Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1

by Todd Fahnestock

  “Or he could be dying right now.”

  His shoulders felt tight. “It’s a bad idea.”

  “We have to try,” she said.

  It could take forever to find a quicksilver in the woods, especially if he didn’t want to be found. “Come on. Let’s get about it.”

  “Where should we start—” she asked.

  He motioned for silence with a quick swipe of his hand. That peculiar noise, the clacking wind chimes, sounded in the distance, louder.

  She heard it this time, too. “What was that?”

  A chill ran down his back. He grabbed her arm and moved her towards the door. “We have to go. We’ll come back to search for Stavark later.”

  Cursing himself for letting her come into the city at all, he set off at a jog. She followed.

  The clacking sounded again, much closer this time. Those weren’t wind chimes. That was some creature. It sounded like an avalanche mixed with a horse’s whinny. It was heading straight for them, coming from somewhere to the north.

  Sprinting, they turned the corner and saw the edge of the forest, which had invaded the closest buildings of Denema’s Valley. They were just about to plunge headlong into the trees when a loud voice pulled them up short.

  “Golden King!” a deep voice called to them.

  Medophae spun about. He kept his hand casually at his side, close to the long sword they had bought before leaving Gnedrin’s Post.

  The newcomer who had called out sauntered around the corner of the nearest building. A Sunrider, of all things!

  He was tall, powerfully built, with a strong jaw line, dark eyes, a mane of dark hair, and the proud, hawk-like nose of a Sunrider chieftain. He walked forward with casual confidence, his hands loose at his sides.

  He wore a pair of leather riding pants and black riding boots. His chest was bare, save for the leather strap that held a sheathed greatsword across his back.

  “Mirolah,” Medophae said. “Go to the portal—”

  “I’m not leaving you. That man’s not normal. In my threadweaver sight, he looks like...” There was fear in her voice. “He has...black fire surrounding him.”

  Medophae kept his gaze on the smiling man, who stopped a dozen paces away.

  The clacking neigh rose on the air, louder this time.

  “Please, Mirolah! I’ll be right behind you.”

  “The Spirit wants a word with you, Golden King.”

  The Spirit. Zilok Morth. This man was with Zilok. They were caught.

  With quiet authority, Medophae spoke once more to Mirolah. “Trust me, please. If it’s working, use the sequence we talked about.”

  She paused, then made the right decision. “I’ll be back for you.”

  “Not if I catch you first,” he murmured. She turned and sprinted into the woods.

  The Sunrider raised his eyebrows and watched her run away, as if she didn’t matter at all.

  “So you are the one my people hail as a god?” the dark-maned Sunrider said. “The Spirit said your real name is Medophae. That much is true, yes?”

  Medophae said nothing.

  The Sunrider leaned against the wall of the house. “Not going to talk?”

  “I am no god,” Medophae said.

  “Oh, I know. The Spirit explained how it works. You are a foreigner who was given more power than you deserved. But my people think you are a god. They believe your spirit lives within us all. Our warriors offer prayers to you when they ride into battle. I used to offer those prayers.” He paused. “Perhaps now they will offer prayers to me?” He flexed his hand and a crackle of black fire flickered across his knuckles.

  Medophae went cold. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Zilok hadn’t just cut him off from Oedandus. Had he somehow...given Oedandus to this man?

  “It’s like fire in my veins. Did you know I can uproot a tree as tall as ten horses?” He chuckled. “Well, of course you do.”

  Medophae fought for composure. He made his lips move, forced his voice to work. “Who are you?”

  “I am Vaerdaro, second son to Raedir-ba. According to the legends, I am your great-grandchild. The matron of my line was one of the original Three Mothers. It seems that some of our legends are true, after all.”

  “The Three Mothers...”

  “Tell me that you remember, oh Golden King. The three daughters of the One Sun, the Uniter of the Tribes, Raegilan the Mighty. You bedded each of them to cement the treaty between Calsinac and our people. We share blood, great-grandfather.”

