The Sword Of Midras Part 7

That may not be true, Syenna said.

Aren glanced back at the scout as the general continued. Syenna has informed us of a local legend"something called the Paths of the Dead"that may provide additional pa.s.sages across the h.e.l.lfire Rift. Should such paths exist, they would represent a serious threat to our southern flank.

Not to mention, that their existence would largely invalidate the reasons for building this magnificent fortress, Aren said, nodding.

Not to mention it, the general said, chuckling. Your orders, Captain, are to accompany the scout southward into the Blackblade Mountains toward the h.e.l.lfire Rift, determine if these so-called Paths of the Dead exist, then return and report your findings to me.

Aren considered this for a moment before speaking. General, if these mythical Paths of the Dead do not exist, how am I supposed to determine that?

By the evidence, Captain, Karpasic replied as though stating the obvious.

The evidence of something that is not there? Aren pressed.

Then the lack of evidence. The general glared at him. Must I think for you as well, Captain?

Aren drew in a slow breath. No, sire. So, youre asking me to go look for a path that we dont believe exists and only return when I can prove that it doesnt.

Precisely! The general was genuinely pleased. And while youre about it, I would suggest you comport yourself as a proper Obsidian warrior properly attired.

Aren cleared his throat. In proper armor, of course.

Of course. The general smiled, reminding Aren of a snake. And be grateful, Captain, for this opportunity to redeem yourself.

Yes, sire, Aren said, though his mouth was dry as he spoke. And may I thank you, sire, for the opportunity.

Well, dont thank me. The general shrugged. This was entirely Syennas idea.

CHAPTER.

9.

Awry Is it night? Aren asked.

Im tired enough for it to be night. Syenna sighed. So it might as well be.

Syenna and Aren stood on an outcropping of rock at the top of the cliff face that overlooked the h.e.l.lfire Rift. It was, perhaps, the most inhospitable terrain Aren had ever viewed. The jagged peaks thrust upward as sharp as finely honed knives on either side of what pa.s.sed for a wide valley floor of the h.e.l.lfire Rift. The rift itself was a bleeding wound in the world that never healed. Shifting pools of lava sputtered and spit molten rock into slow-moving rivers that glowed with unspeakable heat and shifted down their courses only to cascade back into crevices once more. In the far distance, through the dreamlike shimmering of the heat waves rising from the molten floor and the haze of ash and smoke, Aren could see a shattered mountain. Great plumes of smoke and ash rose from its maw, feeding the perpetual storm that raged overhead, and blotting out the sun and sky as far as he could see. Lancing webs of lightning were being woven among those terrible clouds, constantly fed by the ash and the heat from below. Any forests or vegetation that might once have been here had long since burned away, leaving only the raw stone, sand, and occasional steamy, acidic rain.

It was raw and powerful, angry and forbidding.

And promising. Aren smiled to himself at the thought. If you could master such a place as this, who could possibly stand against you?

What can you possibly be smiling about now? Syenna stared at him in disbelief. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Especially in that ridiculous armor.

Aren glanced down at himself. He was wearing the breast and backplate of his Obsidian armor, as well as the shoulder pieces and the greaves, but had left the rest of it with the packs on the horses. His trousers and boots he had deemed sufficient from the waist down, and the sleeves of his tunic took up the s.p.a.ce between the gaps in his armor. He gave the scout a lopsided grin. You heard the general: a warrior in the service of the Obsidian Cause must demonstrate his allegiance with said ridiculous armor at all times. Besides, Syenna, all this was entirely your idea as I recall, including wearing this armor.

I suspect youre not wearing the armor only out of a desire to please General Karpasic, Syenna observed.

No, Aren said. He turned to look back into the sand grotto of the small mountain bowl just down the ridge behind them. Their five escorting warriors were busy setting up tents for their small encampment. I think it is more out of a desire to remind them that we serve the same master.

Our escort? Syenna said with a raised eyebrow. You do not trust them.

