Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cavern of Twilight

“The only way out is through.”

HAWKINS

Provinces
Bryce Valley
Diamond (April) 26, 2013

The light of the crystal glowing on Malcolm’s forearm was like nothing he’d seen before: It was more like water than fire, a rising glow glimpsed beneath the churning of clear tides. At any other time, he would have marveled – not only at its strangeness, but the sheer convenience.

Right now, however, he was squinting past it to the handwritten map clutched between thumb and forefinger. Even the weight of his own bow, secured around the quiver in his back, seemed awkward. He could imagine the stone he now relied on simply winking out in the d—

That won’t help, Malcolm thought to himself, rubbing his thumb over the Outriders’ linework.

Before, the thought would not have come to him. Now, it gave enough relief for him to choose.

He chose to go on.

The cavern before him was barely big enough for one man, without even the space to stretch his arms out to his sides. He was unsure how long he stood there, gazing at the map but making no sense of it, before he realized it would not be needed: There was only one path forward.

“The only way out is through,” he told himself.

He tried to ignore the irony of a map that only led one way; it reminded him too much of Creed.

As he took a deep breath, he contemplated the idea that Cleo would find the tunnel far more accommodating. And she could take that stupid cat with her, too, he thought. The rictus grin on his face burned with unspoken absurdity as he made his way carefully forward.

Gradually, the tunnel forked to the right.

The floor beneath his feet was flat and riven with cracks; as his boots clomped here and squished there, he remembered the bright moss he had briefly seen outside. Try as he might, though, he could find no sign of illumination at his feet – and slowly, the curving passage—

Took away the last glimmer of light that stood at his back.

He went on some time further before he was forced to stop.

Easing the toe of his boot forward, he confirmed something he had only known instinctively: The floor was different than it had been. Rounded, like a slick stone sphere, and treacherous enough that he could easily have plunged forward into the darkness. Still could at any step.

The map gave no hint of the forks to either side – thousands upon thousands, Malcolm imagined, starting from a dozen and spreading out like veins. He could sense them, now and then, in the faintest quirk of sunless air. There was no telling how far they went, or how deep into the earth.

At any step, he could be lost forever – a mistake he would never unmake.

He would never even know when it had happened.

It was the crystal that returned his thoughts to the present.

Its light had changed so subtly that he doubted he would spot it if there had been anything else to see. It was silvery now, and the knot had loosened so it was swinging back and forth like a pendulum in answer to his nervous movements. Back and forth.

He yanked hard on the cord to tighten it again and took a long, slow breath.

Somewhere, he could hear what sounded like the beating of leathery wings.

He found himself remembering the winged creature; could one of its ilk be waiting in the dark?

Evil birds, Malcolm thought to himself. He wanted to laugh, but no sound came out.

At least he was moving now—

For a while.

The echoes of his footsteps grew long and weird with every tread. The sound of wings – he was sure it was real, now – began to issue forth from a half-dozen spots somewhere far over his head, like water hissing through a shattered hull.

His boots were growing heavy—

The sounds echoed more and more; he threw his gaze upward, searching ceaselessly for even a flicker of teeth or eyes up above him. In the corner of his eye, he could swear the crystal was pulsing, changing colors, laughing at him, leading him astray never to return.

Surely he had gone further now than the mere twenty yards the map promised?

Is this what happened to Shane Bevan?

Malcolm’s breathing hitched, stopped, came back in a gulp—

In his mind’s eye, he could imagine Shane Bevan’s body, a few steps behind him and to the left. Passed, not only by him, but by the Outriders when they came this way. Abandoned, unburied.

He took another step.

What if something attacks me?

And another.

What if I take a wrong turn?

And another still—

What if I’m trapped forever?

He stopped. “It can’t go on forever,” he said, hoping that would at least be a comfort.

It was not.

For the first time since his first night in camp – that first night with Pierce – he wanted to cry.

The sound of a few strangled gasps escaping his throat was enough to terrify him, even humiliate him. But it was far, far worse when they came to a sudden stop and he wasn’t sure he could breathe; the air was like tar, and he couldn’t force it down his throat.

A new light engulfed him all at once, and he found his voice in a scream.

—at least, he thought he had. Seconds went by and there was only rhythmic, steady breathing.

“—going on in there?” Cleo Bright said again, her voice reedy with barely-repressed tension.

Malcolm backtracked over the last few seconds and reconstructed the words he had missed.

The light! It was too intense now. He closed his hand over the sapphire, letting only some of its brilliant radiance pulse between his fingers. But, even with this little star clutched in his palm, it was the sound of Cleo’s voice that had his attention.

The unseen world around him was swirling, a cauldron of malicious shadows.

The tunnels were silhouettes of a deeper darkness in a crowded, close horizon.

Thoughts gushed into Malcolm’s mind now completely unbidden, uncontrolled.