  Blood. Medophae’s blood. Oedandus’s blood. “That is why you can—”

  “Why I am the new Golden King?” Vaerdaro grinned. “So the Spirit tells me.”

  Medophae’s mind whirled, but he had to take control of this situation. He couldn’t sit here and wait for Zilok to show up.

  “You have made a dramath’s bargain, Sunrider,” he said. “Zilok Morth helps only one person, himself. Whatever deal you made will cost you more than you imagine.”

  “Desperate words from a desperate man,” Vaerdaro said. He gave Medophae a disappointed frown. “To be truthful, I had hoped for more.” He sighed. “The way my people talk of you...”

  Medophae took a step backward into the woods, and Vaerdaro pushed away from the wall. “The unholy woman may go where she wishes,” Vaerdaro said. “The Spirit doesn’t care about her and neither do I. But you must stay.”

  Medophae felt like a rabbit readying to fight a skin dog. What chance did he have? Was this the same feeling others had felt when they faced him across a battlefield? He took another step backward, gauging the distance between them.

  The clacking neigh split the air. Whatever that creature was, it was almost here.

  Vaerdaro spared a brief glance toward the direction of the noise, then looked back at Medophae. “The Spirit said he is bringing something called a spine horse to track you. That must be it.”

  Medophae turned and sprinted into the woods. Vaerdaro launched himself into a mighty, distance-spanning leap, and he pulled that greatsword from its sheath. But the moment the Sunrider left the ground, Medophae turned and drew his own blade.

  Vaerdaro was caught in mid-air, and Medophae lurched to the side as Vaerdaro swung.

  The greatsword clipped a lock of Medophae’s golden hair and whisked past his shoulder. Medophae spun, throwing his momentum into his strike, and landed his blade precisely where he wanted it.

  It sheared through both of Vaerdaro’s wrists. The Sunrider’s hands spun away from his arms, trailing spurts of blood. Vaerdaro crashed into the ground, sucked in a breath, and screamed.

  Medophae kept moving, swiveling again and bringing his blade down on one of Vaerdaro’s ankles. Bone cracked and the foot came away. Vaerdaro’s second scream cut off as he lost consciousness.

  Medophae did not hesitate. He turned and sprinted into the forest. Vaerdaro had Oedandus’s power. He wouldn’t die of those wounds. And if he reattached the hands, they would heal. Zilok had obviously told Vaerdaro of his invulnerability, but what Vaerdaro could not know was that while Oedandus healed the body, he did not spare the pain. Vaerdaro would be unconscious for a while.

  A clacking neigh from right behind him stopped Medophae’s self-congratulations.

  The sun had finally set, and through the darkness, a glowing spine horse stood next to the unconscious lump of the Sunrider, glaring up the slope at Medophae with its lava eyes. It turned its head skyward and let loose that monstrous clacking sound, like flat stones falling from the sky onto a boulder. Its diamond jaws parted and glowing saliva slid from its lips.

  It lunged up the trail after him.

  67

  Mirolah

  The portal was alive when Mirolah reached it. Before, it had been a dark archway of flat stone. Now it shimmered like the surface of a lake. Her curiosity flared; she wanted to explore this. She wanted to know how it worked and how it had been made. If Medophae wasn’t facing a twisted version of himself, she would have spent the time required to explore
every single twist of fiber that comprised this. At a glance, the handiwork was beautiful.

  With her threadweaver’s sight, she gave it a quick look. It was ready to accomplish its purpose, to transfer a human body from one location to another, but it had a trigger, something specifically designed to work it. The sequence Medophae had mentioned. The seven large symbols on the archway glowed, and there were threads tying those symbols to the shimmering, watery portal.

  A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the forest.

  “Medophae!” She gasped, spinning around. She should never have left him! She abandoned the portal and started back down the slope.

  Another of those clacking, wheezing sounds filled the air.

