Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Most of these whispers, he quickly realized, were started by Ellegar. The usually jovial old trader was rather pensive and quiet these days, murmuring questions to the other men about Fox’s strange instincts. The words “not natural” and “cursed” were often carried to Fox on the wind. He could see Ellegar and his small band of followers each evening, watching him from within their glowing pool of firelight. And even though he began settling himself at the farthest end of the camp from them, he could still hear the rumblings, lulling him to sleep like an unsettling cradlesong.

  And every night, he dreamed. They were memories that were not his own, brief scenes of life on the high seas. They were not as lengthy or as detailed as they had been when Farran had been at the helm of his mind, but they were unquestionably the pirate god’s. Fox found himself wandering the decks and rigging of the Laila every night, watching like a forgotten ghost as the ship took prizes and the pirates went about their daily lives. He woke from these dreams just before dawn each morning, regular as milking the goats, and continued to actively ignore the shadow of Farran.

  His regular morning combat practice with Wick helped to clear his head somewhat, where they were often joined by whichever members of the caravan happened to be awake and interested. It helped Fox to focus his mind, and push the dreams away. It was also easier, he realized, to control his shivers when he was disciplining his body. He pushed himself harder each day, wishing for new techniques and challenging the men to wrestling matches. And as he improved, he thought of Neil, and how many things his friend could still teach him.

  And the caravan continued to ramble along the Merchant’s Highway, back up into the foothills, until the Highborns stretched into the sky above them like stone teeth, casting a shadow over their feet and their hearts. On the other side was home. But between them and Thicca Valley, an unknown peril lurked. And for Fox, another peril altogether lay just beyond that. No force in all of the Beneath could possibly be as terrifying as Kaldora Flintstock.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  They were camped just outside the mouth of a large cavern. It was still only late afternoon, but Wick decided the company needed rest before descending into the mountain. Cooking fires were lit, and tents pitched in a quiet echo of the caravan’s usual joviality. The shadow of the mountain seemed to make the men nervous, and they spoke in hushed rumbles and whispers, rather than their usual songs and bellows.

  As night sank in around them, supper was eaten quietly, and tools and weapons were drawn. The men sat in small groups around their fires, sharpening blades and counting the arrows in their quivers. Every sound seemed to be swallowed by the yawning cave mouth at their back, so that the scraping of whetstones and twang of bowstrings seemed more like the ghosts of sounds, indistinct and unfinished.

  Fox and Wick sat alone at the fire closest to the cavern maw. Wick was slowly turning two fat brush rabbits on a spit, a focused expression of thoughtfulness written in the shadows on his face. Fox sat nearby, meticulously polishing the black shafts and carved stone feathers of his arrows. His knives were laid out on a flat stone by his side, awaiting the same treatment.

  “We’re going to be alright,” said Fox quietly to Wick. He said it as a statement, rather than a question, because he had to believe it was true. “We made it through last time just fine. We’ll walk quietly, and get through just as well as before.”

  Wick didn’t answer immediately. He tossed another log on their fire, watching as fresh sparks licked the roasting meat. Then he said, carefully, “Our road was easy, before. We traveled only by foot, not wagon or pack animal.” He looked out at the assembled caravan, and Fox followed his gaze. “There is another path. A deeper one, where the light of the ore and lymnstone disappears. It is the only road that will accommodate so many.” There was something in Wick’s voice that made him look away from the gathered men.

  Slowly, tremulously, Fox said, “You don’t think we’re going to make it.”

  “It is a quicker path,” said Wick, rather than answering directly. “It carves about a day and a half out of our journey.”

  “But there’s a reason we didn’t take it, last time,” Fox concluded.

  A nod from Wick, and Fox knew there would be no more talk about it. After all, sailors didn’t speak of their worst monsters.

