CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

“You memorised the map?”

“It wasn’t all that complicated,” Alaric admitted, starting to shrug and thinking better of it. “The map didn’t have much detail, and I have been staring at it for the past month or more.”

“You can redraw it, then?”

“I can, although I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” At Dietz’s puzzled look Alaric explained. “If I draw a new copy it just means someone else could steal it.”

“If you draw it, I can see it,” Dietz replied with a tone that suggested he was being daft. It was a tone he heard all too often.

This time, however, it seemed justified. It hadn’t occurred to him that Dietz would want to see the map as well, and it did make more sense for both of them to have some idea where they were going.

“I’ll redraw it when we stop to rest,” he assured his lanky friend. No one seemed to be pursuing them, but he knew they’d still both feel better with more distance between them and Zenres.

By that night the city was further behind them, although the distance they had covered was pitiful compared to what they could travel on horseback, or even walking when in good health. It would have to do, however. Alaric felt as if his legs were going to turn to dust beneath him, and he was drenched in sweat despite the fact that his mouth felt as dry as a desert under a hot sun.

They chose a campsite less by scouting than by simply collapsing at the first available spot. It wasn’t as if they had much to set up camp with anyway. True, Dietz had flint and tinder in his pouch, and after a few minutes to catch his breath he assembled a small fire for some much-desired warmth, but they had no blankets, no bedrolls, no cook-ware, and nothing to cook on it if they had. It was going to be a long, cold night, followed by several more just like it.

After eating the piece of cheese and the loaf of bread—there was no point rationing it when it would already be barely enough to keep them going tomorrow—Alaric pulled a quill, a small vial of ink, and a blank scrap of parchment from his belt pouch. Apparently the guards had not been impressed with Alaric’s gear because they had shoved it all back into the pouch and left it there.

Meanwhile Dietz was thinking again about their recent escape, and about how easy it had been.

“Too easy,” he said aloud as Alaric drew.

“What’s that?”

“Our escape was too easy,” Dietz repeated. “Why?”

“Just luck, working in our favour for once,” Alaric suggested, still focused on the map he was making from memory.

“That was more than luck,” Dietz countered. “Somebody drugged the guards and then set fire to the jailhouse to cover our escape. Why? Who would want to help us?”

“Perhaps that guard captain took pity on us. He seemed a decent sort,” Alaric suggested.

“Not that decent,” Dietz argued, “and it wouldn’t be worth the risk for him.” He shuddered as he remembered the tall man behind the throne, Strykssen, and his obvious enthusiasm when Levrellian had mentioned the torture. He could only imagine what they did to traitors. “Why would it be worth the risk for anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Alaric admitted. He set down his quill and looked up. “What matters is that someone did decide to take the risk, and thanks to them we’re free again. It could have been far worse.”

Dietz couldn’t argue with that, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it than mere generosity. Someone had helped them escape for a reason. The question was why?

“There!” Alaric scratched one final mark with his quill, and then carefully wiped the tip clean and returned it to his belt pouch, along with the stoppered vial. Dietz stepped over to inspect the piece of parchment over the younger man’s shoulder.

Alaric had indeed redrawn the map. A few of the marks were missing, perhaps, and some of the lines seemed… different, somehow.

“Are you sure those are right?” Dietz asked, gesturing towards a handful of long, wavy lines that intersected one another at various points. “I don’t remember those from the original.”

Alaric frowned. “I’m sure they were there,” he insisted. “I can still picture it clearly.”

Dietz shrugged. He would have said the lines were something new, but Alaric did have an impressive memory for maps and history, and he was the one who had been staring at the thing all those nights. Perhaps those marks had simply been too faint to notice on casual inspection and Alaric had drawn them in darker because he had found them on the original and so remembered them clearly.

“What are they?” he asked after a minute.

“Roads, I think,” Alaric replied, “trails of some sort.” He brightened. “They may be paths that lead to the tomb!”

