The night sky burst into carmine-colored light. With impossible suddenness, moon and stars alike were obscured by heavy clouds. Thunder rent the air, and the sky opened, drenching the world in frigid…
No. The rain should be cold, given the season. But it isn’t. It’s…warm.
Realization struck Methias like a mailed fist. He felt true fear for the second time this night—fear not only for himself but for the entire world.
The Keening. It’s the Keening.
“It’s the Keening,” he repeated aloud. “The way is open. The King of the Dead… He’s free.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Tharus, Pallith? Keep your shields high. I won’t hear or see you for a few moments. Duimtiq, puehv ado,” he said again. Between blinks, his shield was gone once more. That accomplished, he stepped fully behind the pair and dropped to his knees.
Raising his hands to his ears, he gripped them so that his knuckles pointed over his shoulders. Squeezing his own head so that his hands muted as much sound as he could manage, he gazed toward Wick, drew as deep a breath as he could, and moved his mouth without expelling any air. “Puav ka puehv qua, puehv qleegek, xu puehv xejhfehv,” he focused his eyes on a space above and between Apiné’s men before finishing, “lakth.” (I will my mind, my whispers, and my hearing … there.)
The shift was disorienting, but that was nothing he hadn’t expected. His vision went dark, tinged in red as if he gazed at the sun through closed eyelids. His ears were assaulted by sounds that had been distant a moment before and were now all around him. Jastar was shouting at someone over the rain, which also fit with his expectations. The man was a knight, after all. And one who’d struck him as level-headed enough to take charge if need be.
“Enough! I’m past tired of arguing. Raegus, go! Leave Kaith and Lord Ricgerd with us. Take as many of them west as you can, but hells be hid, go!”
“Jast, don’t send me away. I…” This was another voice—presumably this Raegus person.
Apiné cut across him. “Sir Raegus, either stay or go, but stone in sky, get out of the damned way!”
Methias had been about to interject when he heard a bone-shattering crack from beyond the wall.
It’s like hearing an egg break from the inside, he thought and shuddered. As similes went, that left a good deal to be desired, yet the imagery refused to leave his mind. He’d almost gasped, which would’ve meant he’d wasted the power he’d used. As it was, his temples were beginning to throb—a sure sign he was running out of time.
“Apiné! The hourglass is emptying, so make me repeat nothing. Find me the flattest ground you can and stand on its south-easternmost corner. Put your back to its edge, facing the walls. The rest of you, stand clear of her and do not let anyone further north than her right boot. Questions?”
He felt something brush against his left elbow, nearly forcing his hand to release that ear. He’d have to leave that to Tharus and Pallith, for now.
“Where… I don’t see—”
Jastar’s questions were overridden by Apiné’s clipped tones. “How large a field, Lord?”
“As large as you can find. Enough to hold a wagon, at the least. If it’s smaller than that, put a man on the northwest corner.” His voice was getting raspy. That was no surprise, given the burning sensation in his lungs. “Good enough?”
“Aye, Lord. We’ll see to it.”
Methias nodded, though none of them could see it. “Sir… Raegus? Hold a mo—”
“He’s gone, Lord. Racing westward to act as a rearguard.”
“Hells. Well… we’ll have to… to hope…” But it was no good. His head was swimming. He could hold his breath no longer.
“Ah-pin-nay? Go!” And with that, he felt himself falling. He struck the grassy ground and saw black flowers bloom across his closed eyes. He was breathing again, and his body made it clear he’d been a fool to stop that long-loved activity. His arms, his face, even his fingers were all tingling as his heart pounded.
“Methias? Methias are you… Ire, stop that! Meth—Er, Lord? Are you…”
Methias opened his eyes, pushing himself to a seated position. “Just out of breath, Tharus. Just out of … breath.”
Ire was still snarling at him. The hound’s posture made him look as if he’d scented prey. He wasn’t quite within arm’s reach, but stood near enough to make his point.
Again, that sense of personal fear welled up, followed by the mad urge to giggle. He managed to push both sensations down, but it took even more of a concerted effort than it had before. He got to his feet and ducked out of reflex as an arrow struck Pallith’s shield.
“No fear, Lord. My shield is stout enough. But what are we planning? What will we do? You cannot mean for us to just stand here while the mist bloods take the village.”
Methias grinned, hoping his voice would carry that sound. “Not at all. But give me a moment.”
He looked toward the rest of his men, choking down another gibbering fit. Apiné was perhaps a dozen yards from the stone wall, standing as he’d requested. He’d been about to act when he saw another figure. This one almost had to be Xaithrin. He moved at a lumbering jog, crossing behind Apiné.
“Xaithrin hol Kieran… where are you… ah! Good enough.” The man came to a stop at what must be the northwestern corner, as he’d asked. It was longer than he’d needed, which was good, though it was narrow.
