[Womb of the Dark Mage]

Chapter 22 / 02

Conception of a Dark Path

Lamet wanted to be done with the search as soon as possible so she could return early enough to satisfy her craving for some good home cooking. She cast Bound. It could only take her as far as she could see—making the horizon the greater limit in ideal conditions— but with her intimate knowledge of the mountain she did not require line of sight there. She landed in a clearing by the river at the base of the mountain and swept the woods with Scour.

She detected no people, but there were tracks everywhere. Too many to be of use. They must be out of range. It was a long way between Nook Valley and Mount Flange, but they should be closer to Mount Flange. She saw a dead slingtail, a buried fire pit, cannon raptor moult… The fire pit was in the direction of Mount Flange. It was cold, but it was a place to start; they must be that way. She kept the memory of its location and Bound there.

It was a small dirt clearing off the path with a decaying log and a stone placed for seating next to a hole dug into the ground. Coals sat in the bottom, but no scent of their embers remained in the air. She examined the tracks around the pit. They were recent enough, and she was able to identify two sets. Neither were Dorshemet’s. She calculated how far they could travel uphill in the time it took for a fire pit to lose all scent and warmth.

There were two good spots to camp around that distance that she knew of. With the sun low, she assumed they would stop at the further of the two to camp for the night. She cast Bound, drifted off the ground, and landed gracefully in a grove sheltered by a copse of spinewoods.

A fire crackled before her, casting gentle orange light low across the forest. Two people, a young man and a girl, both with very light blue hair leaped to their feet.

“Who trespasses here?” he shouted at her. Both stood with their hands out, poised somewhat clumsily for battle.

“I am Lamet the Riteweaver from Mount Flange. Lower your hands, Lightweavers.”

They lowered their hands as recognition crossed their faces. “Lamet the Riteweaver! It is an honour to see you again.”

“Hunoven and Geneven, was it? I do not recall much of you, but I remain grateful to your grandmother elder Fenven for teaching me the lore of the Lightweavers, even though I could not perform the Rite myself.”

Hunoven raised his palm and offered Lamet a seat around their fire. “Will you sit with us? We were about to hunt some meat and settle for the night.”

Lamet scoffed. It seemed Sparlyset was not the only lazy Lightweaver in the mountains. “You were sent to Mount Flange to aid in banishing the Devourer of Civilisation, Warbinger, were you not?”

Hunoven nodded apprehensively, having picked up the annoyance in her tone. “Yes, your brother Dorshemet requested our aid.”

Her frustrated sneer showed her teeth. “I will have to have words with elder Fenven regarding your careless attitudes. Two worlds teeter on the precipice of destruction and you make camp for the night one hour from Mount Flange while the low sun has barely begun to enflame the skies?”

“B-but we are exhausted from the day’s journey!” Geneven whined. “We would not be of much use without our strength!”

Lamet raised her head to glare down her nose at them. “Pathetic.” They were worse than Sparlyset. At least she had stepped up and done her duty when the time came. Her aggravatingly persistent hubris had at least driven her to act with resolve.

She balled her hands into tight fists. Were there competent Lightweavers anywhere? Was Sparlyset, a girl only clinging to old tales out of desperation to derive purpose from them, truly the best they had? It had been so many thousands of years that even the Lightweavers no longer took their duty seriously.

But some were perhaps driven from duty by the increasing mockery they faced by others even more disconnected from the past. Lamet had been one of those, before she had sought out the Rite of Light and learned the lore in its place. Even then, she had not truly believed in Warbinger until she stood in the road in Central City, staring up at his beady eye.

She would be a hypocrite to shout at these two, she supposed. “The decisive battle against Warbinger was yesterday,” she said. “The Lightweaver from Mount Flange has banished him from the world called Earth.”

The siblings sighed with relief. Grins crossed their faces. “Truly?” Hunoven relaxed his posture. “Glorious news.”

“He will return, and when he does he will be here.” Lamet tried not to shout. “Take every minute of every day and master any Rites you can find. Practise your light spells diligently and increase their usage; do not assume the base three cast limit per day will be enough. It is three, isn’t it?”

Hunoven swung both his palms up, but a flash of guilt crossed Geneven’s face. Guilt. Shame? Both his palms up? Such an excessive expression was a betrayal to the simple nature of the gesture. In his nervousness he was overcompensating. For Geneven’s shame.

Lamet’s frustration boiled into anger and she fell to her knees. She clawed dirt from the ground and hurled it into the fire. “You puny fool!” she screamed. Her face was hot with rage. She kicked and battered dirt over the flames until they suffocated. “You have not even performed the Rite of Light?! Oh, pray the ancestors deny you a seat at their table, lest you spend eternity grovelling shamefully in their shadows, weeping for the dead you might have saved!”

They cowered away from her. Geneven stumbled off her stone and landed on her back.

Sparlyset nearly died alone in the forest and only made it home because Richard saved her. She performed the Rite of Vitality and Tongues with him, using all of her strength every time an ounce of it returned to her, and still an hour later performed the Rite of Light to face her duty.

She then banished Warbinger—with aid—the same day.

