The glowing pink-and-green dust was back, coating the walkway. Conor watched, transfixed, as it swirled around the ankles of his companions, whose paces left foot-sized patches of clear slate behind them.
“You’re really in for a treat,” Xanthe said. “I love these murals.”
“Shouldn’t someone be keeping an eye on the riverbed?” Conor asked. “Just to be safe?”
“The screamers won’t fail,” the girl replied surely. “And the elders are waiting for us in the mural chamber. They’re going to be so excited to meet you.”
They stepped into a cavern, only a dozen feet across but so tall that Conor couldn’t see its roof. Mushrooms grew up and down the walls, a soft carpet of glowing plants. It all served as illumination for the masterpiece in the room’s center.
A massive stalagmite had built up there, extending halfway up the vaulting room. Carvings were chipped into its surface, images winding around and up the thick structure. The first looked like a snake swimming in an ocean of stars. Conor leaned forward to examine it, only then noticing that there were people quietly assembled around the far side.
Conor eased around to see a half dozen Sadrean men and women standing around the stalagmite in a perfect semicircle, clad in voluminous robes made from the same shimmering black cloth as Xanthe’s shift. They’d been talking to one another in hushed voices, but jolted to attention at the new arrivals.
“Here are the upsiders!” Xanthe exclaimed to them. “Conor, Meilin, and Takoda, these are the elders of Phos Astos.”
As one, the elders stared at them with something like awe on their faces. Conor flushed with embarrassment.
“Thanks be to you,” said one elderly woman, her joints creaking as she got down to one knee, tears in her eyes. “Our saviors have finally come.”
A second elder dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
The companions stared at one another. “No, please, no one else get on their knees,” Conor said.
The tallest elder stepped toward them. He was a handsome, severe-looking man with a patch over one eye. “My name is Ingailor. Takoda, Conor, and Meilin, please know how honored we are that you have come. This moment has been prophesied for a long time. You’ve been called to us to defeat the Wyrm.”
“I’m sorry,” Takoda said. “But could someone tell me what this Wyrm is that everyone keeps talking about?”
All the elders went perfectly still. The old woman who had been kneeling staggered to her feet, confusion slackening her face.
Ingailor shook his head. “I don’t understand. Do you have another name for the Wyrm up on the surface?”
“Maybe,” Takoda said. “I don’t know.” He looked to Meilin. Can you give me some help here?
She shook her head.
Xanthe grabbed Conor’s shoulder. When he turned toward her, he was startled to see hope in her eyes that was so desperate it looked almost like panic. “What about the weapon?” she asked.
Conor met her wide eyes. “I’m sorry, Xanthe. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
One of the elders gave an anguished cry and dropped to the ground.
Ingailor kept his face impassive. “If you don’t have the weapon, why have you come here?”
“The Evertree is sick,” Conor explained. “And the source of its illness is coming from below.”
Xanthe stepped in front of the companions, and addressed the elders. “I’m sorry! They know nothing of us,” she said. “But fate must have brought them here to save us from the Many. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be ordained.”
Ingailor raised a hand to stop Xanthe from speaking further, the expression on his face both tough and oddly gentle. The rest of the elders weren’t as good at hiding their feelings—they were clearly aghast. “I don’t doubt that you believe this. But I’m not sure what these children can do that we haven’t already tried. And without the weapon …”
“I understand that you must be disappointed,” Xanthe said, keeping her eyes downcast. “But perhaps if we show them the story in the murals, they might still see something in them that we haven’t.”
Ingailor smiled wanly. In that moment, Conor realized that he was only being brave for his people—he had given up all hope. “That’s a good plan. You do your family proud. And we have nothing to lose.” He turned to the rest of the assembled elders. “Belsharth roha.”
“Belsharth rohi,” they said back, nodding. Then, as one, they parted and shuffled gloomily out of the cavern.
As Ingailor stepped to one of the carvings, Xanthe stayed close to his side. Conor heard her whisper: “Trust my intuition in this. All hope is not lost, Elder Ingailor.”
