Many Paths Read online

  He sought to focus on the khi of the kobalen still standing. Searching the pool and beyond, he sensed only the three remaining. He had a chance of success, but only if they continued to engage him. If they decided to wait him out, or send for help, he and Velashi were lost.

  To encourage their impulse to attack, he showed himself briefly, taking care to make a sound as well. Two darts came in response, both crushing their points against the rock wall.

  A problem, the darts. With the force of the kobalen’s throwing sticks behind them, they were deadly at much longer ranges than this.

  He picked up a spear and poked it out from his hiding place, waving it across the entrance. Two more darts came in response.

  He thought for a moment, then concentrated on locating the kobalen. By their khi, two stood a pace or two out in the pool. The third stood on the step stone, but to one side of the cave entrance.

  Ghaláran waved the spear again, then dropped it. When more darts hit the wall he stepped out and made a lunge toward the kobalen on the step. His knife bit, but not deeply. The kobalen gave an outraged howl.

  Another dart flew, missing him narrowly. He began to withdraw, but the kobalen he had struck followed, trying to close with him. Ghaláran stepped backward and slipped in blood.

  He fell to one knee, the shock jarring through his frame. The kobalen came on, a glint in its hand betraying a dagger of the same black glass that tipped the spears and darts. Fear sliced through Ghaláran and he scrambled backward away from that sharp blade.

  The kobalen stabbed at random, its eyes darting rapidly, trying to spot him. Ghaláran got his feet under him and crouched, waiting. The kobalen swept its dagger in an arc that passed over his head. He rose, stabbing upward with both knives as he came, up beneath the kobalen’s ribs into its heart.

  The creature made a choking sound, then went limp, its weight heavy on Ghaláran’s hands. He pushed it backward, off his blades into the pool.

  The two remaining kobalen cried out in dismay. One flung a dart at him, not very strongly. Ghaláran smacked it aside with his knife, and stepped toward the pool. The kobalen turned and fled.

  They must not escape, or they would bring others. He followed, splashing past kobalen bodies floating in the pool.

  He caught up with the hindmost as it was scrambling out of the pool. A slash across its ankles dropped it, and he quickly dispatched it. He looked up to see the last kobalen fling a dart toward him.

  He dodged, but not quickly enough. The dart struck his shoulder just beside his neck, a glancing strike but enough to stick in his flesh. He felt no immediate pain, and surged out of the pond after the kobalen, which had already begun scrambling down the bluff.

  A wave of weakness overcame him. He knelt atop the bluff, watching the kobalen flee, suddenly unable to pursue.

  He pulled the dart free, wincing as he did so. Blood slid after, cleansing the wound, which was well for the pool was now fouled with the dead kobalen.

  He had lost. Lost that one kobalen, who would now bring others back. He followed its khi down the mountainside. It was traveling straight down, whereas he and Velashi had come across this vale. Below was another large camp of kobalen.

  Ghaláran closed his eyes. He was so weary. Perhaps he had reached his end.

  He felt no regret at the prospect, but there was Velashi to consider. She might not be ready to leave this life as yet.

  Her boots lay nearby. Ghaláran collected them, and the clothing which now stank of kobalen, and rolled all together in a bundle which he tucked under one arm.

  His shoulder was hurting now, but he dared not wash it in the pool befouled with dead kobalen. He gazed with regret at the mess of soap and shattered pottery that oozed across a rock, then turned and crossed back to the cave. He should drag the kobalen out of the pool, should burn them, but he had neither the strength nor the leisure at present.

  He reached the cave and stepped in. “Velashi!”

  No answer. He frowned. They should hasten to leave this place, or the returning kobalen would trap them here.

  “Velashi!”

  The passage led to a larger chamber where he had camped on previous visits. He followed it, pausing to collect his unfinished knife and the kobalen club from where he had dropped them near the entrance. The spears and broken darts he left behind.

