“You do not think Soldier Yohan and Brother Patrik still pursue?”
Jena winced. “No. It’s been too long.” Far, far too long. “He’s not coming. We’re on our own.”
The other woman smiled. “You speak as though there were only one in pursuit. There are two, My Princess.”
“Your pardons, but there is only one that matters. If your trader companion is truly with him, he is as like a hindrance as a boon. Perhaps he is the reason why they fell behind.”
“Do not discount the harpa so, My Princess. Patrik is more resourceful than you know.”
The exchange was increasingly fraying to Jena’s tattered nerves. Yet some hope was better than none, and she clung to the idea that her companion spoke truly. To reassure her mind, and to remind her heart of his presence, Jena instinctively stroked the figurine with tender fingers.
Both women looked up at the approach of footsteps. One of the tribesmen carried a man, clearly unconscious, slung over one shoulder. Without a word, the man was dropped to the ground near the two prisoners. As the raider walked away, Redjack and Snarl took his place.
“We stop here for the eve,” the red-bearded traitor announced. “When this oaf awakens, you will make sure he keeps up with the march.”
Summersong knelt beside the prostrate man, rolled him onto his back, and began to look for visible injuries. The man’s shirt was strikingly lavish and immaculate, adorned with the seal of Gothenberg—a silver tankard on a background of black—and unmarked by any sign of violence. The only wound Jena could see was a spot of blood caked around one temple.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“He was the magistrate of Threefork.” Redjack laughed. “Now he’s devil food.”
Jena shivered. Long had she worried this was their fate, but the confirmation was chilling. “That thing means to eat us? Even you cannot be at ease with that, Private.”
He shrugged. “Not my place to decide, Commander. I do not question the Archon, lest my people suffer a similar fate as yours.” He hesitated, and his face settled into something resembling sympathy. “Besides, he doesn’t mean to eat you, Princess. You’re meant to be fuel for their magicks.”
Jena did not know what that meant, exactly, but the idea sent another shiver coursing through her body. She stared at Redjack, watching the compassion melt away as quickly as it appeared.
She had seen his eyes wander downward, at first believing he was inspecting her female curves as all men were want to do. Then she realized where her fingers were, what they were rubbing, and she pulled her hand out of the pocket.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching toward it. “You have something here?”
She attempted to kick him away, but the sudden snap of rope caused her to lose balance. She caught herself on her knees, just in time to watch him pull the figurine from the compartment.
Jena closed her eyes, not even listening to his final taunts. There was nothing she could say, she knew, so she made no attempt. Instead, she focused on fighting back the tears that began streaming down her cheeks. Weakness was the one thing she hated most, yet its display was nothing to the sudden loss of hope.
“You’re all doomed,” Summersong said calmly. “I see it in your futures. The not-distant future.”
Jena shook away the wetness that blurred her vision. Redjack had withdrawn, but Snarl was still there. The harpa was not short, but he towered over her, looking down with malicious intent. He held his heavy axe in one hand, and the tautness of his muscles revealed a powerful desire to use it.
What are you doing, woman? Please stop this foolishness now.
“You’re next,” Summersong told him. “I see your death as clearly as I saw your lover’s.”
Jena watched the axe lift up and come down, so fast it became a blur. At the last instant, he twisted the shaft, turning the blade, striking the trader’s knee with the flat. She screamed and collapsed beside the still-unconscious man, who lay as unseeing witness.
“Your power is gone, bitch.” Snarl sneered down at his victim, enjoying her pain. She clutched her leg with both hands, unsuccessfully trying to force it back into a normal shape. One look at the knee told Jena the joint was all but destroyed.
The savage raised his axe again, contemplating another strike. Jena interposed herself between the man and his target, pushing him back with her bound hands, then wishing she had grabbed at his axe instead. If he gives me another opportunity, I will—
“Cease.” The order was quiet and emotionless, but the voice came from one who was instantly obeyed. Jena backed away, leaving Snarl alone to face the tall, pale form of their leader.
The Chekik carried his ornate wooden staff. Whether weapon or decoration, Jena knew not, but the shimmering air around it suggested a creation of preternatural origin.
Yet the strange being made no show of using it as he looked with unblinking eyes down on the hulking barbarian. She gave Snarl credit for not backing away, fearsome though this halfman was. Instead he stood silently, awaiting judgment.
Redjack had called this thing the Archon. It spoke again, the croaking voice barely above a whisper, though all heard. “The prisoners are not yours with which to play your childish games. They are mine. Was this not clear?”
Though it used a foreign tongue, she understood every word—a clear indication of sorcery at work. A prickling sensation ran over her body, a deep-rooted worry, for she knew not how her homeland could resist power such as this.
Nor this. The Chekik’s ever-present companion, this ungodly beast of scale and sinew, teeth and claws. A head-and-a-half higher than the tallest of the tribesmen when it stood on two legs. It did so now, taking its time, the long sharp edges of its forearms displayed like sword blades. That wide, menacing mouth seemed to be smiling.
