35

Midafternoon they crested the tall ridgeline marking the end of Olom’s reach. Selim said, “From here to Alyss we eat and drink only what we carry.”

They journeyed through the remainder of the day and into the sunset and nothing changed. Their horses were sturdy beasts with a light step and delicate hooves. Selim claimed there was nothing on two legs or four able to match them for speed, even when scaling a desert ridge. And whatever else one might say about camels, they were not climbers. Tethered to each mount were two donkeys, four of which carried only water. The sloshing liquid formed a constant backdrop to their otherwise silent passage.

They halted as the light failed, and Hyam drew an encircling shield as others prepared camp and hobbled the horses. He was so fatigued he stumbled over the spell and twice had to restart. But no one seemed to notice, for they all remained stained by the previous night. They ate a cold meal and drank their fill of tea in silence. The stars formed a silver sea overhead. Nothing moved. Of the bird there was no sign.

That night Hyam slept deeply and did not dream until near sunrise. He knew the time because he was drawn from his body. He hovered there above the camp in the clear pale wash of a new day. Then turned to face a king rimmed by green fire. A silver diadem encircled Dyamid’s head, one holding a small gleaming orb.

Hyam spoke the first words that came to mind. “Should I kneel?”

“You are the one who saved me,” the king replied.

“I saved no one. I almost joined you.”

“I am well aware of the debt I owe your entire group.” Dyamid looked down to where Shona still slept. “You will thank them for me?”

“I will.” Hyam asked because he had to. “Do you have news of Joelle?”

“Your wife is still among the living. Barely.” Dyamid did not actually speak. Rather, his words were planted in Hyam’s mind. But they still carried a ruler’s dread authority. “The Elven healers are doing all they can to keep her there. Now your attention must turn away from her. You understand?”

“I need to focus upon what lies ahead.”

“Correct. Far more than your wife’s fate hangs in the balance. Use my own tragic tale as your last warning.”

“What awaits us?”

Dyamid nodded approval to the question. “This was why I was permitted to return, that I might serve as messenger. Heed my words, Emissary. Your only hope of survival lies in accepting what you have spent your entire life fleeing.”

The Elven king’s warning carried Hyam through much of the next day. He did not share the dream with anyone, not yet. He knew exactly what Dyamid had meant by the words. As Hyam rode through the arid plains east of Olom, he felt as though everything about this journey, the mysteries and the threats and the losses, all had combined to draw him here. To the moment he faced the challenge of his own past.

Gradually the hills took form up ahead. Their craggy peaks and razor edges were no higher than the hills that formed Lystra, yet these ran from horizon to horizon. When it became clear that Selim intended for them to scale the ridge that afternoon, Meda pointed to a well far ahead and asked, “Why not camp here and climb fresh?”

“You are not the first to think this way,” Selim replied. “Remember my warning. Eat and drink only what we carry.”

In past eons, the well might have been lovely, with a domed canopy supported by sculpted columns. A leather bucket lay by the well’s base, linked to new rope. Even so, none felt tempted to top up their supplies. For as they approached they saw the trail between the well and the slopes was littered with bodies. Bones of men and animals had been picked clean. They passed helmets and swords and shields and saddles and ragged remnants of clothing that flapped in the hot wind.

Meda asked Selim, “You have come this way before?”

“Once. To the valley beyond this first ridge and no farther.”

“Do you know what awaits us after that?”

“Four ridges in all, or so the legends claim. Then a day’s hard trek, then Alyss, then the sea. But none have seen this in eons, and legends have a way of being reshaped by time.”

The hills were a brilliant red, the color of blood dried to a brittle finish. An ancient trail snaked up the steep rise, but it was blocked in places by slides. Hyam and the others took a newer course, one formed by the golems. Their massive limbs had pounded a broad path straight up the hill. At Selim’s direction they dismounted and led their horses. By the time they arrived at the top they were all breathing hard. Their horses balked at the steep descent, but once they were led over the edge the company had to leap aside, for there was no halting their tumble.

Two of the reins snapped in their madcap descent. All but one of the animals arrived at the hill’s base before the company. Even so, none of the animals took a single step forward. Soon as his boots touched the valley floor, Hyam sensed the same doom-laden force as in the dread vale before Emporis’s front gates.