“We still have no idea where it is,” Dietz couldn’t help but point out as they both studied the parchment together.

“I know,” Alaric said, “but at least we have this as a guide again.” He rolled the parchment up carefully and stuck it inside his jacket for safekeeping. “If nothing else, we hold to our original plan—head towards the Blood River and hope something along the way strikes a chord.”

“Find the nearest town and buy fresh supplies,” Dietz suggested, stretching out on a patch of ground with more grass and fewer twigs and rocks. He considered taking off his jacket and bundling it behind his head, but the fire he’d built was small and the nights were chilly. He was better off wearing the garment than sleeping on it.

“Definitely,” Alaric agreed, also bedding down as best he could. “Horses, blankets, bedrolls, and we’ll be as good as before.”

“You still have money?” Dietz asked. He was surprised that the guards had left that as well.

“Not as such, no,” Alaric admitted. “They took my coin, but I do still have this.” He held up something small and round that gleamed in the firelight, and after a second Dietz recognised it. It was the ring Alaric had taken from that fallen wolf rider. “It was buried in my pouch, beneath the ink.”

“Good thing,” Dietz said, settling down and closing his eyes. Glouste took the opportunity to move around to the front, curling up across his chest and neck like a massive red-brown beard. “Don’t think we’d get much for that sack, or our boots.”

“Oh, I have great faith in your bargaining ability, my friend,” Alaric replied sleepily. “You could get us two horses for one old sock if you had to.”

Dietz spared himself the need to reply by falling asleep.

 

It was four more days before they reached any sort of settlement, and that was only a sturdy farmstead nestling among its fields. Many of their bruises had faded to a dull purple, and walking only brought aches rather than sharp pains. Breathing was still a chore and both men had to be careful not to draw breath too quickly or too deeply, but they were getting better. Dietz had rigged snares with bootlaces and twigs and caught them a brace of hares the second night, which had gone a long way to making them both feel considerably better. Even so it was morning when they spotted the farmstead and almost dusk before they reached it.

Alaric told the suspicious farmers they had been waylaid and robbed. Their bruises and lack of any belongings supported the story, and the farmer let them stay the night in his barn. He gave them directions and a few crusts to eat, and a loaf of bread and rind of cheese in a sack the next morning. Alaric and Dietz left quickly, determined not to outstay their tentative welcome.

Three days later they reached what the farmer had assured them was the Howling River. Their bruises had faded considerably, and if people did not look too closely the discoloration would not be noticed. They were also moving more smoothly, the pains in the limbs fading to aches and the aches to memories. The food from the farm was gone but it had done its work well and Alaric felt almost fully recovered.

Of course, none of that helped with the problem of finding the tomb.

“It’s no use!” Alaric shouted one night, tossing the parchment from him. It fluttered, caught by a light breeze, and wafted towards their fire—only Dietz’s quick dive saved it from incineration. “I’ve no idea where we’re going!” Alaric continued petulantly, although he was relieved his little tantrum had not cost them this second map.

“Blood River,” Dietz replied, handing the parchment back to him.

“Yes, yes,” Alaric said testily, “but what then?” He held the map up so Dietz could see it as well. “The river is here,” he said, jabbing at the map with one finger, “and the tomb is here,” another jab. “But what does that mean? We have no sense of scale here. The blasted thing could be right beside the water or halfway across the Dark Lands!”

“We’ll find it,” Dietz assured him calmly. “Something will turn up.”

When they reached the Howling River, however, they had another problem.

“I don’t know where we are,” Alaric admitted glumly. “This has to be the Howling River—it’s too big to be a stream, too small to be the Blood River, and the few scraps I’ve read about this region mention that high-pitched hiss you’re hearing, the one that gives the river its name.”

Dietz nodded. “So you do know where we are.”