Jena quickly looked away. She did not like staring at it, and was clearly not the only one who felt that way. A crowd had formed, but most onlookers averted their eyes from the darkening shadow and manifest malignance.
The man before it did not shy away, however, nor avert his eyes as did the others. His mouth formed one last crooked snarl. Then the demon’s left forearm streaked through the air in a quick, horizontal arc, followed by the right. Its movements were difficult to see clearly; the effects were not. First, the man’s throat was opened, then his forehead. A sliver of skull smoothly slipped away, exposing the soft matter within. Already dead, the tribesman dropped to his knees as those forearms needlessly lashed out twice more.
The dismemberment continued as the body collapsed to the bloody grass. The reaver sliced away bits and pieces with no particular hurry to finish the gruesome task, its motions one long series of blurs interspersed with pauses to taste its bloody handiwork.
Jena watched as much as she could, with a purpose, trying to follow its movements. Studying them, measuring the speed and precision, in case one day she might fight this demon. Hopefully not alone, for she did not think she could win.
The moaning on the ground brought awareness back to her companion’s predicament. The Archon and others stood above the whimpering form. Not gently, the halfman bent down and took the injured leg in his oversize hands. Roughly pushing the palms together, the swollen joint was forced back into place. Summersong cried out in pain, writhed once, then calmed both body and speech. As the Chekik stood and walked away, she sat up and tried to straighten the injured limb.
Jena kneeled beside her. So did Redjack. The harpa looked from one to the other, then raised her arms to allow herself to be lifted. By the traitor.
He cut the length of rope that bound her in place, then wrapped an arm around her back and helped her awkwardly limp away from the scene and into his tent.
Breathless, mind numbed by all that had happened, Jena stared at the quieting camp. She had not been overly friendly with Summersong, to be sure, but this rejection still stung.
On further reflection, however, she could not blame the other woman for giving in to the only person who could help.
Unlikely as it was that he meant what he said about saving the trader, any chance of survival was better than Jena could offer.
The abandonment meant she was truly alone, however. She had not considered the presence of the other woman to be worth much, until now that it was missing.
The reaver was gone, as were all the tribesmen. No doubt returned to their tents, pretending to forget what they had witnessed.
Snarl’s corpse, too, was gone, having been completely consumed by the ravenous demon. Now the only signs remaining were the many patches of grass stained red.
An unusual silence had fallen over the camp. A stillness of motion, suggesting Jena was the only being in the universe.
Then she looked down at the unconscious man. No, she was not alone. He would awaken eventually, not that it mattered. She did not even want to know his name.
The darkness of night had come without her noticing. A mild breeze blew across the plains. Despite the unnaturally rising temperature, Jena shivered.
She awoke in the morn, unsure when she had fallen asleep. To her surprise, she noticed Summersong sleeping nearby. He’s already grown tired of her, Jena thought bitterly. That’s too bad.
The harpa and the man woke at the same time, just as the raiders were breaking up camp. Before introductions or explanations could be made, however, Redjack and another tribesman approached the three prisoners. “Be prepared to leave soon,” he ordered. “Figure out a way to keep up.”
“She can’t walk without assistance,” Jena said. “Cut my bonds so I can help her.”
The traitor stared back for a moment, then barked an order at his companion. Alas, the man cut the rope from around the magistrate’s wrists, not Jena’s.
“Don’t trust you,” Redjack said to her. He took a few steps away, then looked back at Summersong as she struggled to pull herself upright by the stake to which the prisoners were secured. “Ungrateful bitch.” He spat on the grass and left them alone.
If the newest prisoner had any questions about the strange state of affairs in which he found himself, they went unspoken. Instead, he merely blinked at the sky as stupidly as a head of cattle.
“Help her,” Jena told him angrily.
Summersong finished pulling herself upright and leaned against the stake. She waved him away. “I’m all right, for now.” In stark contrast to her words, she appeared likely to topple back over. How she would keep pace throughout the day was a problem beyond Jena’s knowledge or concern.
Disgusted by both her companions, she turned her mind back to the helplessness of her own circumstances. Everything about them felt impossible—but she remembered another time that had been equally bleak. Yet she and Yohan had survived.
“My Princess, could you lend me a hand?”
That the woman did not ask for assistance from the one whose hands were unbound was an irritant, but Jena did not refuse.
She leaned close, waiting for the harpa to slip a hand around her waist. Instead, it quickly slid down to the pocket, and Jena felt a tiny object slide back into place. She froze, even as the hands now reached around her neck, the rope which bound the wrists helping to secure them in place. “Ready,” Summersong announced.
“Thank you,” Jena whispered. Then she straightened up, allowing her companion to balance herself between one good leg and one grateful princess. If she began to stumble, Jena was prepared to carry her all the way to Threefork.
But the raiders were not yet ready to start moving, after all. Instead, there was more yelling and staring about than usual. Jena wondered whether the horrors of the eve before were taking a toll on discipline.
“Moon and stars,” Summersong mumbled to herself.
“What’s happening?” the new prisoner asked. Jena shook her head.
