The Realms of the Gods (13 page)

Daine sat up, holding the bow at an angle to keep it from tangling in rope or boards, and groped for her quiver. Two arrows met her fingers. Glancing back, she saw that the darking she'd put into her shirt was spread over the quiver's top. It had saved her arrows from the chasm; now it handed them to her. “Thank you,” she whispered, getting to her knees again. She touched the back of her skull: Wetness trickled through her curls. “Hope you don't mind getting bled on.”

Other hurroks, including the one that she had first wounded, spiraled down to the attack. Daine shot and killed the injured hurrok. A sparkling black net enveloped a pair of the immortals and exploded, leaving nothing. Two more hurroks, one nearby, one higher up, dodged frantically, trying to evade the badger's deadly silver fireballs.

Coldly, Daine drew the bowstring back to her ear. Silver fire overtook the hurrok farthest from her. It turned black and charred, dissolving as it fell. The last hurrok, screaming its rage, plunged toward Daine, claws outstretched. The girl shot.

The arrow flew as neatly as if she were in the practice yards of the palace. It slammed into the hurrok's throat, cutting off its scream. The immortal beat its wings to stop, and flew right into sparkling fire. Instantly transformed into a charred skeleton, it broke up, raining into the canyon.

Carefully Daine put down her bow. “I want to go home,” she whispered. “I've had enough excitement for a while.”

A darking head peered over her shoulder.

“
You
have some explaining to do,” she told it. “The one in my pouch was spying on us, wasn't it?”

The darking squeaked and hung its head.

Daine pointed to the darking that clutched the plank. “What about this one? Is it coming with us?”

The darking on her back squeaked at the newcomer. It trembled like jelly, and finally shrilled a reply. Her passenger nodded to Daine.

“Is it a spy, too?”

The small, inky head shook emphatically. The newcomer was no spy.

“Well, it's certainly a deserter from Ozorne's army, at the very least.” Carefully the girl reached forward to peel the newcomer off the board. Quivering, it pooled in her hand. “Why did you come over to my side, hm?”

“Daine,” called the mage, “may we move on?”

“Sorry,” she yelled. “Just a moment.” To the darkings, she said, “You'd better come up with some answers that make sense, and soon.” She dropped the newest of the blots inside her shirt. The darking on her shoulder stuck its head under her collar. Their soft, peeping conversation was drowned out by the creaking of the bridge as Daine carefully got to her feet. Gripping the rope handholds, she caught up to Numair.

“You're hurt,” he said, touching the back of her head, when she reached him. The girl winced. “I'll tend it later, though. Let's get off this thing!”

“I don't know,” she remarked, following. “It seems like a nice little bridge.” He looked back at her, eyebrows raised. “It never dumped us, now, did it? And it could've.”

“Yours is a happy nature,” the mage answered,
wry. “I confess, this is too much like excitement for me.”

“It could be worse,” Daine said, and giggled. “It could be raining.”

Numair shook his head, then returned his attention to crossing the bridge. “I wonder if that hurrok struck your head a little too hard.”

“Nonsense,” the girl retorted. “I couldn't have shot straight if it had.”

When they stepped off the bridge, Numair swept her into a tight hug, and examined her scalp as he held her. Daine rested gratefully against him. He'd sounded calm on the bridge, but his heart pounded; his shirt was sweat-soaked.

“We should clean this,” he remarked over her head. “Didn't Sarra give you ointment for injuries?”

“Mm-hm.” Daine rubbed her nose in the patch of chest hair that peeked through the V of his shirt collar.

He drew back. “Stop it,” he said sharply. “I can't think when you do that.”

“You think too much,” she retorted, but she stopped anyway.

“I smell water,” said Broad Foot. “Fish, and frogs, too.”

“Let's find it,” the badger ordered. “Before something else happens.”

They found their way down into a valley. It was cut in two by a lively stream that flowed out of a deep pool. Broad Foot plunged in. Seconds later, Daine saw him on the bottom, riffling through sand and rocks with his bill.