  Upon entering the chamber he saw that Velashi’s feet had disturbed the scattered sand on the cave floor, but she was not there. The cave narrowed again at its far side, continuing into the mountain. He had explored it in the past, though he had never reached its end. There were other chambers, some small, some vast, with other passages branching from them. Perhaps Velashi had fled as far as she could go.

  He called her name again. Receiving no answer, he grimaced. By now the kobalen might already be returning. Their chance at escaping was lost. He must find Velashi, and hope somehow to win them free.

  Silence closed about him as he walked, and the weight of the mountain seemed to press in on him. Far away, deep below, he sensed its pulsing core, a fiery heart of molten stone.

  Making his way through the cave’s passages, he now had leisure to notice his hurts, the new as well as the old. The dart wound on his shoulder throbbed steadily though it no longer bled. The knee he had fallen upon was bruised and aching. A distant ache in his ankle as well. Little cuts that smarted, all over his torso, from shattered glass, no doubt. His head wound did not trouble him, strangely enough.

  He passed through two more small chambers and then reached a larger one, with three other passages branching from it. He walked to its center and stood listening.

  “Velashi?”

  Less sand here, and he could not tell which way she had passed. He closed his eyes and felt outward, searching for her khi. A trace of it lingered in the chamber, drifting. He sought for more, sought to follow it, and at last caught a whisper of it from one of the passages.

  He looked at the yawning entrance, unable to remember whether he had explored in this direction. Stepping to it, he felt again for khi. Yes, Velashi had gone this way. He followed.

  The passage wandered, sloping downward. He remembered now; he had explored it, but only as far as a chamber through which ran an underground river. The current was cold and swift, and he had feared to be trapped beyond it if he crossed and the water rose.

  He could smell the water now, and it woke his thirst. A brief rest, to drink and cleanse his wounds, would be welcome. He hastened forward.

  Before long he heard the river’s whisper, and at length came to the chamber where it ran. Velashi’s satchel and his bundle of clean clothes lay against the near wall.

  “Velashi?”

  She was not in sight, nor did she answer. He set down his own burdens and knelt beside the river, scooping up water to drink. It chilled his stomach.

  He could not bring himself to enter the frigid stream, so he splashed it onto his wounds, hissing at the cold and the sting. The shoulder wound ached, and he could not see it well. He thought it was bleeding again.

  “Oh!”

  He looked up to see Velashi standing on the far side of the river. She was dressed again in a different tunic and legs, the latter dark to the knees with being wet.

  “That looks bad.” Her brow furrowed with concern and she waded across to him, bending to look at the dart wound. “I should stitch it for you.”

  He glanced at the blood now running down his chest again, and put a hand to the flap of loose flesh. “If you think it needful.”

  “It will heal the better.” She picked up her satchel, then stood gazing at him. “How many were there?”

  He sighed. “Six. The last got away, and will bring others. I have failed you, I fear.”

  “Nonsense. You stood and fought. I could not have done so well.”

  “But we are trapped now.”

  He gazed at the river. They had clean water at least, but they had no food beyond what Velashi had brought with her. If the kobalen waited them out, or
worse, hunted them within the cave. . . .

  Tears that he had so far kept at bay now escaped. He wiped angrily at them.

  Velashi knelt beside him and put a comforting hand on his good shoulder. She kissed his cheek.

  “You have done well. Come, let me show you something.”

  She stood again and held out a hand. He accepted her help to rise, his knee complaining, already stiff. She stepped into the river and pulled him after.

  The water was only knee deep, but bitter cold. The swift current pulled at him, and the rock beneath was slick. They crossed slowly, carefully. Ghaláran slipped and nearly fell as he was stepping out onto the far bank, but Velashi’s strong grip steadied him.

  She drew him toward an opening in the cave wall, another passage. They entered it, and the chill of the river faded as quickly as its sound. Warm air closed around them. Velashi kept hold of his hand, and he found this a comfort, though there was not room to walk side by side.

