Hunting in Hell (27 page)

If Golden has her, then she is probably already dead
.

What was that?
 

He listened carefully, but the sound did not repeat itself.
 
After the tension ebbed, his head swirled with the memory of their fleeting kiss.
 
It had burned with the violence of a first embrace before melting into something else - the familiar connection of an old lover, one with whom he had melded many times before.

And now that he had found her again, the idea of losing himself, of hiding and perhaps not being able to come back - it was terrifying.
 

He was still meditating, paralyzed by his fear, when he heard the sound again.
 
This time, he managed to place it - it was the faint clink of a chain.
 

They were coming for him.

THIRTEEN

N
ow or never.
 

He focused on the stone in his mouth, goading it to react.

The first sensation was a prickling coolness that fluttered like a live thing.
 
His mind refused to concentrate; instead, his ears scanned for the sounds of a metal chain.
 
Frantic, he pushed harder, urging the stone to go faster.
 
The clinking was louder now, and he knew somehow that it was the angel Nemain.

He shivered.
 
The coldness had spread to the room, and his breath hung in the air like a mist.
 
Instead of blowing away, it remained suspended in front of him.
 
The mist rapidly saturated the air, until rivulets of moisture were running down his skin and the walls of his cell. The condensation dripped to the floor, forming a circular pool roughly five feet in diameter.

He stared at his reflection in the pool.
 
The water rippled, shattering the image.
 
It resettled almost as quickly, and instead of his reflection, he saw himself, younger, dressed head to toe in furs, the head of a wolf resting on top of his own.
 
I am the wolf-man,
he thought,
smoking the pipe by the fire.

The stone in his mouth pulsed, and he saw a question mark appear in the mist above the pool.

No.
 

He shook his head.
 
The surface of the pool dissolved into ripples again, and the sensation of coolness spread.
 
He could feel icy fingers probing through his brain, searching for the telltale signs that would guide it to the right memory.
 
Just as he thought he could hear footsteps add themselves to the clinking, the coolness in his head lessened, and the surface of the water stopped rippling.

He could see a floor, stained red with the slick glossiness of blood.
 
Signs of struggle and chaos were piled around the room, and he knew it was the moment that he realized they had been -

No!
he cried, throwing his arms in front of himself for protection.
 
Lord, please no!
 
Anything but that.
 
The footsteps were louder, and he could make out the rustle of feathers.
 
Time was running out, and for better or worse, this reflection would probably be the last.

The pond rippled for longer this time, as if thinking, and he felt the coolness course once again through his mind. Finally, the water stilled, and he saw himself standing by the mouth of a cavern, a spray of purple delphiniums by his foot.
 
He knew this image well, it was the day he had first mastered his
kevra.
 
He closed his eyes, and the outlines of his body grew fuzzy as his skin turned transparent.
 

The mist swirled and settled again into the question mark.

Yes.
 
That's right.
 
Yes.
 
He nodded violently.

Then, before he could react, the mist collected itself and exploded over his body, and he felt an incredible weight shove him forwards, into the pool.

#

The water closed over his head. The push of the mist had been hard enough that he sliced through, gradually decelerating until his palms touched the bottom.
 
He reoriented himself and stared through the murky water.
 
He could just make out the clear right angles of a set of stairs.
 
He quickly decided to follow them.

He descended rapidly, but his lungs were starting to burn.
 
As he progressed, the water grew clearer, brighter, until he finally reached the bottom of the staircase.

There was a door in the floor, a great square with a giant metal ring attached to the center.
 
Quickly, he pulled hard.
 
The door opened easily, as if greased, and he swam in.

His awareness of life at the surface suddenly faded away.
 
He could no longer remember if his cell had been warm or cold, if the floor had been smooth or rough.
 
Somehow, he knew that this was right, that he was going inside of himself, the same as he would have done had he called on his
kevra
.

The door had another ring-pull on this side, dangling on a short chain.
 
His lungs screaming for oxygen, he grabbed it and heaved the door shut.

Within seconds, the water level dropped below his eyes.
 
It continued to drain at a rapid pace, soon uncovering his entire face.
 
He coughed, wheezing as he took deep, sucking breaths.
 

Finally, the only water left was in the dampness on the walls, his clothes, and in the little splashes of puddle at his feet.

In front of him was a tunnel.

Again, he thought he heard a strange sound - a patter, a clank - but then he felt the pulse of the stone in his mouth, driving him deeper, and the sensation of an outside world vanished again.

He followed the tunnel out, until it exited into a small cave.
 
The walls were studded with tiny pinpoints of twinkling light.
 
He pulled one off of the rocks nearest to him, and it crumbled in his hands, the glowing dust flowing through his fingers.
 

Lichen,
he thought.
 
He could feel them, not as a single mass, but as a multitude of individual beings.

There were thousands of them.
 