Do you honestly think I like wearing this armor in this heat? Aren chuckled darkly. No. I do not trust them.

Has your Avatar blade warned you about them?

Aren shook his head with a slight grin. I dont need some ancient divining rod to tell me when a man wont look me in the eye. I have never worked with these warriors before; they werent under my command, and I dont recall seeing them in camp. They have come on this outing, but not out of loyalty to me. One never knows what might happen on an expedition such as this. Accidents happen all the time, and I would just as soon not be part of one.

Youre rather sure of yourself, Syenna said as she stretched the ache out of her arms.

Well, there are only five of them, and Ive got you at my back, so I think the odds are slightly in our favor. Aren smirked as he raised his chin. And your talents as a scout are quite remarkable. Id prefer to think that finding this most fortunate campsite was more than blind luck.

Finding the sand hollow was, Aren reflected, a fortunate thing indeed. It had formed a natural collection bowl for the recent rains and allowed them to replenish their stocks of fresh water. The pack horses, already skittish in the hot and alien landscape, were taking in the waters of the small pond and seemed to be calmed by it.

But their escort was another matter. In truth, Aren had considered several times drawing the Avatar blade out of his scabbard so that he might know something about the strangers. Each time he reached for its handle, he stayed his hand, telling himself it was only superst.i.tion. Yet, even that was only partially true; there was part of him that was simply loath to draw the blade, for perhaps, he really did not want to know. The scout had mentioned that the escort had been chosen by General Karpasic himself, and that it seemed odd to her that he should be involved in so trivial a matter.

Well, I prefer to think of that as a compliment, Syenna said, her eyes also fixed on the warriors securing the horses farther down the ridge. And I can certainly understand your not wanting to trust our escort.

Havent you been telling me for days not to trust anyone out here? Aren said, turning his gaze back over the desolate, fiery vista. Why you thought I would want to get back into Karpasics good graces is beyond me.

And I suppose youd rather go back to being commander of the caravan? Syenna had become increasingly irritable since they had left Hilt. If I hadnt spoken to the general and convinced him that I needed you for this, youd still be back at camp, feeding the oxen and trying to laugh at Jesters jokes.

Hey, Ill have you know that those oxen are pretty good listeners when theyre well fed, the captain said, chuckling. And what Jesters jokes lack in originality, they more than make up for in sheer repet.i.tion.

How can you be this way? The fires of the valley below were suddenly reflected in Syennas angry eyes.

What way? What are you talking about?

How can you not care? Syenna sputtered. For three days we have pushed our way through these peaks and down along the edge of this accursed rift, and in all that time and all the words between us, you havent said a single thing that would make me believe that you believe in anything!

So Im supposed to convince you that I believe in something? Aren asked, then shook his head. Why should you care whether I believe in anything or not?

Because everyone has to believe in something, Syenna shot back. Its at the heart of who we are, of why we do the things we do. And here you are, a warrior like none I have ever met before. And you have a gift for commanding others in battle better than anyone I have ever heard of in all the legends of the Midmaer. And yet youd rather trudge along with the supply wagons than fulfill a greater destiny.

Ive always been rather suspicious of destiny, Aren said, folding his arms across his armored chest. It always seems to serve other peoples politics and plans.

And yet you support the Obsidian conquests, Syenna said, holding her hands open before her as if hoping to receive an answer. You do their bidding and follow their orders in support of what they claim to be their destiny.

The Westreach Army under the glorious command of General Karpasic serves my purposes, Aren replied, a stern firmness underlying his voice. Not the other way around.

Your purposes? Do you even know what that purpose is?

Aren tilted his head, considering the question as he squinted up at the dark and thundering sky.

Why, to make possible these delightful conversations. Aren beamed back at her. And, of course, to avoid any unpleasant surprises that our mutual friend the general seems to plan for us along the way. So, if you happen to know how to find this legendary pa.s.sage across impa.s.sable terrain, then I suggest the sooner we do so, the healthier it will be for all us.

