He had forgotten about the tail. It whipped around from behind and caught him about the ankles, bringing Fox crashing to his knees and sending his bow skittering away on the stone, toward the edge of the chasm. Fox tried to scramble for it, only to feel the tail pulling him back down the path, while Fox clawed helplessly at the smooth stone beneath him and at the wall rushing by.
And then, just as abruptly, the creature let go. Fox didn’t hesitate a moment, didn’t stop to wonder what had happened or look around for where it had gone. He half-crawled, half-ran to his bow, rescuing it from where it lay, mere inches from the irretrievable depths. He scooped it up and turned to face the beast once more, fumbling for an arrow. As he watched, it suddenly became clear what had drawn the beast’s attention.
A hailstorm of arrows, spears, and even a handful of pots and pans came raining down on the beast from above, where the rest of the company stood. The beast roared in anger, a jumbled combination of men’s screams issuing from its grotesque human face. It began to claw its way up the stone face toward them, more catlike than ever in its advances. Fox sent his arrow soaring to bury itself deep in the creature’s spine, desperate to draw its attention once more. He knew it was foolhardy, but somehow he thought that even alone he stood a better chance than the caravan above. They were on an open plateau, and all the beast had to do was reach them and they would be easy prey. But Fox, one small target tucked on a winding ledge, might prove harder to deal with.
The arrow hit home flawlessly, making the beast hiss and fumble in its journey. Steeling himself, Fox ran forward and grabbed hold of the whiplike tail. As the creature surged upward once more, Fox ripped one of his knives from its home in his vest and drove it straight through the black, lymnstone-laced tail, pinning the creature to the very stone. And then he scurried out of the way once more as the creature came crashing back onto the path, anchored unexpectedly.
As the creature struggled to regain its balance, Fox noticed something; not all of the beast’s injuries healed themselves. The places that were not lymnlight, but the strange black that might have been the Beneath itself, seemed to crack somehow when they were hit. And, somehow, they seemed less empty. Almost vulnerable.
The rest of the caravan was beginning to surge down the path once more. They were still a ways away, but Fox could hear them approaching. If only he could hold the beast off until help arrived ...
The beast had other plans. It tore itself free of Fox’s knife and leapt from the path into the chasm, flapping its enormous wings and shedding blue lymnstone dust as it went. And then it doubled back, diving at him like a hawk about to seize a particularly fat and juicy mouse. In less than a heartbeat Fox had another arrow to the string, but it wasn’t quick enough. The creature bore down upon him, claws outstretched, and Fox braced himself.
There was a sound like thunder rattling a forest of icicles as the creature slammed into something right in front of Fox. Something pearlescent and almost invisible. Something that looked like a man, with his arms crossed high over his head. Farran turned his head to meet Fox’s eyes, strain and agony carved even in the ghostly hints of his face.
The unspoken message was clear. Fox didn’t waste another moment, but raised his bow once more and fired a single, perfect shot. His arrow buried itself right where he imagined the creature’s heart would be. There was the briefest moment of calm as the creature’s shrieks were abruptly cut off. And then, from the place where the arrow sprouted, a thousand razor-thin cracks started to spiderweb away from the wound. It was like watching ice begin to shatter, and Fox instinctively took several steps back, hitting the cold stone wall with enough force to knock his own wind out.
But the creature didn’t burst. It hung in midair, face stretched in a grotesque exaggeration of a human scream. From the jagged cracks, and especially around Fox’s arrow, clouds of thin, lymnstone-blue light began to escape from the creature’s skeleton, like tiny geysers of steam breaking through a frozen tundra. They floated out and drifted away, ghostly petals on an intangible wind, before fading into darkness. With each one, Fox could hear something that sounded like a long-past sigh of relief, or exhaustion, or sorrow. And he knew, without any explanation but certain that he was right, that whatever the diaphanous smoke things were, they were free.