Not quite wide enough for a wagon. Well, it’ll have to do.
“We run together. Pallith? Don’t worry about your horse. Mezofel will bring her.”
“Y-yes, Lord.”
He moved his fingers so as to make a line between Xaithrin and Apiné. Getting as close to each as he dared, he rounded his focus and tried to perceive the entire field at once.
“Ayach xu vahd, vloo puehv kegryleek itor!” (Earth and stone, be my guardian against the sky’s anger.)
The ground shook. An instant later, the field his folk stood beside first humped up, then tore loose. The air was filled with fresh screams.
I don’t know why I’m surprised, he thought. To them, this must look like the final doom. Their village overrun, an enormous eye free-floating in the air, a storm out of a clear night’s sky, and now the very ground is moving? Of course they’re screaming. He wasn’t certain what else he could’ve done to prevent their panic, but he did regret being part of what had caused it.
When it finished, the ground formed a rough barn bay with openings that faced both north and south. It stood half as high as Wick’s wall and looked as stable as he could’ve hoped, given it was made of stone and soil.
“That’ll do. With me, now!”
With that, Methias raced toward the gate. He heard their booted feet crunching along the grass behind him a moment later. Ire’s snarling self raced along in their wake. Mezofel understood the run of his thoughts well enough, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the rapid tattoo of hoofbeats running up his back trail as well.
“In! In!” he shouted as he ran toward the strange new structure. “Leave me room toward the north to work, but hurry! Everyone in!”
They got everyone moving with as much speed as they could, given the panic. Only Sir Jastar looked rebellious and looking was where that seemed to stop.
Methias ran around the outside of his makeshift shelter, coming to its northern opening. “Pallith, get whoever’s with the horses to head this way. I think it has to be Morric. Go!” He heard the man shouting as he moved to obey. “Tharus? Make certain nobody gets past you while I work. When I’m done, it won’t matter, but until then?”
“Done!” His grainy voice sounded nothing short of delighted.
As soon as Methias entered, he paced off a few strides south, drew his sword, and used it to draw in the fresh earth. He worked with a will, trying with all his might to ignore the hunger and hysteria warring within him. Whatever the Nebelblut had done to him, it would pass.
That, or I’ll have to make it pass. Either way, it has to wait.
The people crowded in. They were terrified, and with just cause. After all, what safety was there to be had in an earthwork tunnel?
Methias’s stomach seemed to make a fist. The cramp was a clawing, pulsing thing that held him fast. Yet his other senses appeared to sharpen further. He smelled the rich, fatty scents of well-fed people… people who had been seasoned by fear and wonder. He could ease his pain. He could drink their dread like the wine it was, and he would be sated… would be strengthened. He would be…
Damned! I’d be damned if I did that. That was true. And if he satisfied himself—If he fed until he was full? There’ll be a new realm added to the hells just for me…
As if in response to that happy thought, Ire stepped toward him. The hound wasn’t growling now. He was howling. Methias shrank away. The sound sent a shudder through him, but when it passed, he felt a measure of control return.
No time to think on that now. He turned back to his work. With palpable relief, he realized he was almost finished.
Then came a shout of such utter triumph that the world itself appeared to fall silent. Only the wind and rain served to underpin its unnatural intensity. It boomed across the land, roaring out its message with far more force than an unaltered voice could hope to muster. And it came from everywhere at once.
“Red the root. And red the stone. Red the rage for empty throne. Bear forever burnished bone. Bear your guilt. Bear it alone.” His voice—and it was a man’s voice, deep and dark—seemed to take an age to fade. When it had gone at last, there was a moment of uneasy calm—a vain hope that whatever that had been, it’d now passed.
Methias winced out of both shock and the briefest stab of pain. Even so, his undermind made the necessary connections with his own weave work.
It’s like the runes I used in The Cage—projecting and carrying the sound, rather than forcing it to circle back on itself.
No sooner had this realization struck him then the voice came again, louder somehow—a righteous anger denied.
“Do you hear me? I walk! We walk! And we will find you! You cannot hide!”
Thunder was his only answer.
Methias forced his mind away from the mystery this presented. As he drew the last line in the soil, he stepped back.
“Vloo vahd, crayach. Zuam zeteek rin.” (Be stone, fresh earth. Hold your shape.) Once he’d finished the rote’s verbal component, the fertile soil at his feet turned grey, hardening into solid stone. The images he’d drawn in the dirt were now graven, as if created with a wide chisel. The work was inexpert, by artistic standards, but it would do for his needs.
He looked up, making his voice carry to address the thirty or so people that had crowded through the southern entrance.