  Fox did not sleep that night. He lay awake, listening to the mountain. He heard tiny rivulets of water, trickling down and into the thick layers of moss and lichen that grew up where the foothills finally met the stone. He heard the dry scrape of wind-tossed leaves against the unrelenting mountainside as the breeze plucked them from nearby trees and scattered them against the rock face. And then, in a much deeper place in his own mind, Fox could hear a sound that could only be described as a heartbeat. It was in the same ancient, wise voice in which Fox had heard the neighboring mountains scream out in pain at the coming avalanche. It was a heartbeat that echoed every step of every traveler to cross its paths, and the vibrato of every axe that had ever struck its ore.

  Fox drank in every sound like it was water in the desert. For, come the dawn, they would step within the mountain, and he would be deaf to the wind. And, because he was listening so closely, he knew he was not the only one lying awake.

  Dawn found the entire company already alert, packed, and lined up in rank. No one spoke. Even the animals seemed to know to keep quiet. All eyes were on Fox, who stood at the head of the group with Wick by his side. With the simplest gesture of his hand, the company surged forward as one. The creaks of wooden wheels and leather boots on stone were the only sound, and there was nothing menacing in that. Still, Fox was not the only man who had one hand on his weapon.

  Wick took the lead, and Fox followed close at his heels, once again plagued by the sickening feeling of missing his senses. Behind him, many of the traders were awed by the shimmering beauty of the lymnstone veins that ran through the stone all about them. Fox could see the wonder in their faces, even from those who had been down into the Thicca Valley mines before. After some hours, the men began to relax, and even seemed to be quietly enjoying themselves. But then their path turned, down a different road than Fox and his small group had traveled before. They wound down and down, past the skeletal remains of abandoned mines and beneath the hanging chandeliers of ancient pulleys and machinery. With every footstep, the glowing, shimmering orelights seemed to grow dimmer until, finally, there was nothing but darkness.

  “We camp here,” said Wick in barely a whisper, but everyone heard him all the same. “No lanterns, no lights. Not even lymnstones. We will rest for half a turn only, so make the time count. But do it in silence, and without light.”

  There were hints of disgruntled mumblings as the men began to settle in as quietly as possible, feeling around to get their bearings. An occasional curse escaped the silence as someone stepped on someone else’s foot, or else ran into a stone pillar. Fox settled down where he stood, as did Wick. Neither of them bothered to try and find food, or bedding, they simply sat.

  “The darkness should last for three more turns, after this,” said Wick, again just loudly enough to be heard, although this time only by Fox.

  “Should last?” asked Fox, just as softly. “Don’t you know?”

  Something that might have almost been a muffled laugh came from the spot Fox imagined Wick must be sitting. “It should,” repeated Wick. “And if the light comes any sooner? We run.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  One turn passed painfully slowly. The company stumbled along their way in the dark, traveling with hands pressed against the cold stone wall. They traveled as best they could while trying not to make a sound, but every so often there was a shuffling or a whispered “Ouch!” as the men collided with each other or the stone. They moved slowly upward, the path an easy but constant incline beneath their feet.

  It was a darkness that was more than a simple lack of light. It was darker than Fox had ever experienced, even in the tightest grips of the deepest winter nights. It was a darkness that
did not lend itself to the possibility of light, ever again. It swallowed up sound in a way that mere stone simply should not. And, to a young man who had grown up his entire life in the mountains, it felt wrong.

  All that existed, it seemed, was the ground beneath their feet. At times, Fox was sure he was walking alone, and that the rest of the company had disappeared into the black. But then someone would cough, or he would brush up against Wick’s arm, and he would relax, if only for a moment.

  The first turn ended. He heard Wick whisper the time, counting down until they were free of the darkness. Halfway through the second turn, Fox found it was growing harder to breathe. He began to sweat and shake, gripped with a discomfort he could not explain. He felt as though something was crawling over his skin, but when he went to slap it away, he found nothing there.

  And he was not the only one. He could hear the men and animals beginning to grow restless, and a quiet hum of grumbled conversation began to grow. Goats and ponies snorted anxiously, and men cursed at the darkness, muttering about evil spirits and whispering their longing to stop and rest. Wick kept hissing at them to be quiet, and the silence would descend again for a brief moment. But then, they would inevitably begin to chatter quietly again, sounding for all the world like a small hoard of irritated snowflakes.

