The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 110
Kanis sighed.
He ran forward and caught the Gigansi by the arm. “Let me,” he said. He held out his hand. The Gigansi glanced back at his masters. Marinus shouted something, obviously affirmative, for the giant passed the torch over with a single word. Kanis hoped it was ‘thanks’ rather than something that suggested he was being foolish.
Once the man was behind Marinus’ invisible line, Kanis strode forward. The torch hissed as spots of rain hit it, but he sucked in a deep breath of the chill mountain air, drew back his arm and hurled the torch.
Chapter 49.
Notch climbed the stony trail, pausing at a wave of dizziness. He leant aside and spat more black liquid, a glob of which splashed across a patch of yellow wildflowers. “Sorry,” he told them. But every piece he got out made him feel that much better. Clear head, stronger balance, tightness easing in throat and chest; better.
“Delightful, Notch,” Sofia said from where she walked beside him, leading the group higher into the mountains.
He grinned. “That’s not what you say when Emilio does it.”
“That’s because he’s a sweet man and you’re a mercenary.”
“Ah, I see.”
Ahead, trees thickened and his stomach twisted – but not due to any lingering poison, but the black feeling he’d been fighting for days. Vinezi and Marinus had forced his hand and despite a futile, unexpressed hope, there was no way to avoid what lay ahead. They’d climbed the mountain from the wrong part of the south.
Coming up nearer the iron mines might have allowed him to bypass Casa-Cielo.
Yet Ain was adamant that an ancient path, a recently used path, led directly north.
Which would put Notch within passing distance of the western trail leading across to Casa-Cielo.
Leading to his old village.
Leading to Father.
To Amina.
To the life he’d been denied; her love, comfort. The child they’d planned for – gone, merely another dream dashed. There was nothing there for him. He would pass the road. Old ghosts would not haunt him this time. Luik’s blade slapped against one thigh as he walked. Vinezi came first.
Typical, son. Running away again.
Father’s voice, heavy with disappointment.
This time he didn’t bother with his usual response. What could be said, truly, that he hadn’t said before? The bitter words never changed – that was the problem with memories. They couldn’t be changed; only forgotten.
And he wasn’t that lucky.
“Notch?” Sofia watched him as she walked, taking her eyes off him a moment to detour a deep puddle.
“Yes?”
“Something is wrong, isn’t it? Is it Ain? Or the trail? You seem to know where we’re going – half the time, even before Ain chooses a fork, you’ve started up the right path.”
“I do know this part of the mountain.”
She waited.
“I was a child here. My old village lies nearby.” He sighed. Hadn’t meant to share that – and yet perhaps admitting as much meant he could remove the lingering temptation. For he could not lie to himself; part of him wanted to be there. Other, stronger parts did not. It was better to squash the possibility aloud. “But I will not see it. We don’t have time.”
“Oh,” Sofia said. “I’m sorry, I remember now. That day on the wall, when Lavinia sent the Sea Beast away. You told me you hadn’t seen them for a long time.”
“Casa-Cielo lies at the end of a trail heading west. We’ll reach the trail before nightfall but the First Temple must lie in a different direction. That path will head north, I suspect,” he said.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No – but there’s a strangely uniform quality to some of the walls of the mountain there. Raff and I used to wonder about it, when we were young.”
“Uniform? Like the walls at the foot of the Sea Shrine?”
“Perhaps more so.”
“Then that must be it.”
A deep boom cut off Notch’s response. It rumbled the very stone beneath his feet. He spun to its direction, as had Sofia and the others. No more thunder followed and the mountains above didn’t slide down onto them.
“Avalanche?” Wayrn asked.
“It didn’t seem to be a continuous sliding, crashing and rumbling, did it?”
“We’d better keep moving,” Sofia said.
At first, no more booming rang out as they walked on, but Notch kept an eye on the surrounding peaks, even when they entered the trees. Barely two steps within it came again and then no more. “Something is amiss,” Sofia said.