  The passage sloped slightly upward, and curved to the right. Back into the heart of the mountain, if his sense of their direction was true. This was Midrange Peak, the highest mountain in this part of the Ebons, the Father of Mountains.

  The air was quite close, now, and began to smell of sulfur. The rock beneath his feet grew warm. Velashi paused, glanced at him over her shoulder, then stepped aside.

  A chamber, perhaps twice the size of the outermost cave, and higher, almost a perfect sphere. An ancient bubble from the mountain’s birth. A few boulders had calved from the walls over time and slid into the center of the chamber, where they lay tumbled on the floor. There was little to see, but seeing was not the important sense here.

  The chamber was warm. The rock underfoot carried heat. Ghaláran stood still, seeking its source. He closed his eyes and noticed the khi—fire khi, but slow, not raging wild—that filled the chamber. Exploring further, he sensed the power beneath him. Somewhere not very far below them was a river of fire.

  A flash of fear lit through him at the thought that it might surge upward, burst into the chamber on its way to escaping the mountain. The fear was gone as swiftly as it came, banished by more reasoned thought, but leaving his flesh sheened.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  Ghaláran shook his head. “It is not . . . restful.”

  “No, but it is warm. Come, sit down and let me tend that.”

  She led him to a space at the side of the chamber that was smooth and nearly flat. He was glad to sit on the warm rock, and stretched his legs out along it. Velashi took out her shears and a small pouch from her satchel. He watched her thread a needle, then hold needle and thread in her hands and close her eyes in meditation.

  “Blessing them?”

  “Cleansing them.”

  It came to much the same thing. Using khi to make sure they would carry no flaw into the wound, cause no infection.

  “I did not know you were a healer.”

  “I only know a few things, the sort one learns from one’s eldermother.”

  “Did you learn magecraft from her as well?”

  Velashi opened her eyes to look at him. “Magecraft?”

  He shrugged. “You weave handfasting ribbons. Are they not blessed with magecraft?”

  “If the weaver knows it. They can also be blessed after weaving.”

  He sensed she did not care to speak of this, so he asked no more questions. Instead he lay back and gazed at the cave ceiling arcing above. The warmth of the rock floor began to seep into his back.

  Velashi finished her meditation and gazed down at him. “I did learn a little magecraft from my eldermother. Enough to bless a ribbon.”

  “Or a weapon?”

  He was thinking of his own work with khi. He had once seen a longknife made in Glenhallow that practically shone with the khi that had been put into it. Magecraft, its owner had told him. Blessings laid into the knife, to enhance its strength and sharpness, to increase its effectiveness and protect its user from harm. He had since tried to incorporate such blessings into his own work, and had achieved some success.

  “I have not blessed a weapon, but the technique must be the same. Try to hold still, now.”

  Ghaláran drew a breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. He put aside a fleeting wish for wine. Velashi’s fingers gently touched his wounded shoulder, lighting a soft glow of khi there, then he felt the needle’s first sting.

  To distract himself, he sent his thoughts back the way they had come, finding the few drips of his blood that had fallen in the passage and shifting their khi. There was less to blend it with, here underground, but he managed.

  Reaching across the underground river to find his trail beyond it was more difficult. Necessary, though. He did not want kobalen tracking him to this place. He had cleansed his trail back to the largest chamber by the time he felt a tug at his skin.

  “There.” He heard the snip of her shears. “That should do. Forgive me for hurting you.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “It was nothing. Thank you.”

  She smiled. “Rest here. I will bring you some water.”

  He found himself entirely willing to comply, entirely unwilling to try sitting up just at this moment. He closed his eyes again.

  Milari, do you see me? Are you watching?

  He asked no aid. Spirits rarely gave guidance to those in flesh. They did watch over their loved ones, it was thought, but from a distance.

  He drifted in the warmth of the chamber, feeling as if he were floating, hovering. The pulse of fire lay close beneath, and its khi filled his senses, unlike anything he had ever known. In this state it would be easy, he thought, to slip free of his flesh and go to join Milari.