Syenna glared back at him with a look that might have chilled him had they been standing in any other place. Then, with a growling sound from deep within her throat, she stepped past him, back onto the ridgeline and down toward a ravine that led toward the valley floor.

A blade of an Avatar, he heard her mutter as she pa.s.sed him. An ancient relic of ultimate good And it had to pick him as the chosen one?

The northern section of the rift proved to be too volatile for any possibility of a crossing. Most of the valley floor was composed of molten lava flow surging, slipping, and occasionally exploding from the open source of the world. Syenna continued to lead them along the maze of ridges, and for three days, they wound their way southward along the edge of the inferno. The rift was widening"areas where the molten lava had cooled into solid, dark patches like islands in the midst of a fiery ocean. Syenna found a pa.s.sable ravine that allowed them to descend toward the edge of the lava field. They made their way, skirting the base of the vertical mountains, red flows that had cooled into larger areas webbed by lava streams flowing through jagged fissures. Here and there, the lava had solidified over one of the streams, forming bridges between the black, hard ground. Steam and fumes rose from the creva.s.ses between the dark patches.

Aren, weary from the interminable night beneath a perpetual storm, watched as Syenna quite suddenly dashed ahead, disappearing around the edge of a cliff face. Aren reached up, wiping the sweat that poured profusely from his brow away from his eyes. The heat radiating from even the cooled lava field was intense, draining him. Nevertheless, he drew in a deep breath and charged forward after her. He turned around the base of the cliff, panting in the heat, and nearly ran into her where she stood.

Aren followed the scouts gaze, and his jaw dropped in wonder. It was not the flows of stone that had arrested Arens attention but, rather, what was jutting upward from their surface, towering above them.

The statue of a woman was over a hundred feet in height, though only the form above her hips remained exposed above the surrounding lava field. She had been built of carefully fitted stone with a craftsmanship beyond anything Aren had seen in his time. The stone carving had been fashioned so expertly that it gave the illusion that one could see through diaphanous fabric to her beautiful figure beyond. Her left hand rested casually against her hip, although a section of it was entirely missing just below the elbow. The right arm was only slightly damaged, shaped as though crossing her bare chest, her hand covering her left breast in a fashion both modest and alluring. The stone head, too, was intact, and she appeared to gaze impa.s.sively across a land that once had thrived but was now desolate. There, however, her humanity ended, for twin horns twisted backward from the hair near her forehead. Moreover, enormous dragonlike wings stood poised on her back, their broken, jagged edges reaching around her.

Before them, an enormous, square column had fallen, forming something of a ramp out of its ruins. Syenna stepped onto its slope, climbing upward. Aren followed her to its upper edge to get a better look.

Beyond the towering statue, throughout the lava field, stood the shattered walls of a lost city. The carvings on the face of the ruins were obscured by drifting smoke, and the walls were broken and jumbled. Here and there, dark doorways beckoned them like open graves. Aren could make out at least one additional statue through the smoke much farther down the lava field, whose silhouette was similar to the one looming above him. Square columns had also fallen in various places, some of which spanned the fissures beneath them.

Alabastia, Syenna said breathlessly. The City of the Sky.

You know this place? Aren asked in wonder.

Rumors stories It was a great place before the Fall, a city of the plains. Syenna pointed upward toward the statue. You see the horns on her head and leathery wings at the back? Those were said to be symbols of flight beyond the circles of the world. It was the hope of the priests here that they might find a way to leave the world and follow the Avatars to their home among the stars. This was a blasphemy for which the heavens exacted their terrible justice. The bards usually tell of this place as a civilization of decadence and selfish conceit. Some said that the world swallowed it up at the Fall; others that the moon broke in the sky so that it might crush it out of its sight.

And what do you say, Syenna? Aren spoke in almost reverent tones.