These imbeciles could not even be bothered to make it to Mount Flange in a timely manner. It was only an eight hour journey on foot. They could have rested last night and still been there this morning!

Lamet shook. Her tail lashed the earth and her eyes stared wide with fury. Her skin hardened into defensive scales on her arms. “Go to Mount Flange. Go there now and train until you are worthy of the title of Lightweaver or your ancestors will turn their backs on you just as you have turned your backs on us.”

Lamet hurriedly cast Horizon Bound as the siblings lay trembling in the dirt. Her mind filled with images of places she had been, and by exerting her will upon one she was able to Bound there without the short range limitation.

She landed gently at the entrance of Nook Valley. It was a town of spinewood homes built in sprawling tiers over the slopes of the mountain on both sides of the river. What appeared to be a bridge over the water the entire length of the town was actually a deep planter with irrigation where they grew crops.

She took a deep breath to calm herself and kept to her left, watching the south side of the town. Elder Fenven’s little tower was one of the ruins that could be found hidden along the river. It was the only whole stone building in the town, and had embrasures along the top. From where she stood it was partially obscured behind the puffing chimney of a home squatting in front of it.

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As she began to mount the winding stone path up towards the tower she considered casting Bound to spare herself the walk. She could cast it so many times per day that she would not be disadvantaged using one now. And she had learned it to aid with her own laziness. The trick, she found, to being lazy was to find ways to save time, not to waste it as the Lightweavers seemed to enjoy doing.

There was no point in casting Bound now, though. She had spent too much time thinking about it and now she was half way there.

The modest homes were built to give space to the blocky stone ruins crouched in patches of long grass. It made for a pleasant stroll through snaking paths where she could see a pleasant mixture of nature, history, and the simple lives of small-town folk. She saw people taking laundry in for the night, trimming the vines that grew up their walls, and opening windows to let the cooking smells out. The aroma of roasted bino filled every street. They must have just slaughtered one tonight.

The homes lacked space for their own fenced-off gardens, but they did have low attics built for that purpose, with open roofs and windows that ran nearly the whole way around to let in light. She had considered building something similar for her own home, but having to cover and uncover everything each time it rained did not suit her adventurous lifestyle. Unless she wanted to burden someone else with the task every time she left.

At the base of Fenven’s tower, Lamet craned her neck back to look up at the decrepit thing. The tower itself was not unreasonably tall, but it perched atop a high platform with a good length of stairs to climb. Lamet was used to stairs, but she decided to hop up the stone wall instead. With a few careful jumps where the stones protruded slightly, or where a crack had created space, she reached the top and took hold of the creaky plank fence around the edge and climbed over. It was a quick path that saved her having to walk all the way around the tower in a spiral.

She raised her fist at the door to knock but it swung out of her way. The old Lightweaver stood inside holding the edge of the door and regarding Lamet with a look of excitement. She was as tall as Lamet, but the scales covering her face from her hairline to her cheekbones marked her incredibly advanced age.

Fenven took her by the wrist and pulled her inside. “Finally, some company!” She kicked the door shut and dragged Lamet into the tiny kitchen. A stove in the corner puffed smoke through a vent and filled the kitchen with the delectable aroma of roasted bino. The old woman pushed Lamet into a cramped seat just outside the kitchen and set about returning her preserving jars from the low counter top to their proper place in the pantry around the corner.

“I take it a big bino has been shared tonight,” Lamet said, taking a deep breath of the smell.

“Oh, it has.” Fenven said. “I don’t know what those ‘Dens are doing to them but I swear they get larger every year.” She poked her head out of the pantry. “And before you go saying I’m shrinking in my old age, I’ll have you know those things are bigger than young Noreden now and he is a massive man.”

She shuffled back into the kitchen and pulled a pot of boiling water from the stove. “Are you still without a partner, Lamet? You know young Noreden has yet to wed and I always say purple babies are the sweetest.”

Lamet sighed. “He is not my type,” she said. “But thank you for the consideration.”

“Shame,” said Fenven as she emptied the pot into a straining pail. “He is looking for a spirited woman.” The elder lifted the straining insert from the pail and dumped the chopped potatoes back into the pot. “Oh but you prefer women, don’t you? I remember. You gave me a tongue-lashing last time.”

“I am glad to see your memory has improved,” Lamet rolled her eyes.

Fenven spooned fresh butter over the potatoes and then sprinkled them with salt. Then she reached for the garlic and onion paste. “There is a young lady by—”

“Please stop.” Lamet begged. She already knew no woman would be suitable for her without the same yearning for adventure and discovery. Though she did not blame Fenven for trying; it brought joy to the elder’s heart to see budding love and new babies. Especially now.

“Well,” Fenven said as she reached for a jar of cream and poured some over the potatoes, “You know who to ask if you want to know where the single ladies in town are.”

“That will not be necessary.” At the moment, the roasted bino and potatoes that Fenven was now mashing were the only things on her mind. “Here I was concerned with rushing home to eat fried raptor.”