“Hear me! In a moment, Sir Jastar of Thorionden will lead you onto this stone. It and he will take you to safety. You’ll be given beds, food, and what healing we can offer. From there, we can sort what’s next for you.” This was met with confused murmurs, but no outright refusals. “Tharus, hold your shield high.” When he’d done so, Methias continued. “This device—the sigil you see on this shield? Any who bear that symbol where you’re going are my men. They will do all that they can to protect you. Sir Jastar? Step to Tharus, please.”
Jastar did as he’d been asked, but wore a face that showed both awe and fear.
“Lord? Are you—”
Before he could get his question out, another man overrode him. “Who are you? And where will your sorcery take us? Will there be a leach there?” He sounded as if hope and fear were waging war within either his head or heart. Perhaps both.
“I am Methias Arthod… the Lantatt—or High Lord if that’s easier to remember—of Dereek khn, your northern neighbor. Healers? Yes. There will be at least one healer waiting on the other side. Others will be sent for if need be. As for where you’re going, it’ll take you to one of my fastnesses. You’ll be as safe there as I can make you. Bring the wounded through straight away. Morric?”
“Here, Lord.” The man spoke up from behind him.
“Go through with the horses first. They’ll slow things down a pace if we have to move them through a crowd on the other side.” When the man had nodded, he turned back to Jastar. “What was your question?”
The knight shook his head. “Nothing, Lord. I’ll see it… Oh, there is something, actually. What should I tell the Old Man?”
“Nothing. Tell the guards awaiting you on the other side how many we have, and to make ready just in case. They’ll tell Fyken and get everything in order.”
Jastar gave a slow nod. “You… prepared for this.” His tone made it clear that this was a surprised observation, rather than a question.
Methias nodded. “Just a bit of gardening, Jastar. Now, on my mark.” He centered his focus on the wayfaring conduit he’d made, pleased he still had full control of his faculties. Both his new hunger and the urge to gibber were, for the nonce, dull things gnawing at the back of his mind.
Looking at the stone, he crouched down, laying his hand atop its smooth surface. “Gil hol dojhah. Zul sev luukth.” (Complete the circle. Take us there.)
There was a brief flash of twilight-colored light. Methias stood, satisfied.
”Go on Morric. Sir Jastar, move everyone off the spot you arrive on as swiftly as you can. Nobody else can follow if someone’s still stood upon it. The others will be along.”
“Kaith? Kaith! Breathe, Kaith! Help him! Help—”
But Methias was already moving, careful to step around the conduit he’d made. It would only last for so long, and he could do little to help anyone if he found himself back at Kor Kowmor. “Don’t wait, Morric. Go.”
The wounded man’s face was the pale color of new parchment, and his lips had gone a dull grey. The former was a sure sign of blood loss. The latter meant death was stalking him close. Methias grimaced. When he spoke, he made his voice both short and sharp. If he was going to save this fellow…
“We’re out of time. If there’s any hope, do as I say and keep your teeth together unless you don’t understand what I ask. Lay him down, grab his feet and his shoulders. You’ll be moving him.”
They did as bidden. The eye of every local was upon him, though he was pleased to see his Dereek khnderath keeping their focus outward.
“Put him here. Duimtiq, puehv ado.” The tower shield appeared on his arm once more. He stripped it off and laid it on the ground as fast as he could. “Go on.” They obeyed. As they did, Methias saw the grisly wound on the back of the man’s right leg.
A leg you might not keep, my friend, though we’ll do what we can.
He pulled a flat, oval stone from his haversack—a river-smoothed rock about the length of his middle finger. “Lanbachsel? I’ll need to borrow two of yours, please.”
Apiné nodded. “Kujin? Xaithrin?”
The two men hooked their hammers onto their belts, slinging their shields across their backs as they stepped over.
Methias looked at them both in turn. “You’ll need to be on either side. You two?” He shifted his gaze to the man’s bearers. “This will keep him alive, but you’ll need the help. He’s about to get very heavy. Tell the healer to remove the stone when he’s ready to tend to him. And if you love this man, hells be hid, do not drop him.”
With that, Methias placed the stone in the wounded man’s mouth. “Muunts qluu zet aanq.” (Become what you hold.)
A creeping stain of grey crawled across the warrior’s face, then spread over his entire body. The process took less than a minute. A few folk managed a gasp, but it sounded more surprise than shocked or afraid. Most just stared in mute acceptance.
When it was done, Methias tapped the man’s forehead and was satisfied. He’d turned to stone, and would remain that way until the exemplar was removed. He stood, nodding to the mustachioed man who’d seemed so concerned. “Walk with care. This hasn’t healed him, only held him in state. Still, he’s safe to move now.”
The fellow’s mouth moved, but no words came out of it. Finally, he nodded, looked to the three men standing around the shield with him, and bent to his task.
They carried him on Methias’s tower shield, stepped onto the conduit, and were gone. And with that, their escape from Wick had begun in earnest.