“We need to hurry,” Notch said. He picked up the pace as best he could; the wind and rain lessened, but so did the light. Thick shadows loomed between broad trunks and the leaves swallowed up the sound of their footfalls.
Few words passed between them until evening when Notch slowed. There. The fork in the road – one leading on and upward and the other sloping down toward Casa-Cielo.
The sign was weatherworn, grey, almost diseased looking – the deep carving of the letters worn away. He paused beneath it. A shadowy trail stretched between the trees. Dark shrubs encroached upon the path. Ain shouted something in Medah. Notch spun. Had it been the word for ‘danger’? The Pathfinder had knelt, both hands upon the stone. Words tumbled forth.
“What is he saying?” Sofia asked.
Wayrn wore a look of concentration. “I think he said something about ‘darklings’ about danger. He wants us to flee. To...to find a cave if he fails.”
“Fails what?” Notch asked. He’d followed some of Ain’s words but it didn’t make much sense. He tore his father’s sword free, its rasp echoed by Emilio drawing his own blade.
“Ain?” Wayrn repeated the man’s name but the Pathfinder did not answer. Instead, he closed his eyes. His lips moved as he faced the road to Casa-Cielo.
“There!” Sofia pointed.
At the bottom of the trail, something dark approached. Notch raised his weapon. Two glowing points of red lay within the centre of the dark shape, swirling flashes of white visible too. The darkling – if that was what it was – surged forward. As it passed the shrubs, the force of its movement stirred them – only the shape was no shrub. Instead, a cloak or robe was whipped up, only to fall back across...a body.
The thing charged on, gaining speed.
Ain’s hands changed, as if gripping something unseen, then he threw his arms up and snapped them down with a cry. Something flew forth, an impression of power, yet nothing Notch could see. Naught but a rushing sensation followed.
But the force flew forward nonetheless, striking the darkling.
Black and white exploded into fragments. They rained down from the treetops, pattering to the loam. Several pieces bounced to a halt at his feet. Notch crouched. Bone. Pieces of bone. And...wood?
“What happened?”
Ain sighed before he spoke. His answer was long. Wayrn nodded as the Pathfinder spoke, occasionally asking questions. Notch picked up only a few words, again, not enough to make any sense of the story as there were too many unfamiliar words. He heard ‘rope’ and a word like ‘killed’. Wayrn took over once Ain finished. “Ain destroyed the darkling by returning the force it sends along the paths. He explained it like taking hold of the path and whipping it, as if a piece of rope. The shock is sent back and strikes whatever makes the force – but he’s worried because he didn’t feel the darkling on the path at the usual distance. In all his encounters with darklings, he can feel them from afar.”
Notch put a hand on Ain’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
His words were echoed by the rest of the group. Ain smiled.
“We should hurry,” Sofia said. “If more of those things are here.”
“I have to see something first,” Notch said. He jogged to the shape he’d mistaken for a shrub. A body. Torn in half. He fell back. The man’s insides were crawling with feasting insects. The cloak covered his face but the clothing was all-too familiar. Beyond the man was another figure, deeper into the trees. This fellow faced the sky, a deep rent in his chest and his leg severed at the knee. A short sword was still gripped in a pallid hand.
He knew both men.
Vedan and his son, Ecco, village Diviners. Both had been fleeing something, clearly – darklings? A chill crept over Notch. Father. Mother. Amina.
He broke into a sprint.
Voices cried after him, tiny, distant. Trees flashed by and the dim road twisted and weaved – yet he knew every dip, every tree-root and when he did stumble, it was not for long. Cold air seared his lungs as he pumped his arms, knuckles white around his sword hilt. On he ran, ducking low branches and leaping obstructions, panting as his boots thundered across the stone, eyes tearing from the rush of air.
He burst through the tree line.
Birds scattered; on the edge of his awareness it seemed one had been gold – yet it was the village itself he saw – or what he didn’t see that caught his attention.