On Numair's orders, Daine washed out her cuts. The darking that had deserted the hurrok remained inside her shirt, clinging to her waist, enduring without complaint the cold water that dripped onto it. The darking that had protected her arrows helped the man to gather firewood. The third darking remained in Daine's belt purse. She ignored its bumping as she dipped water and
poured it over her aching head. The badger hunted for his supper among the ground-squirrel, snake, and mice gods nearby.

By the time he returned, the fire was burning well, and a pot of tea water was heating. Daine submitted patiently as Numair examined her scalp wounds, made sure they were clean of grit, and rubbed ointment into them. Neither he nor the girl were much surprised when the cuts healed as the ointment was applied.

“She said the herbs she finds here are more powerful,” Daine remarked when Numair patted her shoulder and moved to another seat, one not so close.

The badger settled across the fire from the two mortals. Broad Foot was there already, half tucked under a fallen log.

“Daine, what in the name of all the gods was going on at that bridge?” the badger demanded. “It looked as if you were dancing!”

The girl rubbed an aching temple and sipped her tea. She felt weak and watery, a bit like tea herself. “It's these darkings.” She explained what had taken place, while the darking that had saved her arrows nodded vigorously. Somewhere it had acquired a faint streak of gold through its body, color that filled the tiny head that it fashioned for itself. “Seemingly they were fighting, or disagreeing,” the girl finished. “And then I saw Ozorne.” She bit her lip. “There was another time, when the tauros almost got me. A darking was in the water—was that you?” she asked. The gold-smeared blot nodded. “I saw Ozorne then, too, inside
him.”
She pointed to the darking.

“You never mentioned this,” Numair remarked, eyes glittering dangerously.

She stiffened. “I had other things to worry about! I
thought
maybe I saw Ozorne because the darkings are liquid, kind of, but they aren't, are they?” Her gold-streaked companion shook its head.

“We need answers,” said Broad Foot. “Where is the spy—in your pouch still?”

The leather purse thumped at the girl's belt, the creature inside trying to free itself. “Oh—and I've another one.”

“Another—?” asked Numair, his brows coming together in a frown.

“It dropped off the hurrok that cut my head. I think it deserted to our side.”

Broad Foot waddled over to Daine and cut a circle in the earth with a claw. Before he closed it, he told the gold-touched darking, “Inside, you.” The shadowy thing cowered away from him.

“It won't hurt,” the badger said. “Getting answers in other ways takes too long.”

“But Ma tried that,” protested the girl. “She only got its name.”

“Because that was what she asked for,” Broad Foot replied. “We're doing something else. Stop dawdling!” Flattening itself like an anxious dog, the gold-streaked darking trickled across the ground unwillingly. It hesitated outside the mark in the earth, then flowed into the circle. The duckmole looked up at the girl. “Where's this new darking?”

Daine fished out the deserter. “Go with your friend.” She put it on the ground, and the darking rolled into the circle.

“Now the third,” said Broad Foot.

Quickly the girl upended her belt purse over the circle. Her captive fell out with a plop; Broad Foot closed the circle. The darking from the pouch surged against the line in the ground, and flattened as if it had met a wall of glass.

“Stand back,” ordered the duckmole. Opening his bill, he uttered a strange noise, half croak, half bark. Silver fire bloomed over the darkings, who shrank away
from it. The glittering light stretched; deep within, a picture began to form.

There was Ozorne, streaked with soot, cuts on his face and chest, a clump of braids singed. At his throat he wore a black, glassy stone on a frayed cord. His lips moved as if he talked to himself. The view spread: The former Emperor Mage stood alone in a cave, a pool of water at his feet. Outside the entrance, snow fell in a thick veil.

An image formed in the water. It showed Daine as she read a book. Ozorne reached for her. When his outstretched wing touched the water, she disappeared. Though the image was soundless, they could see him shriek, baring sharp, silver teeth. Veins in his chest, neck, and face stood against his skin. He spun, and came to an abrupt halt, a look of sudden cleverness on his face.

His lips moved. A thick worm of gold-edged scarlet fire appeared before him.

“So he'd mastered Stormwing magic by winter,” murmured Numair. “Possibly even before the barriers between the realms collapsed.”

