tried to swing again.
Sgäile appeared, folding her tightly in his arms from behind and pinning her.
Sgäile ran hard toward the sounds of screeching steel and voices.
Brot'ân'duivé was on the ground, attempting to push himself up. A bludgeoning arrow lay near him. Blood dripped from Wynn's mouth down her chin. Én'nish, with a quarrel in her shoulder, still kept at Leesil.
And Magiere ran Fréth through with her sword.
Sgäile didn't hesitate. He folded his
arms tightly around Én'nish from behind, pinning her up against his chest, and shouted at Magiere. "Stop!"
She wavered.
"Léshil, do not let her take Fréthfâre's life."
Léshil was already running around Magiere to stand in her way. He spoke too softly for Sgäile to hear. Magiere slowly lowered her sword.
Gleannéohkân'thva caught up, trying to get his breath. He faltered at the sight before him.
"Grandfather, see to Fréthfâre first," Sgäile blurted out.
Én'nish still struggled in his arms. He thrust his knee into the back of hers. When her leg buckled, he threw his weight on her. She dropped, and he held her down.
"Enough!" he barked, pressing hard on her until she finally lay still. "What is this? What have you done?"
"Most Aged Father ordered us to dispatch them," Én'nish snarled. "And you interfere in our purpose! They deserve to die!"
"And Brot'an as well?" Sgäile snapped. "No! Father would never…"
He looked at Fréthfâre, blood-stained and curled upon the earth. He did not believe Én'nish.
Sgäile had seen the way Fréthfâre went after Brot'ân'duivé before the council, all for a challenge of truth as Most Aged Father's advocate. But the patriarch of his caste would not violate his word. No, this had to be Fréth-fare's doing—and hers alone. Why else would she bring only Én'nish, in the woman's anguished state, in coming after so many with Brot'ân'duivé?
He went cold inside.
"Sgäilsheilleache!" his grandfather snapped, untying Fréth's cloak. "Question Én'nish later. Fréthfâre's wound is severe, and the others need attendance. Assist me—now!"
* * * *
"I can see the bottom," Chane said.
Welstiel trembled but did not answer. After two decades and more of preparation and searching, the end was close. Never would there be another night of hunger, feeding upon the wretched and filthy masses. Only eternity filled with peace and contemplation, with the orb in his possession.
Welstiel gave silent thanks to the patron of his dreams.
He might not be able to enter the castle without Magiere. But still his patron guided his steps. He would find a way to bring Magiere to serve his need.
Welstiel was in control once more.
"Careful," Chane rasped. "These lower steps are much worn, and do not look solid."
Welstiel set his palms firmly against the gorge wall. He was still eager to lay eyes on the six-towered castle of his dreams—to see arched metal gates, the black ravens, and every detail that was engraved upon his mind.
Chane slid down the last few steps and trotted out onto the gorge's bottom filled with rough boulders and stones coated in snow. Welstiel hurried down and strode past when he reached solid footing.
At first there was nothing to see, and he scrambled recklessly over the gorge's floor, until coming upon a cleared path coated in light snow. He heard Chane behind him, but he could not wait and raced on, slipping more than once. The path turned, closing again toward the right face.
Welstiel looked about in the dark. He saw nothing but snow gathered on the craggy bottom of the gorge's expanse. He lifted his gaze, searching.
Switchbacks were carved into the gorge's more gradually sloping face, and the path led upward part of the way.
"No," he whispered, stumbling two more steps.
Chane's harsh whisper filled his ears amid the slow-falling snowflakes.
"What is wrong?"
Welstiel gazed up, unable to answer.
He looked upon a small construction chiseled out of the gorge's rock face.
A glowing torch or lantern, mounted upon a pole before its small single door, lit up wood-shuttered windows. The building seated deep into the rock face, no higher than two floors tall, was some kind of ancient and forgotten barracks or a long-lost stronghold in the middle of nowhere.
There was no castle. There were no gates. No ravens. No courtyard. No magnificent ice-fringed spires.
"No," he whispered again.
Cold numbness melted under sorrow and began to burn away in outrage. Welstiel spun around, raising his face to the dark sky.
"For this?" he shouted.
All the nights of trudging hopefully through snow and rocks and cliffs, dragging half-dead horses, and pushing Chane onward. Was his patron amused? Did it sleep, laughing, waiting for him to return to hollow dreams?
He had fallen under his own father to wake from death in a vile existence. And for more than two decades he had searched for release with only his patron's teasing whispers in his slumber. More than once he had grown weary of it, and turned to potions and arcane drugs to keep him from dormancy. But in the end, he had always relented and gone back to the scaled patron of his dreams.
This was the end of it.
He would dream no more… listen no more.
