Kelfor- the Orthomancers

by Gillian Andrews

  “Then, how will we ...?”

  She grins. “There is a secret passageway. If we can find it, that is. We don’t know if it will still be there. It has been nearly a thousand years since it was last used by any of the Inmuri. My mother says it might have been destroyed. She calls it Boulderstone Pass. It is one of only two places in the whole of the rift where we can cross.”

  I look around. “What are the signs?”

  Linnith makes a face. “I can’t tell you,” she says quietly. “I took an oath to become a speaker of the land.” A spark of frustration appears in her good-natured eyes. “Though my parents didn’t tell me we would be making this journey.”

  “My mother didn’t tell me about the orthomancers either.”

  She reaches out to touch my arm. “Then we have something in common.”

  She means to be nice, but in fact we have very little in common. Why, there is her own mother, still grumpily striding out in front of us. I have nobody.

  She sees the direction of my eyes and reddens, catching my thoughts. “I only meant ...”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I dredge up a weak smile. Because it does. Of course it does. It always will. You can’t know if you haven’t been completely alone in the universe. How could you? Losing someone is like having the Abaloss Rift running through you.

  Still, Linnith is only trying to be nice. I should be glad of that. I nod a couple of times at her and she looks relieved.

  We have been marching for about four hours when a low whistle from behind makes me whip my head around. The others hear it too. We all stop.

  Another whistle pierces the darkness. It is Torch, and it sounds relaxed. I start to run back, then hesitate. Furian comes up beside me and we retrace our steps together, our eyes having difficulty making anything out in the shadows.

  Then figures emerge from the gloom. Torch and Zivan, their shapes easy to make out. They are accompanied by three more silhouettes, one small, one medium and one large.

  The small one explodes into motion. It comes running up to me and flings its arms around me.

  I bend down to hug her back.

  “Kalyka? What in the plume are you doing here?”

  Kalyka only hugs me tighter. Then, with some ceremony, she extricates the dull metal spoon I have given her and holds it out to me.

  “Yours,” she tells me.

  I shake my head. “No, sweetie. Yours. I gave it to you.”

  She frowns. She always has been a bit obstinate, even for an eight-year-old.

  I curl my fingers around her hand, closing it back over the spoon. “I don’t want it back, Kalyka. It was bequeathed to you. It doesn’t belong to me.”

  “I want you to have it!”

  “I can’t take it. It was my mother’s. It is now yours.”

  We stare at each other. Her expression is mulish. Mine probably is too. Finally she drops her eyes. “Oh, all right. But I still think it should be yours.”

  I give her another hug, then stand up as I register one of the other figures. It is Fimbrian, her grandfather.

  “What made you come to join us?” To me, it seems a very dangerous journey for such a young girl.

  Fimbrian is puffing a little. Zivan has been prompting them to go faster than he is comfortable with, I see.

  “Kalyka saw her,” he nods over his shoulder in Zivan’s direction, “in your old cobb. She spied on her and saw her take that old locket of yours.”

  I hear breath drawn quickly in. Zivan doesn’t like hearing that she was spotted in the cobb. She isn’t infallible then.

  He smiles. He’s a very old friend. “I know you are an orthomancer, Remeny. I have known it since you were born. I am old, but as yet I do not forget. The threads inside my head still reach each other.”

  “Do you know ...?”

  “... Why your mother never told you? No, I don’t.” His kind face seems puzzled. “I suppose she thought, when she was sent to the dome after your father was killed, that it didn’t matter anymore.”

  “But why did you come? Why bring Kalyka?”

  “I came to look out for you, Remeny. I saw the timeworn leave yesterday, but I had no idea that they had managed to help you escape from the Xenokarth until I saw the outlaw girl take the amulet.” He looks in Furian’s direction. “I don’t like the timeworn. No offense.”

  Furian inclines his head with respect. “I am not timeworn, Venerable. I am the son of one and the father of one, but I myself am simply a miner.”

  It is Fimbrian’s turn to bow. “Then I offer myself as your friend.”

  The two men clasp forearms as protocol dictates, before my old mentor continues with his story.

