Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  Did those monsters somehow slip across on their own? Are there places and times when the boundary is thin enough for that to happen without blood magic?

  That got him thinking about something Baker, one of his witch tutors Below, had told him early in his training. “Magic is easiest when the lines between real and ‘other’ are blurred,” she had said. “Dawn and sunset, the equinoxes and the solstices, noon and midnight.” But those weren’t the only places that lines between magic and non-magic were thinned, Rigan recalled from the old texts. Boundaries were places where magic worked a little easier, and the gods seemed closer.

  Boundaries, like the mouth of a cave, the shore of a river, the edge of the forest. They’re all places where those lines blur, he thought. Maybe that’s where to start—go to a boundary place at a boundary time. And then what?

  So much for “where” and “when”—the “how” of getting home stymied him.

  Rigan stared out into the gloom. Corran’s panicking by now. Elinor’s probably not in great shape, either. Maybe Aiden can keep his head and try to figure out where we’ve gone and how to pull us back. I don’t know if I can open the Rift from this side. Gods above! What if we really can’t return?

  If they truly were trapped in this place where monsters dwelled, they would not have long to worry about it or to grieve their losses. Humans were never meant to venture beyond the Rift.

  And what of the presence I sensed in my dream? Was it real? Am I inventing horrors in a place that certainly doesn’t need any additions? The other parts of the dream had faded into fragments of memories. But he had never faced down the sort of awareness that he sensed in the dream. It’s not a memory, so is it my imagination? Or something real, here in the rift, that hasn’t shown itself?

  Aiden had told him once that ability with magic could be a beacon of sorts for creatures that used—or fed on—such power. Certainly the witches Below and the Wanderers had known him for what he was as soon as they met him, saying that his magic called to them. Are there creatures here that sense magic that will be drawn to us because of my power, horrors that we haven’t seen yet?

  The thought unnerved him. Whatever that presence was, it seemed much more powerful than the creatures we fought back in Ravenwood, or any that we’ve seen here. Gods, might we have only seen the small monsters pulled through the Rifts when there are greater threats that haven’t made their way to the door?

  By the time his watch ended, Rigan was no closer to having an idea of how to find their way back. He woke Mir for the next shift, and Rigan fell into an unquiet sleep, dreaming of Kell calling to him and Corran waiting for him in the shop back in Ravenwood.

  When Rigan woke, wan daylight struggled into the cave from an overcast sky. “Plenty of things prowling out there, but nothing came close to the fire,” Mir reported as Rigan and Trent rose and stretched.

  “We need to find food and water, or this is going to go even worse very quickly,” Trent pointed out.

  “What do you think we can eat here?” Mir asked. “I never tried to cook a monster before.” The dark shadows under his eyes made it plain he had not slept well. Mir took a nip from the flask in his pocket.

  “I guess it depends on the monster,” Rigan said. “And unless monsters only eat other monsters, then there must be some kind of prey here for them to feed on.”

  Trent nodded. “I can make some rabbit snares—catch anything that’s about the same size, and figure out if it looks edible after we’ve got it. If there’s a stream nearby, we might find water—and fish.”

  “What’s the plan?” Mir leaned back against the cave wall. “I’m not crazy about going out there, but staying here isn’t much better. And we’ll need more wood if we mean to come back tonight; we’re almost out. At least we know there’s a day and night here.”

  Rigan knew both men were counting on him to find a way home. He only hoped he wouldn’t disappoint them. “I’ve got some ideas, but we’ll need to scout the area—which we have to do for wood and water anyhow. Unless we find something better, the cave’s as good a place as any to spend the night.”

  “Can you do it? Can you figure out how to get back?” Trent asked.

  Rigan had been dreading the question. “I don’t know, but I’m going to try with everything I’ve got,” he replied. “And you can bet that Aiden and Elinor will be looking for a way to pull us through from their side.” He suspected that Corran would leave them little choice. He’s probably frantic by now and taking it out on everyone’s hides. Sweet Oj and Ren! We can’t seem to get a break.