Ingailor didn’t react, and instead pointed to the image carved in the wall above him. It was of a dozen men and women in a primitive boat crossing a choppy sea, their rows of oars dipping into the water.
“This shows the founding of Erdas,” he explained. “The bands of hunters that came together to become the civilization known as the Hellans.”
Meilin’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’ve read about the Hellans,” she said. “They were some of the earliest astronomers. Many of their constellations are still used in navigation today.”
It was Xanthe who pointed to the next carved image, a giant tree surrounded by the shapes of fifteen animals—each icon representing one of the Great Beasts. Conor was pleased to see that Briggan and Jhi and Uraza were pictured near one another, friends even way back then. That was only half the image, however: The tree’s roots extended down deep, wrapping around what looked like an egg, which the artist had crusted with the dust of sapphires and emeralds. It looked like the tree was cradling the egg in the lattice of its roots—or caging it.
“This is the essential conflict of Erdas and Sadre,” Xanthe said. “The Evertree versus the Wyrm. The tree provides life. It bonds animals and humans as allies. The Wyrm is … something else. We suspect it may be as old as the Evertree itself. It has always slept deep in the earth, contained within its roots.”
“The Wyrm is a parasite,” Ingailor said with sudden vehemence, touching his fingers to the egg in the carving. “It is chaos and hunger incarnate. For a millennium it has slept, encased in an egg kept dormant by the power of the Evertree. But it was a restless sleep.”
“How do you know all this?” Meilin asked. “The Evertree was hidden from humans until very recently.”
“The wisest of the Great Beasts sought out the Hellans,” Ingailor said, pulling his hand away from the jeweled egg. “Though the Great Beasts came from the Evertree, only he sensed the rot that lurked beneath it. He told the Hellans about the danger of the Wyrm and gave us our task: By making sure the Evertree’s roots were healthy and strong, we could help delay the eventual coming of the Wyrm. The Hellans above were tasked with building a weapon, something capable of stopping the Wyrm if it ever broke free.”
Conor’s heart sank. Just a small piece of a single parasite was slowly taking his body from him. Without the weapon, what chance did they have against the Wyrm and all of its minions?
Meilin stood close to Conor, tension radiating from her.
They moved to the next panel. There, Hellans hugged good-bye, tears on their faces, as half of them climbed down into a cave. “The Hellans divided into two people,” said Xanthe. “Our brothers and sisters stayed above. We, the Sadreans, went below to tend to the Evertree’s roots. That was the last time we ever lived on the surface.”
“Not too long ago,” Ingailor continued, “the Evertree’s roots withered, and the Wyrm’s egg dropped. Then, just as mysteriously, new roots began to grow where the old had been. They cradled the egg again, but they were young yet, and much weaker than before. The Wyrm sensed that weakness. It is waking. Worse still, the fall cracked the egg, allowing small gray parasites, extensions of the Wyrm’s will, to spill out. They have spread all through Sadre, sowing chaos and possessing our people.”
“The Many,” Conor said, goose bumps break
ing out along his arms. Maybe it was only his imagination, but he thought he could sense his own parasite twitching.
“This also explains why the Evertree is sick,” Takoda said.
“Worse than sick,” said Xanthe. “Dying! As the Wyrm wakes, it consumes the tree for its power.”
“The parasites are on the surface, too,” Conor said, fingers clenched on his arm. “A man named Zerif is using them to possess the Great Beasts—and people. Maybe we can seal the egg somehow.” Even if it was too late for him, he could possibly help to save others from the infection that was claiming him. “Can you lead us there?”
“The path to the Wyrm’s egg is crawling with the Many. Any who attempted that journey would not return.” Ingailor frowned wearily. “I’m sorry, but Phos Astos needs its elders now more than ever. I must stay here.”
“But I am in my wander years,” Xanthe said. “I’ve been to the Evertree’s roots before. That was before the Many began their assault, but I know the way. Let me be the one who brings the upsiders to the Wyrm.”
“Before you go offering yourself up for risks like that,” Meilin said, “you should know that we don’t even have a plan for what we’ll do about the Wyrm once we get there. The Hellan civilization is ancient history. If they had a weapon, it most likely disappeared with them.”
