Her voice shrank into a harsh whisper as her hand tightened, and long nails sank into his scalp. “For everyone but you, Dunos. What are you?”
“I don’t know!” Dunos’ left arm came up somehow and batted her away. He heard something snap and she screamed. The crone tottered back and almost fell off her stool, then stood and tried to lift her broken arm. She couldn’t.
The paper began to move, drawing itself up in folds. It collapsed and opened, twisting and narrowing, then straightened out. In seconds, it formed itself into a folded paper wolf, its flesh decorated with all the words Uttisa had written.
The crone fished in her robe for a circular talisman, which she raised to her left eye. “You’re his thing, Dunos. You belong to Grija. You’re death’s pet and he’s come to claim you.”
“No, no I’m not.” Dunos grabbed the paper in his left hand and fed the wolf to the candle flame. “I won’t be his pet!”
The flame caught and the wolf vanished in a bright flash of light. Yet instead of hearing the hungry snap of flame, the lonely howl of a wolf echoed as smoke drifted up into the dimness. And though his hand remained in the flame, he felt no pain, no warmth, and somehow wondered if the god of Death had not claimed him anyway.
Suddenly, the hut’s door exploded inward. Shattered planking gouged the dirt floor. The door’s remains hung from one twisted hinge and, in the moment before the night’s breeze extinguished the candle, Dunos caught sight of hulking forms bursting into the hovel. Broad shoulders smashed the doorjambs, and harsh, clicking, guttural sounds filled the hut, as if the creatures were gargling sharp stones.
Uttisa screamed, but her cry ended abruptly. Something warm and wet splashed over Dunos. He closed his eyes, then wiped blood from them. They’ve killed her!
He didn’t want to open his eyes again because he didn’t want to see what the creatures were doing. The crack of bones and the wet sucking scrape of teeth stripping flesh communicated more than he could have seen. He decided that seeing would be better than imagining, so he opened his eyes and found he was half-right.
He should have been in complete darkness, but his left arm glowed with a pale grey light that cast no shadows. Other parts of his body glowed as well-the parts that had been splashed with Uttisa’s blood. Most curious of all, the glow around his left arm showed him a limb both hale and hearty.
The three squatting creatures gorged on the crone, ignoring him entirely. They were completely hairless and, though he could see that their flesh was scaled, the ghostly glowing imparted no hint of color. The triangular teeth that filled their maws made short work of the witch. They lifted their chins when they swallowed, but had no discernible necks, and their powerful shoulders hunched above the rounded domes of their heads. He saw no ears, and their large round eyes had the flat black quality of wet river stones.
They squatted on short but powerful legs. Their long arms easily snapped the witch’s bones, and their long talons dug marrow from the hollows. They sucked the grey jelly from their fingers, gurgling with delight.
Dunos had no idea what the creatures were, and didn’t want to remain to find out. He darted for the doorway before any of them had a chance to react, then he ran as fast as he could. His left arm almost felt as if it were moving normally. He glanced back once to check on pursuit. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t slow him a bit.
He ran down the forest trail toward Muronek, thinking that he could raise the alarm. Then, as he neared the forest edge, the light of multiple fires alerted him to greater danger. The town was under attack, and somewhere his mother and father were in danger.
Or are already dead!
No! Dunos poured his anxiety and fear into his running, and sped through a ruined gate. All around him monsters abounded, dragging shrieking people from their homes. Many bled from small wounds, others had lost limbs. People collapsed in the street, their lives pumping into puddles, screaming until death took them.
Fierce fires lit the town. Burning people ran through the streets until they fell and roasted. He could feel the heat, but it remained distant somehow. He ran on, leaping human pyres, rejoicing as one of the vhangxi staggered from one inferno, the beast’s upper body on fire. He’d named the creatures after a demon from the Third Hell, and darted aside as the burning one reached for him.
Up Green Dragon Road he sprinted, then cut north on Seamster Lane. He refused to look west, toward the home his grandparents inhabited, but as he turned west on Gold Dragon, nothing but fire remained of the houses on either side. He continued running, his gait faltering only when he came to a body lying in the roadway. The fire’s heat had already scorched the gold robe, and the person’s head had been ripped clean from her body, but there was no mistaking his grandmother.
He stared at the golden-white flames blazing through the house. The fire roared and wood popped loudly. Somewhere within lay his parents. A lump rose into his throat. His knees quivered and he would have fallen, but then he heard another sound. It came from within and, though it could not possibly be, he heard his mother calling his name.
Heedless of his own danger, Dunos dashed into the fire. On his third step into the building, a floorboard gave way beneath him. As he fell into the shallow space beneath the house, timbers above cracked. The last thing he saw as he looked up was the house’s main beam splitting in half and crashing down upon him.
Dunos had no idea how long he lay in the ashes that had been his grandparents’ home; the ashes that had been the town of Muronek. Night had flowed into day, and he guessed several days had passed, since the ashes from which he emerged had long since grown cold. Ash tiger-striped him in grey and black.
He moved cautiously through the ruins at first, then more boldly. Skeletal dogs and feral cats skulked through the town. More majestic, and more numerous, carrion birds perched on the highest points available, descending in flocks to chase dogs away from the choicest bits of food.
Dunos didn’t want to see what they were eating. As he explored he picked up a battered pot here, a blackened knife there and, toward the outskirts, he stripped robes and sandals-all oversized-from half-eaten corpses. He washed the clothes and himself in the river outside the town, then dressed and started walking.
He had no more idea where he was going than he did why he survived the attack and fire. All he knew was that he had gotten away, and had to get still further. He had vowed he would not be Grija’s pet. The more distance he put between himself and such slaughter, the closer he’d be to keeping that vow.
Chapter Nine
20th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
Though barely a week and a half away from the tomb complex in which he had awakened, Ciras Dejote found himself faced with yet one more challenge. The ever-changing land that was Ixyll made many demands on him. He scarcely dared sleep, lest his concentration slip for an instant. Even the most benign-appearing scene could hide virulent peril, and always having to be alert wore on him.
But no hero would shrink from a quest such as ours!
He glanced out over the lip of the bowl-shaped valley. It stretched off to the north in an ellipse, the dying sun reflecting warmly off the fluid gold flesh coating the whole of the landscape. The muted forms of trees and bushes pushed up from beneath it, but remained as hidden as if thick snow covered them.
The only anomalous bit of color in the valley skittered about from bush to tree to boulder like a ball sliding on ice. Borosan crouched at the valley’s edge, watching his thanaton try to find purchase with its spidery legs. When it finally bumped up against something, slowing its momentum, it could raise its spherical body on its four legs, but would only manage a step or two before its wild sliding would begin again.