Kagur looked around and found herself at a muster of the following, one of the rare meetings in which the Blacklions came together with the other tribes sworn to their Mammoth Lord. At least this time, she realized she was dreaming of times past. She wondered if Gorum, or perhaps Desna, understood her so little as to imagine such dreams were necessary to keep her need for vengeance burning hot.
Resplendent in a long ermine mantle closed at the throat with golden chain, Lord Varnug walked by with four stern-looking frost giants striding behind him, prompting Jorn to grin up at the foster son who had by now grown a head taller than he was. “You see what a proud thing it is for a Mammoth Lord or a chieftain to have giants,” the Blacklion leader said. “And though our tribe is smaller than most, we have you.”
Eovath didn’t answer, and when another chieftain wandered up to trade humorous insults with Jorn and ask if there were any Blacklion maidens who couldn’t find husbands within the tribe, the boy slipped away.
In real life, eager to join an archery competition, Kagur hadn’t thought anything about it. But in the dream, she followed and caught up with him a little way removed from the raucous chatter, singing, dickering, carousing, wrestling, javelin throwing, and other amusements.
“Was this the start of it?” she asked. “Seeing giants for the first time since Father captured you? Did it make you miss your old family?”
“He has me,” Eovath replied. “Like he has a dog, a drinking horn, or a pair of boots.”
“He didn’t mean it like that.”
“He said it.”
“We all have each other. You have me. What about that?”
Eovath sighed. “It’s what makes me happy. But it doesn’t matter.”
Kagur’s eyes popped open. She felt a twinge of embarrassment to realize they were damp. She rolled over onto her side, thus averting her face from Holg, and knuckled them.
As she finished brushing the tears away, she realized the sickness and grinding exhaustion she’d suffered before falling asleep were gone. Except for hunger pangs, she felt all right.
Perhaps discerning the tenor of her thoughts, Holg said, “I cleansed you of the taint of the spirits’ touch.”
Covered in heatless flame once more, Kagur’s shield lay on the tunnel floor between them like a campfire. In its wavering yellow light, Holg looked even skinnier than before, and his wrinkles deeper.
“Maybe you should pray for yourself, too.”
He smiled a crooked smile. “It wouldn’t help. The dead never managed to touch me. I’m tired is all. I like to think my soul and mind are as strong as they ever were. But when I channel the might of the spirits, particularly when I do it many times in succession, the vigor of the body comes into it, too, and that … well, as you’ve noticed, I’m not a sturdy young cub of sixty anymore.”
She frowned. “You didn’t have to cure me while I slept. You could have waited and rested.”
“I didn’t want you to wake up weak and sick if anything unfriendly came wandering through the passage.”
She looked back the way they’d come, for the little distance she could before the firelight failed. “Has there been any sign of trouble?”
“No. Killing the dead is often an uncertain business, but we may actually have done it. If not, perhaps the wraiths can’t pursue anyone beyond the boundaries of their territory. Or maybe once somebody cuts her way through them, it takes them a while to reconstitute themselves.”
Kagur took a pull from her waterskin. “That would explain how Eovath made it through the cave, and yet the dead were there again to bother us.”
“You may be right,” Holg replied. “Although not even a giant could have hacked his way through the wraiths unless his axe was enchanted like your sword.”
Midway through a second drink, Kagur choked and sputtered. “What?”
“Didn’t you know?” the old man asked. “It’s why you were able to hurt them.”
“But … the blade has been in my family forever!”
Holg chuckled. “With each passing generation apparently oblivious to the fact that it owes its exceptionally keen edge and resistance to rust to a wizard’s arts. Or else the clever ones who suspected didn’t let on.”
Kagur eyed the sword lying ready to hand beside her. Naturally, it looked the same as ever.
Holg cleared his throat in the manner of one who realizes too late that perhaps he should have kept something to himself. “I, uh, hope I haven’t made you mistrust the blade. As best I can tell, there’s no curse or geas bound up in the steel.”
She scowled. “I know that! It’s my father’s sword, and I’m proud to bear it! It’s just … one more surprise. First, my brother runs mad. Then, it turns out there’s enough truth in his madness to lead us both underground. Now, it seems that Jorn Blacklion, who spat and made the sign against the evil eye whenever anyone mentioned wizardry, wore it on his hip every day of his life. What’s next?”
His clouded eyes catching and splintering the firelight, Holg smiled. “Everyone asks that from time to time. In these days of failed prophecy, at least, no one can ever know the answer.”
“Maybe that’s better if it means we’re free to choose our own fates.”
“Learned men say we always were. It’s a paradox, I know.”
Kagur unbuckled her pack and rummaged through it for the jerky. “You’re fond of strange words, storyteller.”
Holg laughed. Not particularly loudly, but the sound still echoed away in the dark.
“Then let me try to say something you might find more meaningful. We can never truly know the future, but we can recognize the patterns and cycles in life.”
Kagur twisted a piece of jerky until it snapped, then handed him half. “Like the changing of the seasons? Geese flying south in the fall and coming back with the spring?”
“Well, yes.” He bit off a chunk of jerky, chewed, and swallowed. Unlike some of the old people Kagur had known, he still had strong teeth. “Partly. But there are other rhythms and repetitions than the ones we see in nature, subtler ones that play out in human life.”
“Like what?”
“Well … the Blacklions killed Eovath’s tribe. He in turn killed all the Blacklions but you. And here you are, tracking him so you can kill him.”
Kagur glared at the shaman. He was lucky he was old and blind and that she needed him. Otherwise, she would have driven her fist into his wizened face.
“My father and his men slew enemies honorably in battle,” she gritted. “They weren’t betraying folk who loved and trusted them, and they didn’t use poison.”
“I know,” Holg said, “and I didn’t mean—”
“My father was nothing like Eovath! I’m nothing like him!”
“I didn’t say you are. I was simply …” He took a breath. “If I’ve given offense, I apologize. It’s been a long time since I had to fight the dead. Perhaps the excitement loosened my tongue.”
“Perhaps.” She was still angry, and it was as close as she could make herself come to accepting his apology.
They finished their meal in silence save for the tiny chewing, smacking sounds they were making themselves. Noise might carry long distances underground, but it wasn’t doing so at the moment, and the cool flame rippling on the face of her shield did so with nary a crackle.
Finally, she said, “It’s my turn to stand watch while you sleep. You’ll need your strength for the last leg of the journey.”
He cocked his head. “The which?”
“The last leg. We’ve come so deep. Eovath can’t be too far ahead.”
“I wish that were so. But if I’m not mistaken, we’re still in the caves that lie just beneath the surface. We haven’t even reached the true Darklands yet.”
Kagur scowled. “I don’t understand. Caves are caves, aren’t they?”
“From what I’ve heard, yes and no. Supposedly, there are three layers to the Darklands: Nar-Voth, Sekamina, and Orv, each in some ways different than the common caverns we’ve traversed so far, and likewise different from the other two.”
She grunted. “Fine. I’ll go as far as I have to.”
“Good. Because from what Eovath told you, I suspect that’s all the way to the bottom.”