  The second turn was dwindling down into mere minutes when Wick called them to a halt, hissing a warning. Silence fell once more, complete and unmoving. Fox could feel Wick at his side, tension radiating from every muscle. He tried to ask what was wrong, but before the words could find their way to his mouth, he knew.

  There was light, dimpling the darkness far below. Just a small glimmer, like a lonely star lost in an empty sky. But the glow was enough, and they could see the grey shadows of their surroundings now. They stood on the edge of a great chasm that stretched at least half a league across. The space between the wall they had been traveling along and the jagged edge of their path was a mere five feet wide. Several of the men pressed themselves closer to the wall, suddenly much more afraid of the drop than they had been when they couldn’t see it. But Wick and Fox, along with a handful of others, edged closer to the drop, leaning over to look down into the black depths of the mountain’s heart.

  “What is it?” whispered Fox.

  For a moment, the single light twinkled almost cheerfully. It might have been miles below them, or maybe it was only a handful of inches. They watched it, some men with their hands on their weapons, others merely curious. And then, another light winked into existence. Then three more. A dozen. A whole fleet of infinitesimal, jewel-bright shimmers was swimming below them, and it was as if the whole night sky had been flipped on its head and trapped deep within the mountain.

  “Move,” said Wick, low and insistently.

  “But what —” started Fox.

  “Move!” shouted Wick. The pinpoints seemed to be growing larger, or perhaps just drawing nearer. Wick drew his sword as he led the group forward, up their winding path in a steady and urgent march that was not quite a run. As they went, Fox had just enough time to realize that the little sparks were not the silvery-white of stars; they were blue!

  Their path twisted upward and began to widen. The glow grew brighter, and they could hear a sound, like the rustling of dry leaves being tumbled in the wind. Something was moving upward, through the bowels of the mountain toward their group.

  “Keep moving!” shouted Wick, no longer seeming to worry about silence. And then, something burst from the chasm, straight into the air. Many of the men, Fox included, stopped and held their weapons ready, prepared to fight. But they were not attacked. It wasn’t one something, it was a thousand little somethings. Were they birds? Or bats? Fox couldn’t tell, they were moving so quickly and there were so many of them. But they glowed! It was as though blue lymnstone ran through their veins and in their feathery wings and tails.

  They surged upward, shrieking at each other or at the caravan in tiny, high-pitched voices. They filled the caverns with a luminescent blue light, illuminating every shadow, every stone. Here, there were no scars in the rock from generations of miners. No abandoned machinery or rickety scaffolding. There was nothing but unnervingly smooth stone, and the black chasm erupting with tiny creatures of light.

  They could barely hear Wick shouting at them to keep moving, so loud was the sound of wings and inhuman shrieks. But the men surged forward once more, fighting to keep their pack animals moving forward. Fox could see Father at the end of the ranks, trying to wrestle a panicked and rearing Cobb back onto all fours. Fox pushed his way back down the path, hurrying to the pony’s side and holding tight to his harness. Not only was Cobb a danger to himself, but the small wagon he pulled was rocking perilously close to the edge. If it got much closer, there was a decent chance that Cobb would drag himself, as well as both of the Foxglove men, down into the depths with it.

  “Get back up there!” yelled Father. Far above, the rest of the company seemed to have stopped on a plateau, weapons drawn. Wick was shouting something, but the Foxglove men couldn’t hear it.

  Panting with the effort of grappling with Cobb, Fox called back, “You first!”

  Even in the midst of all the mayhem, Father smiled and laughed heartily, every inch of him dripping with a pride that Fox knew was aimed at him. Together, the two managed to get Cobb’s front hooves back on solid stone, and they began to hurry him up the path to where the others waited.