A very subdued company replaced the broken reins and retied their mounts and mules. But as they were preparing for the next climb, Hyam declared, “We camp here.”

A union of horrified gazes met his. Selim said, “This place is full of death.”

“Even so,” Hyam said. “We go no farther today.”

Selim clearly struggled with the need to argue against the only order Hyam had given since leaving Olom. The caravan master pointed to the next ascent. The hills were slightly lower than the ones they had just crossed, but just as steep. The golems had hammered the same straight-line trail up this slope, aimed directly for the unseen harbor city of Alyss. But this slope was punctuated by dozens of caves, all the same round shape as those the golems had carved into the hills of Olom. “That is where I found the scrolls.”

Hyam had suspected as much. “Your family’s legacy.”

“As I said, the Elves are great ones for keeping the past alive,” Selim agreed. “The scrolls’ location was part of my clan’s most ancient bequest. A dreaded treasure, full of warnings and death.”

Hyam added, “Hidden away for a moment when the clan’s survival is threatened.”

Selim nodded. “I knew I would make this trip the day Olom began to die, because their golems went to Alyss.”

“Even when the young warriors who tracked the monsters failed to return to Olom,” Hyam said. “You had no choice. It was either search for the hidden treasure or watch your clan perish.”

The high sun tightened the slant to Selim’s features and revealed a hint of color within his dark gaze, the legacy of forests lost to battle and treachery. “We arrived, and we searched, and we found the stash exactly where the clan’s lore said we would.”

“Are there more amphorae?”

“Hundreds.” Selim waved that aside as unimportant. “When we emerged from the cavern, the ridge was lined by ghostly warriors. They started down toward us, and we fled. They followed us as far as the well. When we looked back, there they stood. Guarding the way.” When Hyam did not respond, Selim stepped closer and hissed, “Do you not hear me, Emissary? We are in the realm of the undead. We must flee before they awaken once more.”

Hyam shook his head. “You’ve missed the point.”

Selim’s mouth opened, but more words did not emerge.

“Think back to when you first arrived in Emporis with the amphorae. You claimed you were chased all the way across the yellow realm.”

“I do not claim. It happened.”

“And I accept this as truth. How did you know of your pursuers?”

“I am a caravan master of Olom.” But the heat was gone from Selim’s reply, replaced now by open curiosity. “I know to read the signs of hunters.”

Meda asked, “And the bird?”

“It came to me in the valley near Olom that we call home.” Selim kept his gaze upon Hyam as he replied. “It warned of pursuers, and of their desire to find the small scroll.”

Hyam said, “So you were tracked across open desert by . . .”

“I sensed a dread force. More than that I cannot say, for I saw no one.”

Meda said to Hyam, “You’re telling us the enemy is up ahead.”

“That is not the issue. We’ve always assumed Alyss is their lair.” Hyam gave them a moment, but when the others stared back in blank confusion, he asked Selim, “Why didn’t the enemy stalk you as soon as you took the scrolls? Why didn’t they snare you here and take what they wanted before you escaped?”

Selim’s gaze widened. “I . . .”

“Because the enemy can’t see. These hills and valleys are drenched in magic. There are centuries of mage-force at work here.” Hyam pointed at the perfectly round tunnels gaping like scores of shadowed mouths overhead. “The Milantians came and they overran Alyss. Then they crossed the yellow realm and they defeated the Elves at Ethrin. Before that, I think they created the golems. Here. In this vale.”

“They’re preparing another attack,” Shona said. “Against the human realm.”

“Of course they are. And that’s not the point either.”

Meda said, “So the witch who stole Joelle’s breath . . .”

“Was a scout,” Selim suggested.

Hyam looked from one face to the next and saw they were unable to glimpse beyond the obvious. This, he realized, was why Dyamid had come to him. So that he might lift his gaze and see.

“We are stopping,” Hyam said, “because this is our last chance to prepare.”

Selim waved at the empty ridgeline. “What of the warriors who guard this vale?”

Hyam opened his shirt, gripped the silver chain, and pulled out the crystal pipe. “It is time to call upon allies of our own.”