Casa-Cielo lay deathly silent.
No smoke rose from chimneys as it ought to have in winter, no warm light glowed beyond windows – many housed no glass at all. No hammer sat on the altar in the centre of the square, as befitting Celnos and the Winter Watch.
Nothing.
“Mother?” He charged into the square, spinning in a half circle. “Father?”
His home was dark; nothing appeared amiss from outside. Even the potted plants, now dormant, were lined up neatly beside the door. The section of stone where he and Raff had carved their names – stupidly, on the front of the house – remained, glinting with soft rain.
Inside, all appeared in place – his father’s armour stood untouched. Notch traced a finger over the crest, the mountain peak and the line of the sun behind it. How often, as a child, had he imagined himself wearing it? Striking down bandits or Medah invaders. How glorious it was all going to be. He’d come home a hero and make everyone proud and Amina would be happy...
He turned away.
The kitchen too, was undisturbed. The chair where Father sat, near the stove, from where he would pronounce judgement. A dark blanket was still folded on the seat. On the table, two thick candles remained unlit. Dust had formed on the windowsill. Mother’s shelves were the same – and in the bedroom, Father’s heavy dagger was missing from its stand.
Two tiny details – yet what did they mean? Had they escaped the darklings? Had anyone? He left the house and crossed to another building, empty. Yet here were signs of a hasty flight. Shrinking apples strewn across the floor. A chair overturned.
Two houses back, closer to the tree line waited Amina’s home. He crossed the long path, working his way between fallow garden beds. Weeds were peeking through and frost had killed any useful plants.
The blue-painted door hung shattered, half off its hinges.
And a body lay in the doorway.
Tegna. His face blank; two great slashes crossing from chest to throat. Black blood had long since pooled and set around his body. Poor fool. Tegna hadn’t been a bad fellow – it wasn’t the man’s fault she’d chosen him over Notch after the Glass War. Why would she wait and wait forever, and not move on with her life? Notch bent to cover the man’s face with a cloth taken from the floor.
It was one of Amina’s shifts.
The house was empty. He leant against the wall, hands shaking. His last words to her, spoken years and years ago now, rang in the silence.
I’ll leave if you tell me that your love with him is truer than ours.
She’d swallowed before answering and her answer sent him from Casa-Cielo and into the dusk.
And now, was he denied seeing her one last time? Notch swore. Had the filthy darkling taken her? Taken everyone? He kicked the last of the door free and strode back into the square.
“Amina!” he cried.
Only the echo of his voice – except, no. Movement between the homes. From the northern end of the village. Notch charged.
A tall figure wearing a bone white mask emerged.
Ecsoli!
He raised his father’s sword and roared a challenge. The figure hesitated. Notch closed the distance and drew the blade back. His enemy flung out a hand and Notch was cast through the air. He thumped onto stone and rolled to his feet.
The man was shouting at him. Shouting in Anaskari. Shouting his name.
Notch blinked.
“Notch you fool, what are you doing?” The figure removed the mask, revealing an old man’s irritated expression.
Seto.
Chapter 50.
Flir swore – the vilest curse she had – and even Dilo flinched. Beyond, the street remained empty. The distant echo of shouts remained faint and a misty rain started to sweep in from the ocean. The sound of shovels striking earth rose from behind, a harsh scraping.
“There has to be a way,” Holindo rasped.
“Any ideas?”
“Is our thinking too convoluted?”
She exhaled. “I don’t know. Keep going.”
“We could use a building to contain her instead. Then we’re not dependant on so many aspects falling into place.”
“Then we have to protect the whole building, which could be a problem in an occupied city.”
“True.”
“And I got the feeling from Danillo that it has to be pretty close to airtight. Catrin might simply seep out a window or between cracks in the mortar.”
He nodded.