I look upon this great woman, and I want to weep. There was a catch in Syennas voice. There is no one left to remember her name. All the might and the glory of the past has taught us nothing. The Avatars are gone, their Virtues with them, and we are left with the broken relics of their hopes and dreams.

Dreams are for the living, Syenna, Aren said. The dead are gone, and their dreams are gone with them.

Syenna turned toward him, a look of fierce determination in her eyes. Unless their dreams live in us.

The sound of metal rang behind him. Aren turned at once toward the sound and immediately reached for his sword.

Its the escort! Aren yelled in warning. He glanced around quickly at the maze of the surrounding lava flows, then suddenly grabbed Syennas wrist and pulled her toward the edge of the column. This way!

He leaped from the far end of the column, Syenna with no choice but to follow. They landed on the hardened lava rock, its surface stinging his hand as he touched it. Aren cried out as he stood up, pulling at Syenna as he ran toward steaming ground, weaving between the lava flows.

Where are we going? Syenna screamed as she dashed with him.

Aren let go of his sword hilt and pointed with his free hand. There! That narrow doorway. If we can make it there, we can make a stand. We can take them on one at a time as they come through the door, and even the odds.

Arens tunic was soaked with sweat. He was having trouble breathing in the heat as he ran. Behind them, Aren could hear shouts of the warriors as they charged after them. The narrow doorway seemed impossibly far away.

Aren let go of Syennas wrist, leaping over a narrow lava crevice and into the pitch darkness of the ancient doorway. He slid to a stop just within. Syenna slipped past almost at once as Aren turned to face their pursuers.

Aren could see the warriors moving toward the doorway across the lava field.

He reached down for the hilt of the sword, drawing it in a single motion from its scabbard.

Something within Aren changed. He wondered in that moment if perhaps the feverish heat were getting to him. Yet, as he looked to the doorway, he could see clearly the warriors as they approached not just as they appeared but as they were. He had traveled for days with these men and barely knew their names yet now, sword in his hand, he understood them.

The first among them was a large, broad-shouldered warrior by the name of Arnel Courts. He was a quiet man despite his size, who often kept to himself. Aren suddenly realized that this was because of the pain Arnel carried from being torn from his family, and a deep longing for home. His strength and skill of the blade was his curse, for the general had taken notice of him and would single him out for tasks that were not to his liking. He had nothing against Aren and was heartsick at the idea of killing him. But he feared the general, he feared for his family, and he was only looking for a way home.

The second was a thief from out of the Grunvald who had often plied his trade as a highwayman along eastern trade routes. He looked to most people as c.o.c.ky and self-a.s.sured since he had come into service of the Obsidians. But his att.i.tude sprang from the coals and anger that had burned within him since his father had abandoned their family when he was barely old enough to grow a beard. And so he would fight and brawl for whoever would pay him, trying to satisfy a thirst that could never be quenched and a raging fire that would never go out.

Aren staggered slightly, resetting his stance.

The third of the warriors had been beaten as a child.

The fourth had gone to war to win the heart of his sweetheart.

The fifth would hide himself from the others each night to weep for the lives he had taken.

Aren glanced at his sword hand.

It was shaking.

Syenna! Aren called out. Stay behind me. If any of them get past me youll have to The blow to the back of his head threw him forward, sprawling Aren face first onto the stone threshold at the base of the doorway. His mind was reeling, spinning in confusion and pain. He tried to push himself up, his hands pressing against the blistering heat of the stone beneath him. He managed only to roll onto his back, his right hand still clenching the hilt of the sword. His vision was blurred, but despite the pain he could understand the voices.

What now, Syenna?

Wrap the sword in the oilcloth, but be careful not to touch it. The voice was Syennas and seemed to come from a great distance. Its the prize that will take us home, boys. Home with honor.

And what about the captain?

He comes with us. Syennas voice was getting farther away as Aren lost his fight for consciousness. Shackle him and make sure the bindings are tight. Someone, after all, will have to carry the sword.

PART II.

THE FALLS.

CHAPTER.