  “You should not be taken away only by timeworn. They are responsible for the destruction of our race. Because of their masterly inactivity the Inmuri people have been decimated. I could not let you leave alone. It is not what your grandfather, who was a friend of mine, would have wished.”

  I look from him to Kalyka, meaningfully.

  He shrugs. “I am old. Kalyka has no future in the compound. One day I will die, and on that day, she will become fodder for the Xenokarth. It is better she die free, with me.”

  Kalyka, solemn at such harsh words, nods. “Not Xenokarth. Rather die.”

  Tears come into my own eyes. I kneel down and hug her tightly. Such terrible words for a little girl to say. But, after my experiences, I can’t disagree with them.

  I put Kalyka to one side and offer my hand to Fimbrian. “Thank you.”

  He seems impressed. “You have grown up a lot in a short time, Remeny.”

  I suppose he is right. I never knew so much could happen in a couple of days.

  Furian smiles at the old man. “I will be glad of your company.”

  “Of course you will. I will keep the timeworn in their place, never fear. They won’t be able to order me about.”

  Furian raises one eyebrow. I guess he is looking forward to some stimulating discussions between this old man and his mother, Azrial. However, he says nothing.

  Zivan draws the third figure forward. It is an awkward young man. He stands there, bashful, as the other members of the expedition grow close. There is silence for a few seconds, then a surprised voice.

  “Doven? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  The young man grins, looking defiant. “Oh, hi Linnith.” He goes red. “I thought I ... well, you might need ... well, some help.” He sounds rather lame and looks around, as if for support. He doesn’t get it. “I mean, I saw you didn’t check in for work, so I knew something was up. Then, when Fimbrian and Kalyka slunk out of the compound in Astakarth, I realized I should follow them.” Finally he raises his chin. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”

  “You do realize you can’t go back?” Karith is staring at him as though he were completely mad.

  “Oh, yes. I do know that. Nothing to go back to, really.” He shuffles his feet, but I see him sneak a look at Linnith when he thinks no-one will see.

  Jethran strides over and claps him on the back. “You are more than welcome.”

  “—Not that he will be much of an addition,” mutters Vannis. Both Karith and Fimbrian turn to stare at him. Thurifer’s arrogant grandson is unaffected. “I mean, just look at him. Probably can’t even lift a shovel.”

  “Not the only one, then,” snaps Zivan, who seems to have taken an instant dislike to Vannis.

  Vannis curls his lip. “The praetor may tolerate having people like you on this journey, Outcast, but that doesn’t mean I do.”

  There is the sound of metal against metal. Both Zivan and Torch have drawn knives.

  During the silence which ensues, slight Kalyka moves silently up to Torch, taking up a stance in front of him. She is still smaller than he is, but her plan is clear. She will not allow harm to come to him.

  The bravery of the little girl defuses the situation. Vannis gives an uncertain laugh. “I meant no insult, Outcast. Take your ... affected ... son somewhere else, will you
?”

  Torch himself steps to one side of his small protector. He seems at a loss to understand Kalyka. He walks several tens of feet away to sit on a rock. She follows him, folding herself into a neat pile on the ground close to his feet. He frowns. This nuisance is new to him.

  Zivan is giving Vannis just as much curled lip as he is giving her. “You are a disgrace to your family,” she tells him.

  “Yeah, well, hey. Not quite so much as you, right?”

  Her teeth clench together. “Give it time. You are not a gramen yet, Vannis. You may never be.”

  “Whatever. At least I am not an outcast, like you. One of the ... unclean.”

  Fimbrian takes a pace toward Vannis. “Step back, timeworn. You are the unfortunate result of a thousand years of undeserved privilege. You are not worth the ground this outcast girl walks on.”

  “And I should listen to you because ...?”

  “Because the man speaks truly. Go, Vannis, before I lose all patience with you.”

  At the sound of Thurifer’s voice, Vannis looks taken aback. He gives an uncertain laugh then moves away in the opposite direction.