  The light was beginning to fade. Fox glanced over at the wall of bird-things, and noticed their numbers were thinning out. High above, they seemed to be disappearing. He could only assume they had found a tunnel to vanish into, or another cavern, or even a path into the open air. The darkness began to fall once more, and Father and Fox slowed, hesitant to run when they couldn’t see where they were going. Silence wrapped around them again, swallowing up even the echoes of the flying creatures as the last few disappeared from sight. Fox could feel himself panting, feel his heart beating a warning so strongly it made his ribs vibrate, but he could not hear it.

  For the longest moment of Fox’s life, they stood rooted to the spot, still as the stone itself. And then, a rumbling began, deep within the black pit. Mere seconds later, the cavern was filled with light once more as something, one glowing, enormous something, came tearing up the far wall across the chasm.

  Fox had an arrow on his bow before he even had a chance to think. At his side, Father was scrambling to pull a heavy hunting knife from his belt, one hand still wrapped around Cobb’s harness. Fox could see them out of the side of his vision, but his eyes were trained on the thing that had just appeared. He watched it as a hunter, down the shaft of one perfect black arrow.

  It was a beast like nothing Fox had ever seen, read about, or dreamed of. It was nightmare itself, come to life and clinging to the opposite wall with claws the size of pickaxes. Whether it was darkness held together by glowing veins of lymnstone, or lymnstone light held captive by darkness, Fox couldn’t tell. Something about it was reminiscent of an immense mountain cat, or at least the skeleton of one. But it was carved of black stone, or else the very blackness of the Beneath itself, and there were parts that didn’t belong. Massive wings of a glowing blue membrane that ran the length of its front legs, so batlike that Fox wasn’t surprised that the creature’s ears appeared to be borrowed from the flying rodents as well. There was a tail that was long and thin like a whip. And a face, inspecting its prey across the chasm, that was sickeningly human.

  It was stretched and hollow-cheeked, and the nose was wider and longer than any man’s nose Fox had ever seen. But its eyes, echoing the empty darkness of the Beneath, remained unaltered. Perfect, human eyes in a monster’s body. Fox swallowed back something that might have been fear, or illness. To see the Desolata, disfigured and mutated as they were, was horrible enough. But to see human parts and expressions on a creature never meant to walk on two legs, that was an entirely different sort of wrongness.

  High above, Fox could hear Wick s
houting something to the men, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was. Between the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the angry shrieks of the glowing beast, all other sounds were merely distant echoes. And then, the creature’s gaze shifted down to where Father and Fox stood, and time seemed to hold its breath like the woods after a blizzard.

  Whether the creature decided that he and Father were the weak members of the heard, or if something intrinsically magical drew it to Fox, he didn’t know. But before he had a moment to think about it, the creature pounced.

  It was instinct that drove Fox to dive toward Father. Not instinct as a son, running to a parent for safety, but the instinct to protect. He had come so far to find the caravan, he was not returning home to Mother without her husband by his side. Before Father could react, or argue, Fox heaved with all his might and toppled Father backwards into the cart. Then he slapped Cobb on the rump with the shaft of his arrow, driving the pony forward in a frenzied race up the path.

  And then he turned, just in time to duck as one of the creature’s massive claws swiped at him. The creature crashed into the wall behind Fox, giving Fox a moment to scramble away and pull himself up again, arming himself once more with an arrow poised to shoot. The beast propelled itself back and flew several feet away, hovering as best it could over the chasm. Fox didn’t waste a moment, he simply fired. One perfect arrow soared straight through the beast’s left wing, punching a hole in the glowing membrane and making the creature cry out. It was a cry that sounded unnervingly like a woman’s sob.

  And then, the wound sealed itself. It clouded over with blue lymnstone dust and the creature was whole once more. It hissed and dove again, and Fox ran. He ran up the path, sure to stay close to the wall. The creature was so huge, Fox guessed it would have trouble grabbing him from the air without crashing into the stone again. Sure enough, twice the beast charged at him, clawing at the stone fruitlessly before finally it grasped tightly to the stone wall and looked down on Fox, every inch the frustrated predator. The bear desperately trying to pluck a rabbit from too small of a hole. And, feeling emboldened by the beast’s distress, Fox began to run faster.