  She skidded down the slope, but she hadn’t taken a dozen steps when she saw Medophae scrambling up the slope, churning dirt with his feet, ducking branches and dodging brush.

  Following him was a creature from nightmare.

  It was twice as tall as the largest horse she had ever seen, and half again as wide. Its entire body was made of coarse plates of dark lava stone. Spikes of rock formed a row on its back. Between the plates, bright red lava glowed. Leaves withered and burst into flame and tree trunks cracked as it shouldered its way past. Its eyes were hollow recesses to its glowing core, and its gaze had locked on Medophae. It neighed again, stealing the breath from her chest.

  “Gods...” she said.

  No. Be surprised later. Right now, help him.

  Mirolah divided herself into three nodes of attention, slipping into the threads of the air, the ground, and the trees.

  “Mirolah!” Medophae huffed. “The portal! Did you tap the sequence?” He drew abreast of her and pulled her toward the gate, breaking her concentration.

  The monstrous creature leapt up the slope, breaking branches. The brush it stepped on burst into flames, and heat preceded it in a wash.

  “What is that?” she asked as Medophae lunged past her and touched the seven large symbols in sequence. The monster reared up before her, lighting the canopy of leaves on fire. She reached into its threads and yanked them apart...

  ...but they slipped through her fingers.

  The huge head dipped and batted her aside. It was like being hit with a burning club. She screamed and flew sideways, tumbling to a stop next to tree.

  Sparkly dots welled up in her vision, but she fought to stay conscious. Her shirt smoldered. Struggling to draw breath, she pushed herself to her hands and knees in time to see Medophae draw his sword. It seemed laughable, that tiny piece of sharp metal against that monster. Mirolah pushed down her pain and grabbed the threads around the beast, hardening the air and pushing it away.

  The monster stepped through the spell like it was made of sand. It snapped at Medophae, but he managed to spin to the side.

  “I can’t fight it,” she cried. “I can’t hold it!” She forced herself to her feet.

  “Mirolah,” he said in a steady voice. With his sword in front of him, he beckoned her with his other hand. He kept his eyes on the creature and his back to the portal. It snapped at Medophae, but did not attack. It appeared to want to herd him away from the portal.

  “Remember the battle in Denema’s Valley?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the creature. “What you did with Orem and Stavark?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I will give you the opportunity. Take it. To our destination.”

  The creature cocked its head, as though it was listening to Medophae’s words, trying to understand.

  What she had done at the battle with the darklings...

  “Yes,” she called, scrambling back up the slope toward him.

  Medophae stepped away from the portal, and the monster closed in behind him, herding him down the hill the way they had come. As they passed Mirolah, the monster suddenly lunged at her. It would have bitten her in half, but Medophae was there. His sword flashed forward, plunging into one of the creature’s molten eyes. It gave a keening noise, jaws open a foot from Mirolah’s face. Searing lava splattered the tree next to her, and she stumbled away from the wash of heat, tumbling to the ground.

  It reared up with a great howl, bashing Medophae high into the air. She pushed up on one elbow, reached out and caught Medophae’s threads. She yanked them and flung him at the glowing gate with the speed of a hawk in steep dive. He vanished through the shimmering water.

  The wounded monster came out of its fury. Its punctured eye leaked lava, but it leapt uphill toward Mirolah, right behind her. Hot breath blasted her neck. Diamond teeth combed through her hair as its jaws snapped on air.

  The portal shimmered as she plunged through.

  Then, darkness...

  68

  Mirolah

  “Mirolah?”

  “Medophae...” She strained her eyes against the darkness. The stone underneath her was smooth, polished. She looked behind her. Through the archway, the dark forest rippled like a reflection on water. The nightmare horse snapped at them, trying to bite through the portal, but it couldn’t. It shone scant light into the dark room she was currently in. They could see the thing, but they couldn’t hear it anymore. The only sound was their own breathing.