  They stepped over the embers and the salt line, leaving it in place to keep anything from moving into the cave while they were gone. The gray daylight gave them a better view of the land beneath them. Rigan found a ledge and raised a hand to shade his eyes, scanning the terrain.

  “It looks like there’s a break in the trees in that direction,” he said, pointing. “If it’s a stream, that gets us water, fish, and a good place to lay traps.” And another boundary where the fabric of the worlds might be thinner.

  “Do you see anything moving around out there?” Mir asked, peering into the distance.

  Trent shook his head. “No. But the monsters may prefer the dark.”

  Wary of an attack, Rigan and the others ventured down the slope, looking for landmarks so they could easily find their way back to the shelter. They kept their weapons in hand and Rigan took point, ready to summon his magic if mere steel would not suffice. He could not shake the feeling that they were being watched, though nothing in the shadows caught his eye.

  “Something’s been busy,” Mir noted, pointing to where a carcass lay, its bones picked clean. “I can’t even tell what it was.”

  “Probably something we haven’t seen before—and don’t want to,” Trent replied.

  Rigan felt torn between shuttering his magic tightly to avoid drawing attention and using it as an added sense to check for danger. He finally sent out a bit of his power, keeping the touch light and the range limited and hoped it would not be a dinner call to hungry predators.

  “This place reeks of magic,” he said, reeling from the sensations. “Everything carries a stain of it.”

  “Stain?” Mir asked. “So it’s bad magic?”

  Rigan struggled to find words. “Wherever we are, the magic feels tainted. Back home, most of the energy is neutral, and it’s all about the intent of what you do with it that makes magic bad or good. Here… it’s like the power has been fouled somehow so that it favors the darkness.” Magic back home hums with potential, like all of creation contained in a single glimmer. Here, it feels like decay.

  He debated whether to mention the presence from his dreams and decided against it. He had no specifics, couldn’t even be certain it was not simply imagined. I won’t tell them until there’s proof it’s real. We have enough to handle, without fearing phantoms.

  “What does that do to your power?” Trent tried to keep his voice even, but Rigan could hear the fear beneath his words.

  “I don’t know until I try to use it. Hopefully, we won’t be here long enough for it to have an effect.”

  By the time they reached the stream, Rigan felt certain he had caught glimpses of movement in the underbrush and suspected they were also being watched from the trees overhead. They reached the wet creek-side, and Trent hunkered down, looking for tracks to indicate where small animals might come to drink while Mir and Rigan kept watch.

  “I think I can rig up a few simple traps,” Trent said, cannibalizing strings from his jacket to use for twine.

  Mir found a few saplings that would do to cut for fishing poles, and within a candlemark, they had some lines set and snares ready.

  “Now we come back in a little while and see if we’ve caught anything.” Trent stood and dusted off his hands.

  Rigan tried to get a feel for the energy of the boundary between the forest and the shore, the land and water. He probed with his magic and felt a frisson of power he had never notic
ed back home. Because I never looked for it, most likely, he thought. He had picked up something similar the night before at the mouth of their cave. He welcomed any boost to his magic since had no idea what would be required to get them safely back where they belonged.

  Just looking out over the landscape gave Rigan a headache as he strained to filter the strange colors and the way energy and magic had become visible. At first, scanning the horizon hurt his eyes and made his head pound. Gradually, the pain eased as he discovered how to use a flicker of magic to temper the new way of seeing. Then he discovered that using a bit more magic snapped the view to normal. By altering how much magic he used and how he concentrated, Rigan could change the way he saw this new world inside the Rift.

  That could prove valuable, he mused. Being able to see things as they appeared to his friends and without the confusing colors and auras made it easier to quickly get his bearings. But having the magically-enhanced sight gave him the ability to know more about what was going on at a glance, an insight that might save their lives. I’m going to have to figure out what it is I’m really seeing with those strange colors, and how to use what I see to keep us alive and get us home again.