In the glow of the creature’s final moments, Fox could see Farran’s spectral shadow collapse onto its knees, and then fade away into nothingness. Fox tried to cry out to it, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he watched in silence as the beast of the Beneath finally vanished, leaving the heart of the mountain dark once more.
✽ ✽ ✽
Wick allowed them to light torches for the remainder of their trek through the Beneath. In the flickering firelight from half a dozen pillars of flame, the stone walls looked unexpectedly plain and harmless.
They made camp for what Wick assured them would be the last time within the mountain. Everyone crowded around one brilliant bonfire, rather than a scattering of smaller ones. And everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk to Fox. Wanted to know what he’d done, how he’d fought it off, and what magic he’d been using to shield himself. And Fox telling them all that he hadn’t done anything was nothing more than a waste of breath. None of them had seen Farran. Not even Wick. And so, in their eyes, Fox was a hero.
In the remaining journey to Doff, half a day’s march, not one ill word was spoken of him. And while Fox was grateful for the pleasant turn of the men’s attitudes, his mind was elsewhere.
It was ahead, on the reunion with Kaldora Flintstock that was drawing ever nearer. And it was behind, where the shadow of Farran had disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Reunion
The open air felt like the first breath of spring, refreshing and far too long in coming. All of the men were eager to break free of the mountain’s heart, but none were so happy as Fox. He stood just outside the mine’s entrance and simply breathed, soaking in every smell and sound, no matter how common. The wind welcomed him back like an old friend, rustling his hair and tugging at his clothes and bags.
But his moment of relief was short-lived. As the caravan wound its way down the mountain path, everyone intent on a proper meal at the public house, Fox was seized by an overwhelming urge to dart back into the Beneath and simply live there. He could smell her, tucked in her workshop several levels below. And as the men found their way into the low stone dining room and began to fight over bread and shout orders to the barkeep, Wick and Fox hung back.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Wick quietly.
“I’m not so sure she’ll see it that way,” Fox replied.
“I can speak to her alone,” offered Wick. “She’s my sister, after all.” Here, he attempted a shaky grin. “She can’t stay mad at me forever, and she would miss me far too much if she killed me.”
But Fox couldn’t be moved to smile. “It’s my responsibility,” he said. “Topper was — ” He swallowed a painful lump in his throat and tried again. “It’s my fault he came. I may not have slain him, but I’m the reason he was in the Nightmarket.”
Side-by-side, they trudged down the path, a growing dread in every step. Fox’s brain went into a frenzy, frothing like an overboiled pot of soup, bubbling with excuses and apologies and pleas for forgiveness. But as they approached Kaldora’s workshop and the woman herself came rushing out to meet them, every word of it was wiped from his mind.
“Where is he?” she asked at once. Kaldora was pale with fury. Suddenly, Fox’s instinct to run and hide didn’t seem quite so childish. But then, as he looked closer at Topper’s mother, he saw something else tucked behind her rage. A warm, loving worry. It frightened Fox even more than the anger.
“What nerve, to run off without even a note!” continued Kaldora. “I had to hear about it from one of the miners who saw him sneak after you!” She was wringing her hands anxiously, as though she couldn’t decide if she wanted to strangle or embrace her son. “So, where is the little scamp? Tell me
you haven’t let him go see the birds, he’s to report right back here at once so I can flay him alive!”
Something in their faces seemed to make Kaldora pause. Her expression softened, and she looked at Wick with a hint of pleading in her eyes. “Where is my boy?” she asked, much quieter than before.
Something unspoken passed between brother and sister. And then, Kaldora began to shrink like a melting icicle. She seemed to crumble in on herself, and it appeared to be only a lifetime of stubbornness and the strength of leadership that kept her from simply dissolving into a puddle of tears. Wick reached out to hold her, but she slapped his hand away, eyes wide but somehow unseeing. Her brother opened his mouth, perhaps to say something comforting. But before he could speak, Fox cracked.
