“What?” Mirnían snapped out of his stupor. “What do you mean, routed? Impossible!”
“As impossible as wolf-men prowling the woods, my prince?” She turned on Mirnían, snarling. “As impossible as a prince of Vasyllia calling on a creature of the Raven in the anger of his heart?”
Mirnían flushed.
“I don’t understand,” said Voran. “Mirnían called that thing? How? Why?”
Mirnían moaned, answering as if against his will. “I wished your death, Voran. You drove me to such a passion that I lost all self-control. I wanted to kill you with my own hands.”
“Why, Mirnían?”
“You really are that thick-headed, aren’t you?”
The wolf growled. “Envy, Voran. That creature smelled his envy like a wolf smells blood.”
“Wolf!” Dubían visibly trembled. “How do you know that the Vasylli were defeated?”
“Do you doubt the word of Leshaya?” She bared bloody fangs at Dubían.
“No, Leshaya,” said Voran, placating. “But tell us nonetheless.”
“Come, I will show you. I watched the battle.”
“You did nothing to intervene?” asked Mirnían.
“I have little love for Vasyllia,” she said and loped out of the cave.
She took them deeper into the woods, to a craggy hill overlooking the tree line. Voran climbed it before the rest. All around he saw nothing but forest, except in one direction. To the west stood a high plateau, a mile away at most. Even from this vantage point, he saw a horrific mound of piled bodies, their mail glinting in the morning sun. The ravens looked like flies swarming a dung-heap. Voran felt sick.
“What happened?” Mirnían stood next to Voran. His face was chalk-white.
“They never had a chance,” said Leshaya. “This is a new kind of enemy, like nothing ever seen in these woods. They have no fear. They sidle up to death as if it were a life-long companion. Pain affects them little. But the Vasylli destroyed themselves. They were too arrogant. It was almost laughable. The initial skirmish was bloody, and the invaders took to their heels and ran away. Thinking this was a rout, the Vasylli ran after them with no semblance of order, giving up the high ground. As soon as they entered the deepwood, the marauders turned around and counterattacked. Reinforcements were waiting in the trees. In seconds, they surrounded the Vasylli. It was a calculated move. A trap. They left none alive.”
The reality seeped into Voran slowly, like waking to realize a nightmare was real. That was at least three, four thousand lives snuffed out. How many of them were his friends, his cohort elders? He stood staring at the mound of death, trying to make sense of the disaster. If the pilgrims were also dead, the three of them could be the last Vasylli in the forest.
Voran felt a song rise up from the depths of the earth through him and up to the Heights, a dirge from the time of Lassar of Blessed Memory. He sang.
Peace eternal to your servants,
in your bosom, Adonais,
grant this.
Sobs spluttered through the song. When Voran could sing no longer, Mirnían repeated the dirge with his resonant baritone. Dubían wept aloud, his tears streaming down his beard and hissing as they fell on the cold earth. The wind picked up as they sang, harmonizing. Rain dropped on them, slowly and heavily, then clumped into feathery bunches of snow. The trees swayed back and forth, in time with the flow of the dirge. Then all fell silent.
Voran fell on his knees and bowed his head as his tears continued for his fallen brothers, for all the orphaned children, for Vasyllia’s dark time.
Do not joke with giants. Their humor can get you killed.
Old Karila proverb
Chapter 12
The Waystone
They followed Leshaya for a week, heading east. The distant shimmer of the last Vasyllian ridge remained on their right for the first few days, then they turned away, and the mountains faded into mist. By the end of the week, the peaks were no longer in sight. This was completely unfamiliar territory for Voran.
They no longer pitched tents, sleeping instead under the stars, wrapped in wools that kept every part of their bodies warm, except their faces. At least once a night, Voran woke from the numb burning of his frozen nose.
Dubían had insisted that he return to warn Vasyllia. Voran could not stop the big man, but he thought him foolish. Mirnían agreed.
“No, there is no wisdom in returning now,” Mirnían had said. “There is as much likelihood of you being captured as arriving in Vasyllia in time. And the scouts will have seen the enemy already.”
But Dubían would not be deterred. Seeing the back of him brought Voran more grief than he expected. He feared he would never see him again.
On the eighth day after encountering the changer, the mountains lessened into rolling hills. Voran’s ears began to pop as they descended. That day, they stopped early, before the sunset. They laid out their food and furs at the shores of a glass-clear lake.
“You might think that the lake is shallow,” said Leshaya, “but it is not. Do not be fooled. That is one of the deepest lakes in this part of the world.”
“That should be the slogan of our journey,” grumbled Mirnían. “Nothing is as it seems. Never in my life did I think I would follow a speaking wolf on a journey to a doorway that exists, but only sometimes.”
“What choice do we have?” asked Voran. “It seems obvious that the pilgrims entered the Lows of Aer. We have no other trail to follow.” And perhaps he would find Lyna. The need to see her pierced even the veil of sleep. He only dreamed of her now.
“You would be wise to practice a little humility, prince of Vasyllia,” said Leshaya. “You Vasylli are not equipped to battle the enemy now approaching your city. Try to learn something. It might prove useful.”
Mirnían ignored her.
In the morning, the lake was frosted over with thin tendrils of mist.