They were screaming for his blood.

He thought about things he had no reason to think about. No logical reason.

He thought about people.

The end is never the end

He thought about stories.

is never the end is never

About the stories Damien Calloway used to tell him whenever they ran into each other between his watchtower shifts. Back during those seemingly endless days before the Outriders broke through Westwood. Such a strange kid, a little older than himself.

the end is never

Fantasy and myth lurked in his mind, bleeding through whenever he had an audience.

the end

Long, sometimes rambling, dissertations about a moon god and a ruler of the night.

is never

About a patron deity of sorcerers. About how he had lordship over charms, bad luck, destruction and all manner of injustices. Those possessed by him displayed dark eyes and shed black tears. His favorite drink was Orinel Lin laced with gunpowder … whatever that was.

the end

But … what was his name? And why did it seem so important?

Papa Something?

“Hey,” Malcolm tried; but when nothing happened, he let out a seething groan.

Stupid, stupid – you have to press the ...

He clenched his jaw and made himself stop the thought. He didn’t want to alert Cleo; and, indeed, only the thought that she couldn’t hear those sounds he had made brought him comfort. It was fleeting. Tremors ran through his knees, threatening to throw him down.

His fingers were numb, burning with cold – then, with something else.

It was almost magical, how he did it. Not the magic of this relic and these creatures, no: It was a different trick all together, an illusion beyond comparison: He guided his trembling hand into his cloak without seeming to notice what he was doing or acknowledge it in the slightest.

He might even forget that he had done it, and that was the most astonishing part of all.

Other motions followed, and they were just the same – his gaze was directed elsewhere.

The pouch of feverlew was in his fingers now and his legs were tensed as if to pounce. He clutched the pouch in a sweaty palm, dreading the thought of losing it in the dark. His grip was so tight that the top slipped open, the scent invading the shadows. If anything was out there—

Well, now it was high. He nearly laughed. Nearly.

Finally, he managed to reach across his body and touch the sapphire.

Reddish granules fell across it, streaking the pristine surface.

“Hey,” Malcolm said again, imagining he sounded confident.

“Hey,” Cleo responded hotly, about to repeat herself a third time—

“So, remember that whole ... claustrophobia thing we talked about?”

There was a pause.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, actually,” Malcolm said, eyes fixed firmly on the crystal now as his hands worked. He was surprised to find that staring directly into it caused the world around him to swim, turning the shadows purplish for a brief instant before his eyes started to water in earnest. “You should see me,” he went on, resisting the urge to close his eyes. “You’d get a real kick out of it.”

When he winched his eyes shut and raised his face, his mouth was open just long enough—

A small pinch of feverlew powder went between his lip and back teeth. The scent changed; in the time it took him to wipe his eyes with his other hand, it exploded. The tang of rust and the savor of blood began to fill his mouth, his nose, his throat.

Soon it would be sluicing along his veins and hammering the war-drum of his heart.

Malcolm re-secured the string on the pouch, attached it to his belt, and went for his waterskin.

“Are you alright, Mal?” Cleo asked. She was clearly afraid.

But at least she’s trying, said a voice with a vicious gleam.

Malcolm took a deep breath. His legs were already straightening, strong and true, beneath him.

This is the only pull you have with her, that voice told him.

He nodded sideways to the shadows before speaking.

“Yeah. All good. I’ll let you know when I’m through.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she answered. “I mean ...”

“Hah hah,” said Malcolm, finally pressing forward again. “Phrasing. Sorry about that, princess.”

“No! What I mean is,” Cleo said, flustered, “if it makes you feel better, we could keep talking.”

“Thanks,” he said, voice fluctuating with exertion as he pushed through the ever-narrowing space. “But, if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not—” His voice trailed off as he stopped to twist his body, letting his bow clear a tight spot. “... to announce my presence to the enemy.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Cleo, voice lightening at last. “If there really was something waiting for you, it wouldn’t need to hear us talking to know you were coming. It’d see the light.”

There was another pause – stretching out as long and cool as the unleavened darkness.

“I’m sorry,” Cleo said.

“No,” Malcolm said, feeling the beads of sweat form on his brow and march down his face like a dozen angry caterpillars leaving acid trails across his skin. “That was funny. I liked it. Really.” The bowman let out a quiet gasp as a cold draft struck him in the face. Just up ahead ...

A landmark, of sorts. He wriggled in place, his hands questing for the map.

“Okay,” said Cleo, a sigh in the gap between the words. “Please be careful.”

“You got it,” said Malcolm, but his thoughts were elsewhere now. Examining the parchment map from his stomach, he did a double-take between it and the foreboding passage that opened like a crack in the earth beside him – a passage he, thank the fates, was not meant to take.

It was the first true moment of relief he had experienced down here.

And yet, the image locked in his mind was streaks of red on the map.