“I know we’re by the river,” Alaric corrected. “It’s not a short span, though—this river runs from just above the Blood River all the way up into the World’s Edge Mountains—or down, I should say, since that’s upstream from here.” He squinted towards the east, where the mountain peaks were clearly visible on the horizon. “I’ve no idea where we are along that length.”

Alaric pulled out his journal—it had still been in his jacket when he had reclaimed it from the guard—and flipped it to a page that held a rough map. “You see, this is the area.” He showed Dietz a line that ran almost straight down the page until it intersected another and stopped. “That is the River Starnak,” he explained. “This one,” he said, pointing to another line that intersected the first two-thirds of the way down on the right side, “is the Skull River. That’s what we followed. Here, where they meet, is Tengey, and over here,” he pointed to a spot farther up along the Skull River’s south side, “is Zenres. This,” he indicated a line that branched out as it rose to the right, “is the Howling River. We could be anywhere along here.”

Dietz studied the map for a moment and shook his head. “No sign of the Starnak,” he pointed out, indicating the land to their west. “So we’re not that close to it. We haven’t crossed any water, so we’re still above the top branch.” He glanced towards the mountains. “Not that close, either. We’re somewhere in here.” He indicated the middle of the Howling River’s northernmost branch.

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Alaric agreed, staring at the lines. Once again he marvelled at how his friend could make sense of things so quickly. “We must have walked south from Zenres, which puts us about here.” He looked up and grinned. “Well then, now I know where we are.” Dietz chuckled, as Alaric had hoped he would. This trip had hardly been a laughing matter thus far.

“So we follow it west?” Dietz asked as they stood and gathered their gear again—they’d paused to eat lunch while they discussed their options.

“Yes, west,” Alaric said. “If we follow the Howling River it will take us to the Starnak, which flows right to Blood River.” He frowned, “Of course, at some point we will need to go east, since we know the tomb is east of Blood River. The question is when to start turning.”

Dietz had already started walking west but he stopped and came back, stifling a groan. “So we go east?”

“Perhaps we should,” Alaric said absently, taking the map out again. He glanced down at it, and Dietz took a step closer, staring at it upside-down. After a minute he reached out and took the map from Alaric, who protested until Dietz turned it around and handed it back to him.

“They’re not roads,” the older man said, indicating the thin lines between the river and the tomb. “They’re rivers.”

“What?” Alaric stared down at them, and then stared again. “Oh. Oh!” He pulled out his journal again and hurriedly flipped back to the region map he’d sketched there. Then he compared the two. “You’re right!” he all but shouted. “They’re rivers! How did you know?”

Dietz shrugged. “Saw it differently this way,” was all he answered.

But Alaric could see why. The lines weren’t complete, which was why he hadn’t realised their nature before. They looked like paths, or hills, or even just arrows pointing towards something, but upside down it was clearer that they converged into a single line. Once he turned it right side-up again, he could see that they were really four small rivers merging into a single larger one: the Howling River.

“We’re here!” he shouted happily, stabbing his finger at a spot on the parchment. “That’s the Blood River, that’s where the Howling River branches, and this is where we are! And this,” he traced the line with his finger, following it up until it branched again and then following the lower branch, “will lead us almost directly to the tomb!”

“So we go east,” Dietz confirmed. He sounded more relieved to have a chosen direction than to know the location of the tomb, but Alaric knew his friend was also pleased he’d been able to figure out the map. Dietz just didn’t like to show it.

Of course, it probably didn’t help Dietz’s mood that the tomb almost had to be in the World’s Edge Mountains. If the map was right it was past the river, which ended at the mountain’s feet, and Dietz didn’t much care for heights.

“Oh, cheer up,” Alaric told him as they walked. “At least it’s better than crawling through dank caves or musty tunnels.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dietz said. “You can’t fall to your death in a tunnel.”

 

It took them three more days to reach the place where the Howling River branched again. A small fishing village sat there, and they traded the ring Alaric carried for more food, two backpacks, a second coil of rope, a small pot, a pair of short, hook-backed hammers and a sturdy lantern. The ring was worth considerably more than that but it was a matter of what the fishermen had to trade. They could have traded for a boat or a donkey but they needed to head upstream and, without knowing how they would get up the mountain, the donkey might not have been able to follow them.