Xanthe clenched her fists and raised her head, a new resolve in her expression. “I had hoped that you might be the Hellans. I let myself believe you had brought us their weapon, and I know now that I was wrong. But I won’t let go of my belief that you’ll save us. That will happen.”
“Xanthe’s right. It won’t help any of us to give up hope—” Takoda started, but froze.
A shrill, thunderous ringing filled the chamber. The sound was powerful enough to shake multicolored motes down from the walls, bathing the air in color.
Xanthe and Ingailor were instantly in motion, sprinting out of the cavern. “The screamers!” Xanthe called over her shoulder. “The Many are attacking!”
As they sped down the tunnel leading back to the plain, the mushroom dust swirled up in great gusts, clouding Conor’s vision and making him cough. He covered his mouth with his sleeve as they dashed down the sloping tunnel.
The companions skidded to a stop just shy of the ledge at the tunnel’s exit. They were only ten feet or so above the smooth slate plain, two wheels and a lock the only things guarding them—and Phos Astos—from annihilation.
Xanthe lay her hand over the screamer’s bulby head until it stilled, then she and Ingailor hunched over one of the wheels, talking heatedly in their language.
“When’s the last time you used this thing?” Conor asked.
Ingailor spared one glance at Conor before returning to examining the wheel. “We’ve never had a second attack come this soon—we’ve only just finished the repairs from the last wave. The guards are on their way, but we’ll need your help in the meantime.”
“Of course,” Meilin said.
Xanthe measured up their group. “Conor, Takoda, and I will take one wheel. Meilin can help you, Ingailor. That should be enough strength on both sides to do it. Once the guards arrive, they can take over.”
Xanthe sifted through a pouch at her waist. Her hand came out with a small glowing pink globe, no bigger than a marble. Standing at the lip of the tunnel opening, she lanced it as high as she could over the slate plain.
It lit the glossy stone below like soft fire, casting a pink glow that brought out constellations of glittery highlights within the rock.
Revealing the Many.
A few dozen of the monsters were halfway across. They’d been creeping toward them in the darkness, but in the shock of the sudden light they staggered, reeling back and gasping. Before Conor’s eyes, he saw them scrunch their eyelids shut and press forward, crawling on all fours, shockingly fast.
He imagined those creatures—the kind of creature he would become once the parasite got to his forehead—lurching forward, hunting them, their long-nailed hands groping through the darkness. His body broke into shudders, and he couldn’t make it stop.
“Release it!” he gasped. “Release the water!”
“Stay calm!” Ingailor commanded. “It will take the Many a few more minutes to cross the plain. The bulk of the horde is behind them, and we need to catch as many as possible in our trap.”
In an attempt to calm himself, Conor imagined the most peaceful thing he could: his old herd. He pictured the sheep’s soft curly fur, smelled the wet musty scent of their skin, listened to their soft bleats as they chewed grass. It was enough of a distraction to keep the terror at bay—almost. Then Xanthe threw another one of her stones and illuminated the plain again. Conor’s sheep vanished from his mind for good.
The plain was swarming with the Many—at least a thousand of them, staggering and lurching across the smooth, glittering surface, crawling over one another in their unthinking haste. They all froze for a moment under the brilliant light, then it faded and Conor was blind again. He closed his eyes, biting back his terror, and flailed in the darkness until he contacted one of the wheel’s handles. He almost started turning it on his own, but stopped himself just in time, instead grinding his palms into his wheel. Just let us release the dam! he silently pleaded.
The nearest of the Many hadn’t been more than twenty feet away, and they were moving fast.
“Hold … hold … and now!” Ingailor cried. “The wheels!”
Gasping in relief, Conor began to turn his handle. With Xanthe and Takoda straining beside him, the wheel began to shift. From a few feet away, he could hear Meilin and Ingailor’s wheel groan and shudder as it, too, lurched into motion.
“It’s working!” he heard Meilin exclaim.
Which was when Conor’s wheel stopped.