“Damn everything.” Flir spun and kicked a piece of stone across the yard, where it lodged itself into one of the walls. “I cannot be everywhere at once and no-one can move the vat alone but me. We don’t have time.” She folded her arms. “Here’s what we do. Holindo, stay the plan. Flee underground. If you have to use the acor due to wandering Ecsoli, do so. Dig from there. I’m going to bring the vat.”
Dilo opened her mouth to speak but Holindo beat her to it. “And Metti and the others?”
Flir sighed. “Second priority; they’re moving.”
“Where?” Dilo asked, her face brightening.
“I’m throwing them upon the mercy of the Gods again. Take them to the Sea Priests.”
“And everyone will be safe there?”
“No-where is safe, Dilo – but Notch said that the blue-cloaks are mostly keeping away from the Sea Priests.”
“Good.” She shot out of the racetrack, glancing over her shoulder as she ran. “You can trust me, Lady Flir. I’ll get them there.”
Flir grinned. She probably would. “I guess it’s my turn,” she said to Holindo. “Wish me luck again.”
“All that I can spare,” he said.
She slapped his shoulder, causing him to wince, and set off on her own. At first, it was a sprint but then she fell into a jog, detouring open spots like squares and markets then slowing further as the sound of the harbour grew over the thud of her boots. The crash of waves and wind masked the voices of the Ecsoli and Gigansi gathered on the docks, the mist glinting on their bones. Were they discussing whether to help with Catrin?
She couldn’t stay to find out.
Instead, Flir followed the lay of the Tier wall until she came to a red-tiled warehouse beside a tavern. Just as Renaso said. The Silver Scale was closed and a battered sign swung from its hook, squeaking. The small side door to the warehouse was unlocked. She’d barely taken a few steps into the dim interior when a figure rose from a nearby pallet. The man held a heavy club.
“Who goes there?”
“I need the Alchemista’s vat,” Flir said. “Can you help me?”
He lowered his weapon a little. “You mean that thing in the corner?”
The vat stood nearby, towering over her, its sides corroded from the vitriol in long black streaks. It stood beside two great doors used for loading ships hulls etc. “Do those doors still open?”
“They do. But it don’t matter-is, the damn thing’s too heavy for one girl.”
“I’m unusual,” Flir said.
He squinted at her. “What does that mean then?”
“Can you open the doors – I’m going to roll the vat out. Trust me, have you heard of the Pale Girl?”
Now his eyes widened. “That’s you-is?”
“Right. Let’s go.” She ran to the doors and he followed, pulling a bolt free and dragging open one side as she took the other. Cold air rushed in. She returned to the vat and found a part that didn’t look so corroded, then glanced at the man. “Better make some room.”
She gave a push – enough to tip it some of the way over – then let it fall. A mighty clang rang out, following by a steaming hiss as the vitriol that remained began to sizzle in the dirt. Would the Ecsoli hear and come to investigate? Hurry. She manoeuvred the vat around until it was lined up with the double doors and started forward. The vat crunched as it moved and scraped the top of the doorframe but came free. Flir rolled it along the street, pausing to wave to the warehouse owner.
The vat caused a racket as it rolled along, propelled by her regular shoves. She ran behind it, occasionally letting it forge ahead while she checked on the streets. Once, a man in Anaskari clothing ran from the path of the vat but again, no Ecsoli appeared. Hopefully too concerned with Catrin.
Her path turned uphill. She began to sweat, even in the cold with the soft rain beading in her hair.
Or maybe the sweat came from tension?
Having to use the wider streets did leave her more exposed. She pushed on, closing in on the racecourse. Her hands had begun to sting – was that the chill or the traces of vitriol?
A muted boom vibrated through the street. She caught the vat a moment, then drove her shoulder into it, hurling it forward. Acor. Which meant that either Holindo had been attacked or that they were ready for the vat. If the latter, someone would be investigating soon, Catrin or not. She swore again. An oversight in their plan – hopefully the only one.
She turned Renaso’s oversized canister, with some more cursing, into the street nearest the course but before she’d taken more than half a dozen steps a shout rose. Flir caught the vat and turned.
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