The sale of the ring also got them a ride across the river, this time in a fast, narrow boat owned by a man who claimed he made a living diving in the river for pearls, shellfish and sunken treasure. The boat swayed dangerously and leaked more than a little but it carried them swiftly across the currents. An hour later they were clambering out of it and onto the river’s south bank. The boatman backed his boat away without a word and spun it around, letting the current carry it away quickly. Dietz watched the man go, shuddering, and then turned deliberately away, shouldered his new pack, and started walking. Alaric was right beside him. The mountains were close, their peaks looming high above, and Dietz felt slightly dizzy tilting his head back to study them.

“Are you sure we need to go up?” he asked for the third time. “Tombs are usually down.”

“The tomb itself will be underground,” Alaric agreed cheerfully, “but the entrance is up there.” He grinned, clearly enjoying Dietz’s discomfort. “Come on.”

“Fine,” Dietz grumbled, clambering up onto the rocks behind Alaric, “but if I fall you get to haul your own treasure back.”

The first day wasn’t so bad, actually. They were in the foothills still, and though rugged they were no worse than the hills back home. Dietz kept from looking back, knowing if he saw the land and the river far below he’d regret it, and focused on the path ahead, picking his way among loose stone, clumps of dirt and scraggly bushes.

That night, as they rested, Alaric pulled out the map again. Dietz was cooking one of the fish they’d traded for and after pulling it from the fire he glanced over to see Alaric drawing something onto the parchment. The younger man seemed almost asleep, his eyes half-closed and not even looking at his hands.

“What are you doing?” Dietz demanded, and Alaric glanced up, startled.

“What?”

“You’re ruining the map!” Dietz accused stepping over to see what his friend and employer had done.

“No I’m not,” Alaric protested. Then he noticed the quill, and started. “I… I was dreaming,” he said quietly. “I saw the river, and the mountains, and the path, all just like they are on the map.”

“What path?” Dietz didn’t remember anything like that.

Alaric frowned. “This one,” he answered, pointing to a line Dietz hadn’t noticed before. It started just below where the Howling River branched, apparently in the same foothills they occupied. It wound its way through the foothills and up into the mountains proper, and stopped just shy of the tomb itself.

“That wasn’t there before,” Dietz said. He was sure of it.

“Really?” Alaric studied the map again. “It must have been,” he replied finally. “I was just dreaming about it, wasn’t I? And this is exactly how it looked in my dreams.” His frown deepened. “Although I don’t remember seeing it here last night,” he admitted.

Dietz felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. That line hadn’t been there before and now it was. Had Alaric just drawn it? Was it real, or just something he had dreamed up?

Still, if it helped them find the tomb…

“Perhaps it was on the original map,” Alaric suggested, “and I forgot it until now. Yes, that must be it,” he decided. “It must have been faint on the other map and that’s why I didn’t redraw it right away, but I knew it was there, and finally I remembered it well enough in my dreams to draw it again.”

“Maybe,” he said. It did sound plausible, but Dietz wasn’t convinced.

“Well, there’s only one way to be sure,” Alaric told him. “Tomorrow we’ll look for this path. If it does exist, it must have been there.”

Dietz wasn’t sure that made sense, but he was too tired to argue and it rarely did any good anyway. So he gave up and went to sleep.

 

Sure enough the next morning they headed slightly south, deliberately distancing themselves from the river to approximate the path’s position on the map. And after a few hours Dietz literally stumbled onto a narrow trail that stretched up into the hills.

“That’s it!” Alaric exclaimed when he caught up to Dietz a moment later. “You found the path!” Dietz couldn’t argue. It was clearly a path, narrow and worn away and only visible if you were looking, but definitely someone or something had once worn a channel through these hills, and it was too close to the position on the map for it to be a coincidence.