“It’s my fault!” he squeaked, his voice breaking. “He stepped in front of a knife meant for me!” He did not cry, but he hovered right on the edge. He forced himself to look Kaldora in the eyes as he continued. “He saved my life, and I owe him a debt that I can never repay.”
Kaldora did not respond at once. She stared at Fox as though she didn’t quite see him. Or, rather, as though she didn’t want to see him. And then, in an empty and strangely childlike voice, she said, “I trust you can find your way out of Doff on your own, yes? Very good. I trust you and your men will be gone in the morning. They are welcome here at any time.” And then, a single tear broke past the wall she had dammed it behind. It trickled down her cheek and settled in the corner of her mouth as she said, “But the honored village of Doff is closed to you, Forric Foxglove.” And without another word, Kaldora let herself collapse into her brother’s arms.
As Wick led Kaldora inside, Fox turned abruptly on his heel and strode purposefully back up the mountain, all the way to the top, where he sat pressed into a stone crevice among the eboril nests. But even all the way up here, watching the dark birds soar overhead, Fox could still hear the piteous moaning of a funeral song, sung by Topper’s family.
For the first time since Topper’s death, Fox desperately wished that Farran were by his side. For comfort, or friendship. Or even for answers. Fox glanced around the mountaintop mews, hoping for the familiar flicker that meant Farran was watching over him. But there was nothing. And Fox closed his eyes, head throbbing with exhaustion and the pain of being attacked by an enormous monster. He wanted to fall asleep for about a month, and wake up when life made sense again.
✽ ✽ ✽
They left Doff behind as the late afternoon sun painted the sky a brilliant orange. The men were well-fed, and eager to see their wives and families. Fox took the lead once more, assuring the men that they were less than two days from home. Hearts were light all around, and the men continued to treat Fox like the conquering hero of legends past. They began to write a charming little song about his defeat of the “Underbeast,” as they had dubbed the creature Fox had fought in the Beneath. And Fox, while he disliked the fact that he was the champion of the piece, found it very catchy. He even caught himself humming it as he walked, much to the amusement of the men. That night as they made camp, Fox even contributed a verse, singing about how he’d been dragged by the beast’s tail, like a floundering fish on a hook.
The caravan sang and talked and played dice late into the night, excitement and expectations running high. Apart from the primal eagerness to be reunited with their mates, the men were also anxious to find out if anyone knew the fate of the other caravan yet. Thicca Valley might have gotten a message from them by now, or else heard if something had happened on the mountain trail. But, as far as Fox could tell anyway, the company that had chosen to travel with Fire Merchant Druacc had not yet reached the Tessoc Pass. They might still be safe, for the moment. Even so, he tried not to dwell on them. He avoided reaching out on the wind for their group, dreading the possibility that one day he might hear them perish.
And then, dawn broke over their camp. It was as clear a signal as if someone had hammered on a gong. It told the men that it was time to go home. Those who had slept at all were awake and packing within moments, and those who hadn’t bothered with sleep cobbled together a hasty breakfast for everyone else. The group was on its feet and marching into the first light before many of them even had a chance to finish their food. But they ate as they walked, and threw the scraps to those birds and rodents who hunted in the early hours of the morning.
Fox was no longer alone at the head of the caravan. He was constantly escorted by two or more men, all eager to talk to him and ask him about the strange powers he had and the amazing talents that had helped him defeat the Underbeast. And while this was a marked improvement from the days when Ellegar and his companions would whisper rumors about him, there was a part of Fox that simply wished for solitude. His insides were churning with the anticipation of
his return to the valley. And, he stumbled upon the realization as they walked, about seeing Lai again.
He had not thought about her since he set out from Whitethorn; it had simply been too painful. Had she forgiven him? Was she even still his friend? Had she told Borric that she knew the truth? So many questions weighed on his mind and heart, even heavier than the worries about the other caravan.