“You will not find fried raptor anywhere that beats my roast bino rump. Nor my garlic potatoes, for that matter. Your timing is fortunate for us both.” She picked up a large towel and opened the front of the oven. A rush of hot air wafted into the room and the rich smell of roast filled Lamet’s nostrils. Fenven pulled out the tray with an enormous slab of crisp meat and set it atop the stone that served as a table.

While Lamet licked her lips, Fenven scooped chopped and steamed veggies from a smaller pot and heaped them into a bowl. She set it on the table with a fork between Lamet and the roast.

Lamet frowned at the bowl. “I trust you spoke to my brother Dorshemet recently?” she asked before stuffing her mouth with vegetables. Best to eat them quickly and get them out of the way.

The elder piled mashed potatoes into bowls and brought them to the table with a pair of plates. “Yes, he came seeking Lightweavers and was disappointed by what he saw in Hunoven and Geneven.” She handed a plate to Lamet and she accepted it while brushing the empty bowl aside. “It is terrifying to witness Warbinger’s return, but even more so in a time where our grandchildren are our only warriors.”

“We are no longer children, elder Fenven,” Lamet said, holding out her plate. Fenven sliced the bino with a sharp knife. Though the edges were crispy, the centre was juicy and just slightly pink. “We older grandchildren are near the same age our parents were when they were taken.”

Fenven stacked slices of roast on Lamet’s plate. “You are, perhaps, as the only one in the mountains between the ages twenty-four and seventy-five, but the others are too young. Geneven is only sixteen. She barely remembers when the Empire came.” Fenven fetched a pot from the stove and ladled gravy over Lamet’s food, and then over her own.

“I should have been here,” Lamet said quietly, prodding a slice of meat with her fork.

The elder offered a palm-down and a quick glance of reassuring eye-contact. “No,” she said. “You know that means you would be gone as well. What you truly wish is to know what happened.”

“And one day I will, but as of now I have only seen the edges of the Empire proper.” She stuffed her mouth with meat to distract herself. It was tender and succulent, with a peppery crisp edge. She joined the meat with a round scoop of garlic potatoes.

“Did Hunoven and Geneven at least make it safely to Mount Flange?” Fenven asked.

“No,” Lamet replied around a mouthful. She swallowed. “I found the lazy nanas lounging around a campfire an hour from town. Just a few minutes before I arrived here.”

Fenven sighed. “I bet they got an earful from you. There is no reason they should take so long. They probably fear the upcoming battle.”

“No doubt, but the battle they fear has been over since yesterday. Now, it is the next one they should fear. It will be more gruesome and much closer to home.”

The elder cocked her head and her ears perked up. “The first battle has ended? Did that one little Lightweaver you have find strength, or was there another way?”

“No one believed Sparlyset could do it,” Lamet said. “Which of course is why Dorshemet was sent here. But… with the aid of a weapon from Earth, she succeeded in banishing the monster and even improving the seal. Or so she says. That is why we believe he will appear on Oval next. There is no reason for him to choose Earth if the seal is strengthened and the Lightweavers can reach him there anyway.”

“I was going to ask what brings you here when surely the battle must need you, but I suppose you are simply looking for Dorshemet now.” Her long tongue snaked out and licked the gravy dripping to her chin.

“Yes,” Lamet spoke around another mouthful of juicy meat and garlicky potatoes. “He was expected to return quickly with the Lightweavers, but has instead gone off and left them to take their time.”

Fenven's face was taken by a concerned look. “He was asking about old lore,” she said. “But not the way you do. He asked about the ruins we do not lightly speak of, hidden in the mountains to the west.”

“The one that predates even the old Warbinger lore?” Lamet asked. “The Tomb of the Newborn?”

“Yes. The only reason it was even discovered is due to how conspicuously all our mountain history avoids any details that might turn someone's eyes in its direction.”

Lamet's fork dangled in her fingers as she thought. “I have seen it, but I dared not enter.” The Tomb was hidden in a deep crevice, undisturbed for thousands of years. Even she was hesitant to venture into a place so steeped in shadow. “It slumbers closer to the Alacana Chasm than to Nook Valley.”

“You possess much more sense than your younger brother,” she said as she stood to serve second helpings. “He sought its location, and though I could not give it to him, I would bet that that is where he has gone if he has not returned home.”

Lamet failed to refuse the extra food before it was on her plate, so now she would have to stuff herself full to bursting to be polite. The elder would feed her all night if it kept her from leaving. “His adventures are fruitless because his lust for power makes him blind. He searches the most obvious places and finds only looted hovels. Now… I fear he will find only a corrupted shadow of what he dreams of. He is treading a dark path, trespassing in ruins like those.”

Fenven turned her palm up with one hand while picking her teeth with the other. “I pray it is as empty as all the others, for his sake, but I am not optimistic. There are only two taboos that warrant such secrecy, and Warbinger would at least have been mentioned in the lore the Lightweavers keep if it was him. Which means it may be a place tainted by the undead.”

“Your thoughts match my own,” Lamet said. She stuffed her mouth again. She knew she would need the others with her in order to venture into the Tomb of the Newborn. She prayed they were ready.