He crept forward on his stomach for a while, acutely aware of the flat floor and the sudden cool across every inch of his skin. He felt like a trout swimming upstream, his silvery scales reflecting the light from the crystal; agile and wet and naked as if he’d left all his gear behind.

After a time – he couldn’t express how long – the floor dropped off ahead of him.

He realized, after a moment’s thought, he would need to fall out into the expanse.

Without hesitation, he dropped onto the hard rocks below; struck the floor hard and pitched forward. It was all he could to stop himself, one hand flailing for purchase while the other gripped the crystal so tight, it bit into his palm and left indentations on the skin.

When at last he straightened to a stand, he opened his palm so light could spill out.

Two sparkling, snake-like eyes gazed down at him—

His bow was in his hand, an arrow nocked—

... before he realized it was only another carving. This one, though, was enormous: Even before he raised the crystal to its gleaming surface, he knew that the pupil of each slitted eye was larger than his body in all dimensions. The surface was red, shot through with molten greenish veins.

Red.

Slowly, with every sinew screaming, Malcolm replaced his bow.

He fetched the crystal from where it had dropped to the ground, then jogged it into his other hand and held it aloft again to illuminate more. Even suspecting what was there, he had to clench his jaw and brace himself: The full size of it was a mere insinuation of crystalline curves.

If it had been real, one arrow would hardly have done the job.

“Not even all of them,” he muttered to himself, but forced himself to stop.

Cleo was listening. Someone was always listening. Wasn’t that the way?

The immense creature was not a dragon, as he first assumed. Its form was more like that of an eel: Beneath the eyes was a maw stretched with a thousand teeth made of black volcanic glass. Its flanks had not weathered the centuries quite so well, but Malcolm explored no further.

“Stupid ... damn ... Luna Scarlet ... monks!”

It was all he could do not to kick the thing right in the jaw.

“What happened?” Cleo Bright asked, voice breathless.

“Cleo?” he yelled, his brows knitting in confusion.

“Yeah!” she responded – the word echoing in from—

“Cleo,” Malcolm said slowly. “You can hear me?”

His eyes swept to the idle, darkened sapphire.

A heartbeat later, Cleo seemed to absorb the implications.

“Yeah,” she answered, sounding surprised. “I guess I can.”

Malcolm’s face contorted into a cockeyed expression.

“Then why ... do we have these sapphires?”

There was a moment of hesitation, as she seemed to ponder that very question.

“Just to contact the general, I guess,” she yelled back. “Which I’d like to do sometime today!”

Malcolm laughed, but not loud enough for her to hear, and reviewed the map anew. There were eight tunnels leading away from this central chamber, one for each point of the compass. For now, though, they were every bit as mythological as the baron-eel – he saw them nowhere.

Carefully, he found his way to the northern side of the cavern and—

There, as the map predicted, a set of halls awaited.

They were clearly man-made: Symmetrical and smooth, hewn from the rock with the utmost precision to leave three passages identical in height and width. There were inscriptions over each, etched out in a runic script Malcolm should have been shocked he could read.

Instead, his racing mind did not register the phenomenon as he simply read the words.

Over the left passage way: Take my love …

The center: Take my land …

And over the right Take me where I …

The rest was lost to darkness, too far away from his shimmering crystal-light.

It was a trap if ever he had seen one. And he had seen many. And set many, too.

He glanced down, eliciting a papery rustling as his fingers twitched, and smiled.

One of the Outriders had drawn a particularly emphatic chalk arrow to indicate the right way.

Malcolm knew he was nearly there now. Though it was not easy, he felt the worst of his fear start to ease off his chest. Each step sent up an echo, and he counted them as he went. It was as if, with every step, he was shedding more of a lead-lined cloak.

Now, the bowman focused on another sign of human habitation: Metal mounts, each pair spaced about a dozen feet apart, some with moldering metal rings still attached. At first, he imagined prisoners being held there. Then, chancing a closer inspection, he realized they were what little remained of the torch sconces from long ago.

Between each one was a different – equally incomprehensible – rune symbol.

In a different life, he would have liked to stop and look at them more closely.

A fairer life, he found himself thinking, a wry smirk twisting his bloodless lips.

He went on and on, turning this way and that at the Outriders’ behest, until he knew he could fold the map and tuck it safely away. There was a faint suggestion of the outside world on the air, such that few others could have caught it yet; it was as thin and pale as morning sunlight.

At the end of another crude tunnel, he realized he had chased the tail of that light to its end.

To Malcolm, it seemed like an eternity ago when he had entered these tunnels.

Now, with a grunt, he pulled himself up the last incline that would lead to his freedom. With every inch, he came closer to the world above – until he could feel the teasing kiss of cool, fresh air inviting him to return to the world beyond.

Bryce Valley was waiting.

Chapter Sixteen  (E) Song of the Lioness #2190510 by Dan Hiestand