Part 27 (2/2)

”And you are dividing this council, this city, when it must stand united.”

Nods from around the table. Luhn muttered inaudibly and lowered his head. Vees said, ”I am certain we will clear up this matter soon enough. Meanwhile, it is imperative that Selgaunt speak with only one voice-the hulorn's voice-and that matters be kept quiet from the rest of the city for now. Let us keep the rumors at bay as best we can. This council will meet daily to stay abreast of events while we await his return.”

Heads nodded agreement.

”Thriistin will see to the details and communicate them to you.” Vees looked around the table, from one worried expression to another. ”There is nothing more to be done tonight, lords and ladies. Return to your homes.”

With that, the gathering broke into small, chattering groups. Vees did not linger. He ensured that Onthul's riders had left the city, then journeyed alone to Shar's temple on Temple Avenue. He spent the night offering praise to the Lady and repeating the supplication.

The next day, an edict from Ordulin reached Selgaunt through magical means. Vees and every member of the Old Chauncel received the missive. Vees chuckled as he read it. He knew that no Selgauntan forces had attacked the Saerloonian delegation.

Mirabeta Selkirk had created a war from lies.

No, he thought, and corrected himself. The Nightseer had created a war from lies, and done so in Shar's name.

”In the darkness of night, we hear the whisper of the void,” he said, and crumpled the edict into his fist.

The whisper soon would become a scream.

[image]

I pick my way through the forest for what feels like hours, or maybe days. I have no way to mark the pa.s.sage of time. The red glow in the air never changes and the crystalline sky is as still as stone. I keep my eyes away from the dark things that live on the other side of the sky.

I stay along the bank of the brook. As other brooks join it, it turns to a stream. As other streams join it, it turns to a rapidly flowing river that roars over frequent cascades.

Through breaks in the trees, I sometimes catch a glimpse of the wall ahead. As I draw nearer, its dark bulk fills my vision, demarcating the border of the world. A smell in the air grows stronger as I draw closer, a smell like rotten eggs, like sulfur, like ...

Brimstone.

The voice at the wall returns, mocking me with laughter.

I steel myself by recalling my duty, my promise to Courage. I tighten my grip on my glowing yellow mind blade and continue on. I see no animal life. I am alone in the thought bubble. Or almost alone. I look up at the sky, to the crack, to the black wriggling things that lurk on the other side. I feel them watching me, hungering for me.

Has the crack lengthened? I am not certain.

I push it from my mind and press on. The stink of brimstone grows ever stronger. A haze of black smoke forms in the air and a dark film covers my skin. I tear a strip of cloth from my s.h.i.+rt, dip it in the cool water of the river, and tie it around my nose and mouth to help chase away the smell. The moment I cinch it, a crack like snapping bone sounds from above me. I whirl, stand, and look up.

The crack in the sky has opened into a gash. Wriggling, faceless black forms squeeze through and rain down through the hazy air. Terror seizes me-blind, irrational fear. My heart thunders; my breath leaves me. The mind blade sags in my hand.

”And the sky shat its fears,” says the voice at the wall.

I know the voice speaks the literal truth. The things falling from the sky are fears given form, dark and obscene. They can be nothing else.

My legs feel weak under me as one after another of the dark things falls to earth and crashes through the trees. There are dozens, hundreds.

”He is losing himself in the Source, Magadon. Losing himself forever. Part of him does not want you to succeed. His fears are coming for you.”

I see the fears in my imagination, sniffing for me through the forest.

”Hurry,” says the voice at the wall. ”If they catch you ...”

I nod as if the speaker can see me.

I know I must move faster to outrun the fears. But the terrain is difficult. I am moving slowly. What else can I do?

”The river, Magadon.”

”The current is too strong,” I say, then realize what I need to do.

I scramble up the riverbank and comb through the forest until I find a trunk of darkwood about the length of a tall man and about as wide around as a barrel. I know the wood to be reasonably strong yet unusually light.

I try to move the log nearer the river but find it too heavy, darkwood or no. I will have to dig it out into a makes.h.i.+ft boat right where it is. I know how. I have seen fishermen in a village on the sh.o.r.es of the Dragonmere turn logs into boats in a matter of hours.

But I do not know if I have hours.

The log will make a poor boat, but I do not need a seaworthy vessel. I just need something that can stay afloat on the river for a time so I can ride the current away from the fears. The river will be safer and faster than the forest.

A scream that trails off into a howl sounds from somewhere in the distance. I hear madness in the howl, and hunger.

The fears are on the hunt.

I look about the forest, see only pine, darkwood, cypress, and stillness. The voice at the wall chuckles.

I curse, pull the makes.h.i.+ft mask away from my mouth, and set to work. I cut at the log with my mind blade and shave off the bark. I hack hunks from what I hope will become the bow and then flatten the top. The mind blade slices through the darkwood efficiently. The sound of my blade chopping wood echoes through the forest. I know the fears will hear me but I press on, deeming the gamble worth it.

By the time I am done with the rough work, I have shaped the log into something that resembles a one-man boat. I stand over it, gasping, sweating. The smoky air causes me to cough but I fight through the fit.

I set to digging out the interior and find my blade ill-suited to the task. Sweating, shaking, angry and afraid, I straddle the half-completed boat and curse.

”Demon's teeth!”

How long have I been at it? The fears must be coming, must be near. ”I need a G.o.dsd.a.m.ned axe,” I mutter.

In answer to my will, the sword hilt in my hand reshapes itself into a haft. The blade shrinks and transforms from a sword to a large, glowing wood axe.

I stare at it wide-eyed, then set to work.

Each strike throws up a huge divot of wood and I make rapid progress. Lift and strike; lift and strike. My arms burn but I do not stop, cannot stop. I am not precise and the boat looks hollowed out by a drunk, but I think it will do. I just need it to stay afloat with me so I can ride the rapids and escape the fears.

A howl sounds from somewhere to my left. Another answers from somewhere to my right. Both sound near. I freeze in mid strike, gasping. The sweat that coats me makes me go cold.

I examine my work. Good enough. If it floats like a boat, well and good. If it floats like a log, I will just ride it down the d.a.m.ned river.

I straighten up, wincing at the stiffness in my back, and shake the fatigue from my arms. I concentrate on the axe and mold it back into a blade. I tuck it into my belt.

Not far away, something moves in the forest, something dark and predatory. Adrenaline washes away my fatigue but I know the rush will not last. My muscles border on exhaustion.

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