  They headed back to the cave, and the prickle at the back of Rigan’s neck warning of danger made him jumpy. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” he warned his friends. “Stay sharp.”

  Barely ten steps farther down the trail, the branches over their heads rattled and shook, and in the next breath, screeching, clawing bodies dropped from the tree canopy. The wiry, scaled creatures were the size of a squirrel but moved more like a monkey, with grasping hands and feet and a tail strong enough to leave a welt when it whipped across bare skin. Worse were the sharp claws that ripped at flesh and clothing, yanked out hair by the roots, and dug deep into skin. Razor-sharp teeth in a wide, vicious maw sank in and ripped away strips of flesh.

  Individually, the small monsters were not difficult to dislodge. But when they rained down on the three hunters from above, twenty or more of them at once biting and clawing, the posed a serious danger.

  “Get off!” Trent yelled, cursing as he grabbed at the fast-moving beasts, trying to yank one free of his shoulder and giving a hiss of pain as its claws ripped through skin.

  Swords were of little use when the attackers clung to arms, legs, and bodies, and even knives were unwieldy. Rigan wished for a dirk, but his smallest knife in his ankle sheath was impossible to reach under the onslaught. One of the creatures clawed at his face, aiming for the eyes, its hind claws digging deep into his chest as its tail lashed across his belly and back, opening slices like a scalpel. Others dug into his legs, their sharp nails easily slicing through cloth. He could feel blood running down his skin.

  Long ago, he had heard sailors in the pub tell stories about fish with very sharp teeth that could swarm an unfortunate swimmer and have the flesh off the bones in minutes. Rigan knew that if he went down under the attack, more of the small monsters would join the feeding frenzy and he would not survive.

  “They’re as bad as those beetles,” Mir growled, doing his best to jab and slash at the toothy creatures without cutting himself.

  Rigan remembered fighting off the beetles in the workroom with Kell, how they had hissed and popped from the flames in the fireplace, and how he had torn one loose from his brother’s shoulder… The memory sparked an idea, and Rigan sank his magic down, hoping he could anchor himself in this alien place. The ground under his feet felt strange to his magic, but he found enough of a tether to suffice, and then he pulled just enough power to draw heat into his body and release it through his hand.

  He grabbed for one of the attackers, and it jumped clear and hissed when his palm burned its rough skin. Rigan swatted at the creatures with both hands, first clearing them from his own body and then slapping them away from Mir and Trent.

  The small monsters hissed and shrieked, but they learned quickly, scrambling to get out of reach beyond Rigan’s grasp. They skittered into the forest and vanished, and the ominous clattering overhead ceased.

  “What did you do?” Trent looked between Rigan’s reddened hands and a bright pink burn on his arm the shape of a finger where Rigan had brushed against him.

  “That night the beetle monsters came, I used my magic to get one off of Kell by making my hands hot enough to force it to let go,” Rigan replied. “I thought maybe it would work again, and it did.” He eyed the mark on Trent’s skin. “Sorry I burned you.”

  “Your hands aren’t blistered,” Mir said incredulously.

  Rigan shook his head. “No. The magic passed through me, but my skin never felt warm.” Trent might have been the only one who had a burn, but all of them were bleeding from dozens of bites and slashes, or from punctures where the sharp claws had dug in and held tight. Rigan felt a little sick, and he remembered the way the fouled magic of the hancha had affected him. Another reason to get home as quick as possible, since we‘re surrounded by that tainted power. That‘s sure to take a toll.

  “I’m glad you’re on our side,” Trent replied, picking up the sword he dropped as the others gathered anything lost in the fray and moved on.

  “We need to get back to the cave and see if there’s anything we can put on these wounds before they go bad,” Rigan replied, watching the plants along their way in the hope of finding some he could mash into a poultice.

  “When we come back to check the traps, we’re bringing torches,” Mir muttered. “See how they like that.”