Morning stretched into afternoon, and the sounds and smells of home lay thick in the air. Woodsmoke and goats and rosemary bread. Fox could hear the familiar sounds of the preHomecoming preparations. The whip and snap of the colorful banners on the breeze. The pounding of wood on packed earth as the wrestling pen was erected in anticipation of the Courter’s Contests. He could hear rugs, beaten with broomsticks, and rooftops being repaired. Every mundane sound and scent flitted to Fox on the spring zephyrs, and he suddenly realized how very much he missed home.
Explosions of song accompanied them for the last league of their journey. No one seemed to be able to decide on one song at a time, and as a result there were often small vocal battles raging on within the caravan, each man or group trying to sing his tune the loudest. And then, they rounded a curve, and there was Thicca Valley, nestled below them like a single egg in a nest of mountain and forest and field.
Someone far below saw them coming and began to sound a cry. By the time they descended onto even ground, the whole valley was out in the streets and screaming their welcomes. Wives rushed to their husbands before they’d even stopped moving. Children clambered into their fathers’ arms, and Ellegar’s many grandchildren began to climb all over him like he was an old but loving tree.
Fox hung back. He knew Mother always waited at the house, preferring to welcome Father home in private. And so, Fox enjoyed watching the passionate embraces and friendly reunions from afar. He had brought them home. He, Forric Foxglove, had created this joy.
And then, something registered in Fox’s brain. He looked closer at the faces of those hugging their loved ones. There was more than simple rejoicing in their expressions and attitudes; there was an almost painful relief. His eyes swept the crowds who still remained in the streets, those who hadn’t rushed forward at the sight of their men. Here, there were mournful and tear-streaked faces. Faces that still turned upward to the mountain path, as though waiting for something. Something, or someone, that would never return.
It was in a disconnected daze that Fox began to shuffle his way through the crowd. He would find Borric. Or Picck, or even Moss. Someone who could tell him what had happened. Someone who could confirm Fox’s fears. But before he got very far, Fox felt someone grab his arm and pull him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” whispered a tearful female voice. A mess of curly blonde hair obscured his vision, but when the woman pulled back, Fox recognized her at once as Fire Merchant Terric’s wife. “When we heard,” she said, “I was sure Terric would be dead. But he says you saved him. You made him go another way, and oh Fox I can’t tell you how —” She dissolved into tears once more and threw her arms tight about Fox’s neck, nearly cutting off his air. Behind her, Terric grinned and wiped away a stray tear of his own. And then, he began to tell another man’s wif
e the story of how young Forric Foxglove had saved them all. And more of the men began to spread the tale to their wives and children and friends. Fox could hear the conversation buzzing all around him, but it was nothing more than a dull cascade of words to him. He let Terric’s wife hold him in a tight embrace, all the while searching the crowd for Father.
He found him, saying hello to a few miner friends of his several yards away. They seemed deep in conversation, and after a moment Father looked up to meet his son’s eyes. An unspoken question passed between them. And, with a drawn and agonized look, Father shook his head. There had been no survivors.
Fox couldn’t breathe. He finally managed to peel himself free of Terric’s wife, only to be hugged and kissed by one of Ellegar’s older granddaughters. She, too, had heard his story it seemed. Fox disentangled himself from this young woman as well, and had barely made it three more steps when he was set upon by no fewer than a dozen valley folk, men and women alike. People were thanking him and begging for him to tell his story. He was caught in a hailstorm of well-wishes and hugs and kisses on both cheeks. His head was spinning with the closeness of his admirers and the visions of Druacc and his caravan being buried in the avalanche.
There was a familiar and comforting scent, and a set of fingers wrapped themselves through his. Lai began to pull him free of the knot of people, saying they would see him at the Homecoming, and to let the poor boy get some rest! Then she led him out of the crowd, dragging him several lengths out of earshot before she finally dropped his hand and wheeled around to face him.
“Go and see your mother,” she said fiercely.
Fox was taken aback. He had expected a fight, or even a relieved welcome. A slap in the face wouldn’t have even been unexpected, but ... “Mother? Wha — ”
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 42