They followed the path into the hills and Dietz had to admit it was much easier than climbing. The path did turn steep at times, and often it wound up and around like a corkscrew, but it never got so steep that they needed the climbing hammers they’d bartered in the village. They could have brought a donkey through here, in fact, and Dietz regretted not getting one, but of course he hadn’t known that at the time.

After two days they had left the hills behind and were in the mountains proper. The World’s Edge Mountains were hard granite and everything around them was cold grey and black stone, most of it sharp-edged enough to cut flesh. The path was actually easier to follow here. In the hills it had been worn away and obscured by rocks and dirt, but here it was a clear channel cut through the rock. Dietz even found he didn’t mind the altitude that much, since the path stayed well below the peaks, leaving sturdy cliffs on either side to block the vision of just how high up they really were. The air was crisp and clean, sharp enough to burn slightly on a deep breath, and sound travelled easily through each valley, but was quickly dampened beyond, while the clear sky, strong sun and thin cool air combined to let the eyes see for miles.

It was exhilarating and Dietz wondered why he’d ever griped about climbing mountains. Alaric clearly felt the same way and each day he grew even more confident about their route, moving quickly among the rocks, climbing onto small ledges and cliffs to survey the valleys ahead and chart their course. He was adding detail to the map as they went, changing it from a vague indicator to a clearly defined route, and each day brought them closer to the spot marked as the tomb’s location. Dietz marvelled more than once at how his friend had acquired an uncanny sense of direction, for he seemed to know instinctively which direction the map would lead them in next.

 

For three days, as they climbed through the mountains, they did not see another living soul beyond a few birds of prey overhead and the occasional mouse or lizard. They had run out of fresh fish and meat and were down to the salted goods, supplemented by mushrooms they dug from cracks in the surrounding rocks.

Then one morning they came across a shallow valley. Its narrow floor was strewn with debris, small rocks and jagged stone and dirt. Alaric led the way without concern and Dietz followed but caught his foot against something and stumbled. Looking down he saw a glint that could only be metal.

Curious, Dietz knelt to examine it more closely. It was rusted, whatever it was, and had the jagged edge that indicated a break. Only a sliver of it was visible but it looked no wider than his finger and roughly as long.

“What is it?” Alaric asked, turning back towards him.

“I don’t know,” Dietz replied, studying the small piece again. Then he froze for an instant before slowly, carefully rising to his feet and backing away.

“What’s wrong?” Alaric asked, but Dietz motioned him to be quiet. Glouste sensed her master’s unease and craned her neck from her usual perch, her nose quivering with curiosity but her tail vibrating slightly from anxiety.

“It’s moving,” he answered when he was beside his friend, one hand on his club. More of the metal had been exposed when he’d looked a second time, as if it were shifting forwards, out of the ground.

“That’s—” Whatever Alaric had meant to say was lost as they both froze, listening. There it was again: a scratching noise, like Grouse’s claws on rock but louder, deeper, and repeated, again and again.

As they watched, unable to move, the ground shifted in front of them. It continued to move in several patches, the dirt and rock shoved aside as objects began to rise from the earth. Dietz saw that the metal he’d first noticed was a sword, a broken, rusty sword, as its shattered blade pierced the earth and then rose into the air.

Nor was it alone, because clutching it, raising it, was a skeletal hand, still caked with dirt, ragged bits of what might be flesh still clinging to the yellowed bone.

A second hand appeared beside it, empty, its finger-bones digging into the ground just beyond. Then a dull yellow globe rose between the two. After a second he saw two dark gaps beneath the upper dome. The smoky red light deep within those sockets confirmed what he had already realised and somewhere deep inside he wanted to curl up and hide.

The objects rising from the ground were not objects but people. Or at least they had been.

Now they were the undead, and according to legends all undead hated the living.

Dietz had a feeling he was about to find out if that was true.