"Do you hear?" Welstiel called out to the stars.
They shone down upon him, distant and unconcerned. So much like an unseen light glinting upon the scales of massive coils turning in the dark.
Chane stared at him. "Who are you talking to?"
Welstiel barely heard him.
"No more!" he cried out to the sky, and grew more spiteful at the anguish in his own voice. "I am finished with you! Go back to where you hide. Find another toy… to cheat!"
Somewhere in the still night he heard a scrape of footsteps echo softly through the gorge.
Another small flicker of light wormed up the last switchback before the stone structure with its decrepit wood shutters. Welstiel's anger broke his self-control, and hunger widened his sight.
A figure stepped out the structure's narrow door. Dressed in a pale blue tabard over a dark robe with a full cowl, it lifted a torch high, as if calling the other light rising up the path.
That other light reached the narrow level shelf before the structure, and below it came two more figures wearing similar attire. The two met the one, and all three figures went inside.
Welstiel could not remember where he had seen such clothing before. A monastery, perhaps? It did not matter. Here was opportunity for his outrage.
How many years had he listened to his patron's mocking words?
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Very well then. But he no longer put faith in such things. She might lead, but he would not need her in the end. There would be others to serve him.
"Lock them in…" he whispered. "All of them."
Chane stepped around into his sight, glancing up to the stronghold before looking into Welstiel's face. He cocked his head as if not certain of what he had heard.
"Lock them all in," Welstiel repeated. "Feed if you must, but leave them alive… for now."
Chane's eyes glinted in anticipation.
Welstiel just stood there.
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Yes, she would still do that. But he would not be alone when he came after her—the puppet of his deceiver.
* * * *
Leesil reluctantly assisted Sgâile in holding Én'nish down. Gleann severed the quarrel's shaft and pushed the remainder through.
Fréth was more fortunate than she deserved. Magiere's falchion had not damaged any vital organs, but Most Aged Father's pet anmaglâhk would be weakened for a long while. Maybe for life, unless Gleann had tricks and skills beyond what Leesil had seen.
Magiere had taken a stiletto through the side, but Gleann claimed it wasn't serious. He scowled suspiciously at the wound, which had already stopped bleeding.
He dressed everyone's wounds with leaves and a strange lemon-yellow moss, and he hummed softly with eyes half-closed as he traced fingertips around Fréth's bandaged injury.
Wynn's jaw wasn't broken, but the inside of her mouth was cut and her gums still seeped blood. She grimaced each time she flushed her mouth with cold water, and made a sour face when Gleann forced her to chew some of the moss. She hoped that the abrasion of Fréth's boot wouldn't leave scars on her face.
Brot'an
complained of dizziness and bore a large lump at the base of his skull.
Leesil waited until he was certain his own companions were well cared for, but then all he could think of was pressing onward. His mother still waited. Magiere got up, dark eyes full of understanding.
"We'll get there," she said quietly.
Leesil looked to Brot'an. "Can you still lead? If not, Chap can take us."
"No," Sgâile said. "Brot'ân'duivé and my grandfather will make a litter for Fréthfâre. Her wound must be sewn. They will take her and Én'nish back to Crijheâiche. I will take you to Cuirin'nên'a." He turned and looked down at Fréth. "Speak of this to no one outside our caste. There will be no more discord among us, and you will be dealt with accordingly, Covârleasa!"
Brot'an rose and nodded to Leesil. "Return soon. I wait to see Cuirin'nên'a as well."
Sgâile bowed slightly, and Brot'an headed off to find makings for Fréth's stretcher.
It seemed Leesil's return to his mother was finally under way again when Gleann began walking north after Sgâile.
Sgâile halted. "Grandfather, you should return with the wounded."
"There are others who can tend them upon their return," Gleann answered. "As much as it may slow him, Brot'ân'duivé is hulkish enough to drag Fréthfâre's litter by himself. And Én'nish can do no more than follow in her present state. I am coming with you."
Sensing an argument brewing, Leesil cut in. "Magiere and Wynn may still need him, as it will take us a lot longer to return."
Gleann smiled at Wynn. "Come, child. And do not remove that moss from your mouth until I tell you."
To Leesil's relief, Sgâile just grunted. They headed north once again at a slower pace.
Leesil wasn't certain of the distance, but the journey would likely take the rest of the night. They continued until the forest began to lighten with the dawn and they emerged in a shattered clearing of broken branches, torn flowers, and one large uprooted birch.
Chap stopped in sudden weariness, glanced up at Wynn, and took a few steps into the clearing. The sage joined him, placing her hand on his back. Leesil was about to call them back when Chap turned away with Wynn at his side. The dog stalked on through the trees with his head hanging.
They all moved on, and Leesil saw the edge of the barrier woods.