“I can’t make out every word,” Summersong said. “I haven’t yet learned their language as well as I’d like. But it seems last night’s patrol never came back.”
Her eyes met Jena’s, and they both hid their smiles.
2
Surface
Though thick trees and broken clouds obscured the view of the stars above, Calla spoke for all of them. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
How many tendays they had spent below, Jak did not know. He had stopped counting before they left the followers of Versatz Tempus, and many more had passed since. Three exhausted, hapless refugees wandering through tunnel and ruin with little hope and less spirit, taking food and shelter where it could be found, often going without both, avoiding the all-too frequent signs of life below, until miraculously stumbling upon a way out—one of the few entryways from the world above left unsealed many generations before.
“I had forgotten how many there were,” she continued, staring reverentially above. “Hundreds and hundreds. So much light shining through so much dark.”
“You know what they are?” Jak asked.
“Of course. There is Father Gi and Mother Thalassa, who gave birth to the world…and the Midwife, who protects children. The Navigator, who guides sailors through the—”
“They’re the gods,” Jak said. And the devils.
“The gods?”
“Aye. See that cluster through the break in the clouds? There, Calla… See how they form a bifurcated line? That’s the two tails of a scorpion, the symbol of Kron.”
“Kron’s no scorpion, silly.”
“To some he is.” But Jak did not care to press the matter further.
“There, what’s that one?” She giggled as she pointed, enjoying the fancy of the moment. And why not? To be above ground, surrounded by living trees and industrious nightbugs…this was a feeling unlike any Jak could remember. Let the future worry about itself, for a change.
“We can’t see all of it, but that’s one of the feathers of Ith…of Orkus, god of wisdom.” Whose Eye I carry.
“Orkus,” she said in marvel. “How Da loved him.” She spoke with a smile, but Jak watched the sadness silently settle over her features.
Kluber joined them, filling the vacuum with questions of his own.
“How did they get there, I wonder?”
“The legends contradict themselves on that point. Some say the gods came from above, their souls in the stars but their bodies on earth. Thus, always divine.”
“And the others?”
“The others say they were mortals who ascended to the heavens—by leading such extraordinary, exemplary lives that others began to worship them. And in the worshiping, lifted them to divinity.” Whether corrupted by power later, or always corrupt, it makes no difference. They’re all devils now.
Kluber, distracted by something, no longer seemed to be listening. “Jak, what’s that one?”
Jak saw where Kluber pointed, and was momentarily confused. The star blazed as brightly as any, yet did not correspond to the charts he had studied in the Pantheons of Ra’Cheka, nor to anything he recalled from his childhood.
“I must admit I don’t know,” he said. “It’s new.”
“A new star?” Kluber asked in marvel. “Does that happen?”
“Maybe it’s Kleo,” Calla said.
Jak looked away from the sky, taking a step away from his companions. A pressure squeezed painfully on his heart, as he was sure it did for the two of them. He doubted very much that the strange new star was the beloved companion they had lost below, but if anyone he knew deserved to ascend to the heavens, it was one who had sacrificed herself for the good of humanity.
If so, perhaps her selflessness was a sign that someone could indeed become an object of worship without succumbing to the corruptions of power. It was something to hope for, at least. He needed that.
The stretch of forest they occupied was much like that of their former home. Immense older growth mixed with small and new, the air thick with the scent of pine and spruce. A stream trickled nearby, and the buzz of insects provided a continuous low din. This was the type of setting that Jak should have felt comfortable in. But something unnamable bothered hi
m about it.
“The air grows heavy,” Kluber said. “Rain coming.”
“Aye.”
“Where are we, Jak?” Calla asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Far from Shady Glen, that’s for sure. But I doubt we’ve walked far enough to leave Falkenreach. Let’s camp here for now. We can set out at first light.”
Yet there was very little light when they awoke. Whether less time had passed since the solstice than he believed, or simply from bad weather, the day dawned with disappointing dreariness. The three set about the rituals of existence with little conversation, a sense of malaise that matched the weather threatened to affect their mood.
There was little Jak could do about the dampness soaking through his clothing. The robes they wore were large and loose, but stuck uncomfortably to the skin on the shoulders and back.
The itching on his face and neck, however, had an easy solution. He squatted on a fallen tree trunk and drew out the knife that had served so many purposes.
Itchiness was bad enough—but if his growing beard looked anywhere near as scruffy as Kluber’s, it had to go.
Raising knife to cheek, Jak tried to hold his hand steady. The blade had drawn his blood enough times already. He did not want this to be another.
He felt a gentle hand on his forearm, and turned to look into Calla’s deep brown eyes.
She smiled—the first genuine smile he could remember for ages—and shook her head. “Don’t. I like this.” Her fingers brushed over the thick stubble. “Makes you look older.”
He put down the knife, still staring at her face, concentrating. Jak loved tender little moments like these, and wanted to seal this one in his memory forever. Those eyes, her countenance, but mostly the smile. How long had he loved that face? Longer than he had admitted to himself, certainly. But not so long as he would go on loving it.
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