“Is it supposed to do this?” Takoda asked.
“No!” Xanthe said frantically. “It’s jammed. It’s jammed!”
They heaved, but the wheel gave only an inch or two before springing back to its original position.
“Ingailor!” Xanthe shrieked.
Conor could hear the Many right under their ledge: the sound of their fingernails scratching against the stone, their grunts and moans as they tried to scramble up to get them. Conor imagined they’d mound up soon, start to climb one another … and then they’d be upon them, and all would be lost.
Conor tugged frantically, but the wheel was still stuck.
“Xanthe?” Ingailor called over, concerned. “What’s happening? The gate’s not opening!”
“I have to do it,” Takoda said.
“What do you mean?” Xanthe asked, perplexed.
But Conor knew precisely what Takoda meant. There was a radiant flash and a popping sound, then a heavy weight hit the ground beside him.
“What the—?” Xanthe said, shocked.
Conor heard a familiar grunt, and then Kovo was beside him, the gorilla’s coarse hair bristling against Conor’s arm as he took a place at the wheel. Conor felt a rough hand over his own and realized the ape wanted his handle, too. He leaped out of the way. Startled, Xanthe tumbled beside him.
“You have a spirit animal?” she asked.
“It’s … more like he has me,” Takoda said ruefully. “But yes.”
With a scream of metal, their wheel began to turn. Kovo grunted as he slapped the handles, getting up more and more speed until they were whizzing past.
“It’s working! It’s open!” Ingailor called.
Kovo seemed to be enjoying himself. He continued to pelt the wheel, pushing it faster and faster.
“Hey!” Takoda said sternly. “Stop now.”
The ape roared in anger at Takoda, baring his sharp teeth.
“Please,” said Takoda. Before the boy’s pleading eyes, the anger drained out of Kovo.
“Listen!” Xanthe said excitedly. Her eyes had been on the plain ever since their wheel started turning. “Water!”
Conor heard the rushing sound, too.
So did the Many
. They began to scream, an awful, high-pitched sound.
Xanthe took another stone from her pouch, this one a pale green color, wider and flatter than the previous. She hurled it to the ceiling of the cavern, where it struck and splattered, green goo softly illuminating the scene below.
The light came just in time to reveal an enormous wave of black water as it struck. It had such force behind it that the first rows of the Many disappeared entirely, swept deep into the dark, surging tide. More and more fell beneath it, their screams cutting off short as the water swept across the plain, bowling over ghoulish white bodies and dragging them under.
Conor watched the trap do its deadly work. Once the water began to slow into a swift current without any whitecaps, he could see that none of the Many remained. The sudden black river had seized them all.
“Where did they go?” Conor asked. He’d expected to feel joy at seeing the monsters swept away. Instead, the gaping emptiness of the plain stood as a painful reminder of his own plight. Though they called them monsters now, the Many had once been people, just like him.
“Rivers run throughout Sadre,” Xanthe said grimly. “The tunnels we use are all old riverbeds. This water will flow in a thousand different directions, into the deepest parts of the earth. That’s where the Many have been dragged. Those who haven’t drowned are lost forever.”
“Will any survive?” Meilin asked.
“It’s unlikely,” Xanthe said, staring back across the plain. “Though we’ve never swept quite this many down before.”
“It’s so sad,” Conor said.
Meilin squeezed his arm.
“Ingailor, I’ll put out a call for workers to come set the trap again,” Xanthe said.
There was no answer.
“Ingailor?” Xanthe turned around and gasped.
Ingailor’s pink eyes were wide, his hands held in shock over his chest. Once Xanthe saw what he was looking at, she took a step back in surprise.
They were staring at Kovo. Illuminated by the soft green light from above, the ape looked especially fearsome. The tips of his jet-black hair were lit by faerie fire, broadening his already massive physique. He stood on all fours, taking them all in. The expression in his scarlet eyes was inscrutable, but the one thing about Kovo that was unmistakable, ever unmistakable, was his brutal intelligence.
Spirit Animals: Fall of the Beasts #1: Immortal Guardians Page 10