  Thurifer scrutinizes the three newcomers. He doesn’t seem pleased to see them. He and Fimbrian are like two old dogs, tails rigid, preparing for battle.

  “You should not have come,” he says. “However, now that you are here, we will allow you to join our numbers. We shall be sixteen, instead of thirteen.”

  “And the timeworn will not have a majority,” says Fimbrian, in a rather contented voice.

  Thurifer’s eyebrow shoot up. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you cannot just decide what will be Remeny’s fate. We will all have a say in things.”

  Thurifer makes a dismissive noise. “You will have no say at all.”

  “Democratically—”

  “On Hethor, there is no democracy. The timeworn rule.”

  “’d.” It is not clear if he is adding a past tense or simply expressing strong disagreement. Fimbrian smiles. “Rule-d,” he clarifies. “It is time the people had a say about what is going on.”

  “Quite unacceptable!” Quondam Azrial’s firm voice interrupts them. “It is our right to decide. It has always been so!”

  “What have you ever decided? You simply let generation after generation go to their deaths or exist miserably. You cannot believe you still deserve rights over us!”

  Azrial draws herself up. “We are the timeworn.”

  Fimbrian does the same. “And we are not.”

  They stare at each other, neither prepared to be the first to look away.

  Zivan gives a hard smile. “It will all be immaterial, unless we get on.” Their heads snap toward her.

  “If we don’t get across the Abaloss Rift before it erupts,” she points out, “we will all finish our lives strung up on Rath ropes.”

  That makes me think of Tilan, my cousin. Will I end up swinging obscenely, like him? Tongue blackened and hanging out?

  I have to tell them. They ought to know about the Thrall. I swallow, then ask Zivan, “Did you ... did you see anything else ... anyone else? On your journey?”

  She shakes her head. “Nobody. Of course, at that time of night I didn’t expect—” She examines my face closely. “What is the matter, Remeny?”

  I hesitate. But I know I have no choice. So I tell them about the Thrall. My voice trembles a little as I recount the story of my meeting with Graven, which is annoying. She reaches out to me to take my arm in her hand. I notice how warm she feels. My own skin has gone icy cold.

  Zivan notices how difficult this is for me. “Shhh! You are all right now.”

  I shake my head. She doesn’t realize the scale of the problem. She hasn’t seen the creature. I have to get across to her, to all of them, exactly what they are dealing with.

  I draw in my breath a little unsteadily. “P-please. Listen! Listen to me.”

  They move to surround me. They stare at me, eyebrows raised.

  I tell them about the size of the Thrall. About the Rath it obeyed. I tell them about the mouth which is far larger than a skulk’s. I tell them about the two rows of teeth which stretch from ear to ear. I tell them about the way it smelt me – as if I were some sort of precious perfume to be savored.

  I notice that Furian and Fimbrian are exchanging glances. So are Azrial and Thurifer. In the end the quondam nods.

  “There have been rumors,” she admits. “We were hoping that they were not true.”

  Zivan makes an irritated sort of gesture, as if she believes that the timeworn have ignored vital intelligence deliberately. Azrial stares at her, then away again. “It has come to our attention that some of the shunned have been disappearing recently. And their ... their mothers too.”

  Zivan looks away. Her expression is stony. Azrial goes on.

  “People speak of a new Rath breed. One that is so savage even the Raths find it hard to control. One which will replace the Scoriats as soldiers. Rumor has it that the Raths believe the Scoriat Armies have become too soft. That the only Scoriats worth keeping will be the administrators.”

  “What will happen to them? The Scoriat soldiers, I mean.” Ammeline seems, for some reason, worried.

  Azrial’s back is rigid. “We don’t know. It is possible ... but I find it hard to ... to ... believe ... that this ... this Thrall creature may feed off them.”

  “F-feed off them!” Kalyka’s eyes are huge. “Feed off the soldiers? How big is it?”

  They all turn to me again. I sigh. “Half as big again as a Scoriat. Its head is like a bull’s.” Suddenly I feel sick. “I believe the stories you heard are right.” I realize that my presence here might be signing their death warrants. “Perhaps I should leave. Graven ... the Thrall ... will come after me, not you.”