As he breathed, their night-sky of lights faded and brightened ever so-slightly, an eerie dance that was ineffably beautiful.
 

They shimmered again, the wave passing through the walls, and although he did not speak the language of the lichen, he knew well enough what they meant to say.

Welcome
.
 

Yearning to respond, he opened his mouth, and out flew the Eye of Muninn, as swift and direct as an arrow.
 
It hovered around his head for a moment, glowing with the yellow-green luminescence of a firefly.
 
Then, it dipped once in the air and bobbed up again, as if to signal him.
 
The lichen glowed brighter in response.
 

Follow
, said the stone.

FOLLOW
, responded the lichen.

He reached out, suddenly filled with the desire to touch the glowing artifact.
 
Before his hand could make contact, it dipped and rose again, resting slightly outside of his reach.

FOLLOW.
 

The message seemed more urgent.

He walked after it, leaving behind the cave walls for a pool of black water in the middle.
 
As he neared the edge, the stone dived at him.
 
His arms flew up to block his face, but when the impact didn't come, he slowly lowered them back to his sides.
 

The stone was hovering two inches from his face.
 
It was making a hissing noise.
 

Was it laughing?

He reached out again, but it rapidly zigzagged from side to side, ending it with another dive at his face.
 
Clearly, he was expected to wait.

He turned back and looked the way he had come.
 
The lichen aside, it was, in many ways, as it had always been - a soundless, dark inner place that was so isolated, his entry caused him to disappear from the outside world.
 

The stone blinked once, signaling, and he caught the murky shadow of something upon the water.
  
As it neared him, the light of the lichen gently revealed its elegant contours.

It was a boat, its only occupant a hooded being with sleeves that were so exquisitely long, they obscured the hands completely.
 
With an easy, steady rhythm, the advancing boatman circled the paddle through the water, the ends of the sleeves trailing in and out, in and out.
   

"Hello," said Laufeyson, but the only reply was a flash from the lichen and the stone.

FOURTEEN

E
very time Alsvior looked at De la Roca, her eyes were pointed straight ahead.
 
The feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach was familiar now.
 
Hoping to impede their progress, he had already reached into the depths of his mind and
pushed
them away from the mountain as hard as he could.
 
Still, he could see and
feel
the Oracle's home growing closer with each passing second.
 
As De la Roca pointed out, many times they skipped forward - was her desire to arrive that great, that it could push them so easily through the fabric of space and time?

Perhaps, but he could feel the Oracle's pull.
 
He knew that she was aware of their nearness and eager for them to come and
offer
what they could.
 
It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and for a moment, he had the irrational thought that he would spin around and see her standing behind him.
 
It was only with the greatest of efforts that he was able to choke back the urge.
 
It wouldn't do to have De la Roca see something like that; her deep mistrust of him was obvious.

"Do you smell that?" said De la Roca.

Alsvior wrinkled his nose, but the only scents that came to him were the fresh odors of trees and earth.

"What?" he asked.

"Cinnamon," she answered.
 
"It smells like cinnamon."

#

What is he waiting for?

Alsvior had immediately silenced each of her attempts to speak with a flourish.
 
Bristling at his imperative glare, she sighed and leaned against a tree.
 

I should just shoot him.

Some time before they had penetrated the grove, De la Roca noticed that the surface of the mountain was covered in fog thick enough to obscure its overall form and major features.
 
Incredibly, Alsvior had not mentioned it or reacted to its oddness.
 
In fact, from the time they passed the first clump of massive arboreal giants, he had not spoken a word.
  
Once they reached the base of the mountain, he proceeded to stare directly into the mist.
 
She followed his gaze back and forth a few times, trying to find what caught his interest.
 
The wind had blown with a fierce brutality for the last hour, yet somehow, the mist that enveloped the mountain had not moved.
 
Her jacket, buttoned from neck to knees, fluttered around his body as if draped over stone.
 

"Now," he said.

"What?" she snarled.
 
"Is something going to come out of there?"
 
Her hand stole down to her gun grips and her focus sharpened to a fine blade.

And then she felt the change in the air.
 
The wind grew sluggish, blowing erratically in weaker and weaker bursts.
 
Finally, it died off completely, and even to De la Roca's finely tuned ears, there was only silence.

Alsvior looked at her once, a sly glance that somehow lingered long after his eyes had returned to the mountain.
 
He cupped his hands around his mouth and inhaled audibly.
 
After a pause, he blew out fiercely, and the wind began to pick up - only this time, it traveled in the opposite direction.
 

As the gale grew stronger, the thick field of mist began to shift, giant clumps drifting like titanic icebergs.
 
Cotton-like tufts blew away from the mountain's surface, exposing parts of the rock face.
 
Very quickly, she got the impression that it had been
designed.
 
Its features and angles were too determined, too sharp to have occurred as the result of tectonic activity.
 
It was not until the last cloud blew away, though, that she recognized the mountain for what it was.