The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 54 - Unholy Fire

Sir Willard's helm had shattered,

But the giant's heart was rent.

Said Willard, "Moll', I've got a job

For you beneath this dent."

—From "Sir Willard and the Giant of Winty Crack"

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UNHOLY FIRE

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Harric led Snapper up the yoab run toward the canyon, but the excitement of striking out on his own no longer buoyed his spirits.

How could it? Memory of the Nothing and its awful eternity—of terror still reverberated in his gut like the echo of a giant bell. And he now bore the serious duty of passing on to Willard what he'd learned of Brolli. That meant he'd have to go back or wait to somewhere ahead.

He mulled over the matter as he plodded along without light, using his spirit vision to navigate. He could announce Brolli's betrayal to the entire group. That would take Brolli by surprise and maybe force a confession. But such a confrontation could also get messy. Brolli could interrupt, muddy the issue, feign outrage, say Harric must be ill and hallucinating. And he'd ask for evidence, and Harric would be forced to back down or reveal his own magic.

Snapper snorted, and Harric looked up at the gelding, who had stopped because Harric had stopped. "Sorry," he muttered, and resumed walking. "Afraid I might be slightly mad, now."

Through small gaps in the trees, Harric caught glimpses of the far side of the valley, now bathed in silver moonlight. On the wind, he caught the scent of green things and only the faintest touch of wood smoke. He smiled. The wildfire had died and not spread into the valley. One fewer thing to worry about.

When the terrain grew steep, he judged he must be approaching the canyon and turned onto a smaller run that dropped west toward the river.

The roar of the river grew steadily louder. In the Unseen, its spiritual essence was like blinding sunlight, and when he crossed a particularly large gap between trunks, it stung his oculus like the water of the cistern had done. If he squinted his oculus and peered closely, he could discern in it thousands and thousands of individual thrashing ribbons—like soul strands, only thinner and hotter and whipping madly with the motion of the torrent.

He came to a stop in a wide depression of the yoab run where one of the great blind beasts must have bedded. From the edge of the bed the hill fell away steeply for some twenty fathoms to the river's edge. At that close distance, the river's essence was so strong that his oculus began to burn and itch, and he closed it tight.

Relative darkness fell around him as he opened his eyes to the Seen, but his eyes were well-adjusted, and the indirect moonlight proved enough to reveal an elk trail sloping north from the yoab bed to the river.

Looking back the way he'd come, he let out a long breath. No sign of Willard and the others yet. But they would catch up before long, and then he'd have to explain his absence and his farewell note, which would be awkward. They'd think he muffed his getaway or had second thoughts about striking out on his own—that he was inept or a coward—and the thought of it summoned a knot of irritation in his gut.

No. He mustn't let them overtake him. Better if he rode ahead and waited to meet them at some way-stop beyond the canyon. There, it would look deliberate—that he'd stopped only to deliver a message.