  Medophae jumped to his feet and touched the same sequence upon the glowing sigils on this side of the archway. The portal shimmered, and the silhouette of the nightmare horse vanished, leaving only the silvery water.

  He stepped back, then he laughed. Her eyes were beginning to adjust, and she could make out some of his grinning face in the shimmering light.

  “Why didn’t it come through with us?”

  “That was a spine horse,” Medophae said. “They’re immune to threadweaving. Can’t use a portal that runs on GodSpill if you’re immune to threadweaving.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t do anything to it.”

  “Zilok was counting on that, I’m sure. But he didn’t count on the portal. Or on how resourceful you could be.” Again, he laughed as though he couldn’t believe they had made it.

  It was infectious, and she began laughing, but stopped at a sharp pain in her side. The creature had broken her ribs. By the gods, how many times was she going to do that? She was getting tired of bigger creatures throwing her around. She should come up with some permanent spell to stop that from happening. Or an artifact that made her physically slippery like the spine horse was slippery to her threadweaver fingers.

  “We shouldn’t waste any time before—”

  “Wait,” she murmured, drawing GodSpill from the threads of the stone and the air. “Just...give me a minute.” She put her attention into the threads of her own body and repaired the damage to her ribs. She also had some contusions on her arm and head from when the spine horse had batted her into the air, and torn muscles in her shoulder from when she landed. She spent a few minutes healing herself. As soon as could take an easy breath, she said, “Okay.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m good now.”

  “Well, I hate to press you, but we should just destroy this portal. Zilok often looks through the eyes of his creatures. He may have been watching from the eyes of the spine horse. I don’t think he was, because he would have joined that fight. But if I’m wrong, he might have seen me tap out that sequence. He’ll follow us.”

  “Yes,” she said. She reached out and disconnected the threads that bound the glowing sigils to the water. The stones of the archway melted smooth, erasing the carvings. The shimmering moonlit water became flat stone.

  She turned, finally inspecting this dark room they’d tumbled into. It was circular, with a dozen other portals shimmering, glowing softly.

  “One moment and I shall have light for us,” he said. His shape was shadowy, but she saw him wrench a torch from the wall, then kneel. Flint struck steel, and in a moment, a warm glow filled the room. Medophae held the torch high above his head. He had taken it from a sconce on the wall. A long, steel spear leaned against the wall next to it, like someone had put it there lifetime
s ago, and it had been the sole sentinel in this room. Medophae picked it up in his other hand, felt the weight, then kept it.

  “All of these gates go somewhere?” she murmured, walking up to one. “How long did it take you to build all of these?”

  “Many years,” he murmured, tapping the butt of the spear on the ground. “But we had many years then. When Bands and I began this room, some of the cities had not even been settled. Now, I cannot think of one that isn’t a ruin.”

  “Some of the gates are just stone,” she said, slapping a hand against the stone of the archway next to the one from which they’d emerged.

  “I’m guessing those were found on the other side, and someone defaced the runes.”

  “So if you scratch away one rune, the gate goes dark?” she asked.

  “Well, yes, but it wasn’t that simple in the Age of Ascendance. The archways at each destination were protected by spells. Nothing short of dragon fire could destroy them. But during the years we went without the GodSpill, they were just normal stone.” He turned. “Come, you’re tired and so am I. Let’s find rest and in the morning, we can see what time has wrought with my once-beautiful Calsinac.” He headed toward one of the darkened archways. It looked like all the rest, but as he drew closer with the torch, she realized it was just a normal hallway.

  He guided her down the dark passageway, the torchlight pushing back shadows, revealing paintings on the walls. On her left they passed a sculpture of a woman with a spear.

  In the stories she’d read, Calsinac was a mythical city, but the dark tour, uncovering forgotten pieces of artwork one at a time under the flickering orange light, made her feel more like she was in a tomb.

  They ascended stairs that started with walls on either side. After a time, the walls went away, and it felt like she was climbing into the air. There was no rail, and the torchlight reached into absolute darkness. Warm air wafted up around them.