  If he did so, though, he would be leaving Velashi alone in a grim predicament. He pictured her trying to fight her way out of the cave past kobalen, and knew he could not abandon her. He did not have much hope of winning free, but if he were to die in the attempt at least he would have made the endeavor.

  He heard Velashi’s step, and with some small effort returned fully to his flesh. Opening his eyes, he watched her kneel beside him, her metal cup and a damp cloth in one hand, his bundle of fresh clothing in the other. She set down the cup and clothing and gently wiped at his chest and shoulder with the cloth, cleaning away the blood which had already dried.

  “Can you sit up?”

  He did so, head swimming a little, and accepted the cup. Its chill was striking in contrast to the heat of the chamber. He drank, then ran his fingers along the tracery of vines that he could just make out in the lightless chamber.

  Jhirinan had put vines on everything he made, even the shields. Nothing was so utilitarian that it could not be made beautiful, Jhirinan had been used to say, teasing Ghaláran for not ornamenting his own work.

  Jhirinan had created the shields after last summer’s raid, and they had quickly been adopted by villages all up and down the Ebon Mountains. They had been credited with saving many ælven lives. A pity they had not saved his own.

  Velashi left again, returning to the river. Ghaláran looked at his bundle and decided the clothes would be a comfort. He unrolled them and found his hammer, tongs, file and whetstone inside.

  How strange to see something so much a part of ordinary life here. It reminded him how extraordinary the last two days had been.

  Hammer and tongs. Would he ever take them up again? Would he ever return to an ordinary life? It seemed so distant.

  He set the tools aside, brushed a stray bit of soot from his tunic, and put it on. The cloth pulled at the stitches in his shoulder, but once he had it settled it was a comfort to have his hurts covered. He stood up and put on the legs as well, steadying himself against a large boulder that had fallen from the cave wall.

  Glancing at the wall, he saw the space the boulder had left: a great, deep gap in the dark rock. Fire khi pulsed from it. He stretched a hand toward the heat, feeling a thrill of exhilaration. Such a vast power!

&nb
sp; “Are you hungry?”

  He turned to see Velashi setting their jumbled clothes from the spring on the cave floor, as well as his longknives and odd weapons. She went to her satchel and took out a small loaf of bread. This she tore in half, and held one half out to him.

  “Please, you must eat.”

  He took the bread, knowing she was right though he had no appetite. He pulled off a piece and ate it, chewing slowly. His stomach growled at the intrusion, but did not rebel.

  He sat down again, and Velashi joined him. He tore another bit from the bread and sat gazing at it. The khi in the chamber seemed to warm it. He could imagine it softening, then drying to a crust in his hand. He ate it and glanced up at Velashi.

  “How much food have you left?”

  She shrugged. “Some fruit. This is all the bread.”

  He nodded. They had a few days, then, before they must find something more to eat, though the sooner the better. He thought of leaving all the bread to her, for still he was not hungry, but if as he suspected their journey was to end in an attempt to fight their way out of the caves, he would need strength to do justice to the exertion.

  He glanced at his small pile of weapons. He could cut a hilt from that darkwood club and set it to the unfinished longknife. That would give them three, one for Velashi to wield.

  He closed his eyes as he chewed another bit of bread. Three longknives were scarcely better than two. Even a shield, had he had one, would be little help to him. What he needed was a weapon that could oppose the kobalen’s spears.

  A glow of khi swelled within him. Fire khi, gold-red and pulsing with heat, like the waves off a blade fresh from his forge. He felt more than heard a whisper—it felt like Milari’s breath against his ear—saying, Yes.

  He drew a sharp breath. Smelled hot metal.

  “Is something wrong?”

  He saw himself holding a knife longer than any he had ever seen, longer than any imagined. A knife that would sweep aside spears, that would cleave a kobalen in two with a single stroke.