  Rigan collected a few leaves along the way from plants that looked like healing herbs from their world. He had no way to know whether the pervasive taint that clung to this place’s magic also affected what grew, but he felt certain that the lizard-things’ wounds would fester without treatment.

  Nothing else attacked on their way back, but Rigan still believed other creatures watched from the brush. He felt nauseous and wondered if it was because of his wounds or the aftereffects of having anchored his magic in the tainted ground. Maybe a little of both, he thought.

  Trent scanned the horizon, focused intently on their surroundings. Mir grew quiet, doing whatever was asked of him, but volunteering little conversation.

  Along the way, they gathered more wood for the fire. Trent and Mir had refilled their wineskins at the creek, which had looked and smelled clean. When they reached the cave and stacked the wood, Trent withdrew a flask of whiskey from inside his jacket.

  “Probably ought to wipe down the cuts with this, but go sparingly because it’s all we’ve got,” he warned. Rigan experimented with a paste from the plants he had collected on one of his own gashes and breathed a sigh of relief when it caused no unexpected reaction.

  “Did you pick up anything on our little trek?” Trent asked, returning to the mouth of the cave to keep watch while Rigan finished tending to cuts on Mir’s back.

  “There are a lot more creatures in the woods than we’ve seen,” Rigan replied. “None of them feel completely normal. Let’s hope any we catch are edible.”

  “Do you think they’re all dangerous?”

  From somewhere in the distance, a loud, rumbling growl broke the silence, followed by a sharp, shrill cry of pain. Mir paled.

  “I think we assume that to be the case,” Rigan replied, wiping the herb paste off his hands and standing. He took a spot on the other side of the opening from Trent and faced outward, then closed his eyes and stretched out his magic. After a moment, he shook himself alert and opened his eyes.

  “See anything?” Trent asked.

  “I was trying to feel for more ripples in the magic like we do back home to find out where the monsters are coming through,” Rigan explained. “Stands to reason that if the shift in the magic when the Rift opens causes ripples on our side, it might on this side as well.”

  “And?” Mir looked up, with an expression torn between hope and fear.

  “It feels different here, but I think I’ve located one or two.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Trent sai
d. “We can get out that way, right?”

  Rigan grimaced. “Maybe. And the ones I felt weren’t close. I’d hate for us to put ourselves in danger of being eaten to go a long distance and then either not know how to open one if we find it, or have it vanish before we can get there.”

  Trent turned away. “So, we’re stuck here.”

  Rigan shook his head. “I’m not giving up. But I don’t want to take unnecessary risks. Believe me; I’m going to do everything I can to find a way home.”

  They judged the passing time by the angle of the light, though clouds never cleared enough to see the sun. Rigan attempted small workings with his magic, more to test how his power fared in their present location than to accomplish a particular objective. Mir had gathered thin saplings and spent the afternoon weaving a rough basket, after many failed attempts. If their snares or fishing lines were successful in catching dinner, the basket gave them something to carry the bounty back. Mir and Trent napped, taking turns while the other kept watch, and eventually, Rigan did the same. He was wary of expending too much magic, fearful that it might draw the wrong sort of attention, or hasten any negative effects of the taint.

  When they guessed it to be late afternoon, they headed back down to the stream. This time, two vestir charged them, and Rigan wondered if the pair had found them by scent. Fortunately, they were only the size of large dogs instead of being the sow-like giants they sometimes became. Trent and Mir fought them off, and Rigan made the killing blows with his sword, taking off the heads.

  “Before anyone even asks, I am not keen on finding out whether or not we can eat those things,” Mir said, giving one of the carcasses a kick.

  “You might change your mind if you get hungry enough,” Trent replied. He knelt next to one of the beasts and cut through the tough hide on its side, peeling back skin and coarse hair to reveal muscle. A few slices of his knife yielded a slab of meat. He grinned. “Once a butcher, always a butcher. Smells like pork to me. We’ll cook it good and see if it’s edible.” With that, he put the bloody hunk of flesh in Mir’s basket. Mir eyed it with suspicion and wrinkled his nose.