  “Let it!” Furian is adamant. “We will be ready for it.”

  I feel sad. I know that they won’t. Nobody could be.

  Torch moves to my side. He makes a noise deep in his throat. He is trying to comfort me. He puts his shoulders back, as if to tell me that he is here, that he will defend me.

  I have to smile. He is so thin, but so full of courage. Then I relive the memory of those sharp teeth grazing my esophagus, and I know that this one small boy would seem like an insignificant delicacy to Graven. Torch could never stop the Thrall.

  Torch frowns. He has felt my conclusion, though I say nothing. He pulls away with dignity, but his back is expressive. You will see, it tells me. I will prove you wrong.

  I don’t want to expose him to the fury of the Thrall. I can’t. This is all wrong. I must leave. I must carry out my original plan. It would be better to die at my own hands rather than the Thrall’s.

  Quondam Azrial can read my face as easily as I can read Torch’s. She purses up her lips, which almost disappear into the wrinkles. “You will stay with us, Remeny. You are our only hope for the future. And the Thrall is not following us. At least, not yet. We will deal with problems as they arise, not before. Never before. There will be no fearful speculation. That is the way to incapacitating anxiety.”

  There is a general rumble of agreement.

  I shake my head. My words do not convey the reality. They should be more scared. I am.

  Kalyka walks up to me and takes my hand. “Grandfather and I left Astakarth to follow you, Remy. We can’t go back. None of us can go back now. So we will stay together. The Scoriats are looking for us too. If we separate, they will be able to pick us off one by one.”

  I bite my lip. But she is right. Eventually I am forced to nod.

  Kally smiles. Then she treats us all to a little dance. Here and now is the only freedom she has ever known. She is happy. The Thrall is not real to her. To them.

  We smile back. I feel the fear begin to dissipate. The sun is forcing it away. It warms up my skin, my heart. The threat of the Thrall recedes into the background of my mind. Into the shadows.

  We walk on.

  Zivan falls in beside me, with Torch and Kalyka behind
us. Vannis, who is just behind them, makes some stupid taunt about how a few less outcasts might be doing us all a favor.

  I notice her closed face, which matches her clenched fists. “Vannis is a fool.”

  “I know. I have met his kind before.”

  “He deserves to work in the worst mine conditions.”

  “Yet he was born to an easy life with the best jobs available. It is the way things are.”

  Fimbrian and she have made me think. I don’t usually contemplate things like this. Now, I wonder why I don’t. Why have I trudged to work unquestioningly without even planning to change my lot? Why haven’t I ever discussed stuff like this with my mother? Or with Hella, or Fennen? Maybe I’m nothing more than an indoctrinated drudge.

  I screw my face up. “Zivan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If I am timeworn, maybe I can change some of it.”

  “I hope so, because I have sworn a blood oath to protect you, to facilitate your reaching Kelfor. I wouldn’t like it all to be for nothing.”

  “You may die.”

  “Of course I will die. Sooner or later. But not shut up in the Xenokarth. That’s all that matters.”

  Yes. Dying free is better than living caged. We Inmuri have submitted to that for centuries. Why haven’t we fought back?

  Zivan is scouting out our surroundings as we walk. Her eyes are never still. “The Raths will send part of the Istak Legion from the karth. The Istak tetrarch controls four units of fifty Scoriats each. He will deploy the First Cohort, possibly the Second as well. That means between fifty and a hundred armed fighters after us. Torch and I are here to help even the odds. Otherwise this expedition will be doomed before it even reaches the Abaloss Rift. You would be surprised how much a thief can do to ruin other people’s plans.”

  “You won’t kill them?” I am shocked. I have never thought of killing anybody.

  The skin bunches up around her eyes. “I hope not. Torch and I are thieves, not fighters. Though I took an oath to kill rather than let you be killed.”

  “You will kill for me?”

  She nods. “For you, and for Torch?” She stares away into the distance, as if contemplating either the future or the past. Her eyebrows crease together; for a moment she looks sad. Then she gives a sigh and turns back to me. “Yes.”