“This is months ago,” said the badger. “I remember this blizzard. We don't have that many, even here in the colder climates—it was the first full moon after Midwinter, the Wolf Moon.”

Neatly, Ozorne cut his cheek on a razor-edged feather. The fiery worm flew to the cut, battening on it as a leech might. Ozorne spoke again. The tube fell away, turning into a bowl as it moved back. It brimmed with dark blood.

Lurching to the pool, Ozorne drank. When he straightened, his eyes were bright; he grinned. Returning to the magical bowl, he breathed a red-gold mist on its surface. It sank into the depths of the blood and swirled, making wavy patterns. Quickly the Stormwing cut both lips, flicking the blood drops into the bowl.

“For speaking,” guessed Numair, engrossed. “Blood also for life, and to bind the fruits of the working to him. He couldn't have done it as a mortal, but here —”

“Here magical laws are what you make them,” Broad Foot said. “He seems to have learned that better than most who are
born
immortal.”

Numair raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that he learned that at all,” Ozorne's one-time friend replied. “He merely wanted to do the thing, and so he forced it to happen. Subtlety has never been his strong suit.”

Again that delicate flick of a feather edge, this time across each ear. The blood went into the bowl. Closing both eyes, Ozorne raised the same wing feather. Even more carefully, he just nicked the skin of his eyelids, producing two scant drops to add to what he'd already gathered.

Slowly, he raised his wings, pointing at the cave's ceiling. As he did, the liquid surged upward. Ozorne lowered his wings; the bulge remained. Twice more he repeated the motion; each time the liquid in the bowl rose higher. After the third raising, it formed a red-black column nearly eighteen inches tall.

Ozorne was sweating. Now he shouted; the bowl vanished. Its contents dropped, breaking into a myriad of blobs. Each turned black. The Stormwing's face was mirrored in each newborn darking.

The vision dissolved. Only the trio of darkings remained.

“There you have it,” said the duckmole. He broke the circle to release the captives. “Your enemy made them to serve as his voice, eyes, and ears.”

Free, the darkings did not try to escape. Instead they created heads for themselves so that they could nod. Again Daine noticed that one still contained a streak of gold. Somehow, while in the circle, another had picked up a small leaf. This it wore on its head,
like an absurd hat. She was nearly positive that the third—the plain, shivering one—was the darking that had dropped from the hurrok.

“So you
are
Ozorne's spies,” she said.

The answer was a head shake, first on the gold one's part, then on that of the one that bore a leaf. The third blot shrank lower to the ground, trembling.

“You showed Ozorne that we were at the bridge,” Numair reminded them.

Gold-streak pointed an accusatory tentacle at Leaf. “You'll do it again when he summons you,” growled the badger.

The answer was emphatic head shakes from the gold-tinged and leaf-wearing blots. The third shrank against the other two.

“But he
created
you,” Numair said.

Gold-streak began to tremble.

“Don't be afraid,” Daine said. “You needn't—”

“I don't think it's fear,” interrupted Numair.

“It's trying something new,” added the duckmole. “Wait.”

The streaked darking's companions leaned against it to somehow give it strength. An image formed in Gold-streak's depths, growing to cover its surface. There was the Stormwing Ozorne: He glared at a darking on the ground before him.

“Obey,”
hissed Ozorne. Its victim began to shrill; the darkings with Daine and her friends shrilled, too, tiny voices rising and falling. When the image vanished, they stopped.

“He hurts you,” Daine said. “Is that why?”

Gold-streak showed a fresh image: a red-clad female giant—a blot's-eye view of Daine—as she tugged an arrow shaft away from the onlooker's vision. That picture blurred, to form a fresh image.

“Your leg, isn't it?” asked Numair, grinning. “From the foot up?”

A large hand came into view, cheese in its fingers. It dropped the scrap and pulled away.

“You fed it.” The badger sighed. “Sometimes I think you'll feed
anything.”

“You were trying to warn me, in the pond?” asked Daine. The visions disappeared. The tinted darking nodded. “And on the bridge? Your friend here—Leaf, and you're Gold-streak, and this little fellow—” She scratched her head, looking at the trembling creature— “you'll be Jelly.”