Are they?
“I’m Lieutenant Farr. Thank you for coming to Silver Sun. I wish it were under better circumstances. I assume you know that we’ve been attacked.”
She nodded, eyeing the small silver pins on their jackets, which indicated their ranks and where they served; these were small circles with rays spreading outward. She supposed they could be suns.
“We’ve evacuated the mine to the best of our ability, but it’s too dangerous to search for survivors while there’s still malice down there.”
“Tell me what happened.” It wasn’t much of a mystery: the entrance to the mine had grown sharp silver teeth, which dripped with rust-colored blood. The area stank of death and vomit.
“Last night, a man posing as a miner walked in.” Farr didn’t quite look at the opening, like he was picturing everything, thinking about just how this town got into such a terrible mess, but couldn’t actually bear to look at the place where it happened.
It was difficult to look at.
“He didn’t stay in long—not even an entire shift—which was suspicious to the guard. Not to mention no one knew him. Then some real miners came out and said there was some kind of machine down there, but by then it was too late. The tunnel system started to…” He turned back to Nightrender, apparently deciding that she was easier to look at than the mine entrance. “You’ll see, I suppose.”
She would see. She was always the one to see the things deemed too terrible for humans to look upon, the things they could not bear.
“Bring as much kindlewater as you have,” she said. “And firewood, if anyone can spare it.”
Farr’s eyebrows rose, and the other soldiers looked at one another uneasily.
“Unless the miners want to work around what’s left of those trapped inside.”
“Can’t we—” One of the younger soldiers tried to look at her and flinched. “Can’t we bury them?”
She cocked her head. “If anything remains after the burning, you are welcome to take it. But I do not think you’ll want to go in there, even after I’ve cleared out the malice.”
He backed away, looking nauseated.
“As for the miners who escaped but were in the mine when the device detonated, make sure they’re quarantined. I will ensure they carry no malice inside them.” No corruption could be permitted to linger.
She turned and strode into the mine, not waiting for the soldiers to agree to her demands. They would comply. They were too afraid not to.
When she was only a few paces into the mine, the mouth slammed shut behind her with a loud crash and rumble of stone, plunging the cave into darkness. When the tunnel went quiet again, she could just hear the soldiers outside calling for her, asking if she was all right. She didn’t feel like yelling, so she ignored them.
There was no light in this part of the cave, now that the entrance was blocked; even her eyes couldn’t detect the faintest trace.
But she was Nightrender. She was never without light.
Pale fire glowed around her hands, granting just enough illumination for her to see through the pitch black. It hurt, of course, but it was a dull headache, a bruise, and she could manage for the time being.
There, along the walls, she noted more jagged teeth of silver—ingrown and illogical—all wet with blood. The tunnel ahead constricted and eased, constricted and eased, in long, rippling motions—as though it were swallowing.
There was no way to get to the device except down this passage.
Malice sank deeper into the rock, curling around veins of precious metal and seeping into the underground aquifer. It was insidious, and she would have called it clever if it had a consciousness, but as it was she had to settle for adaptable.
If she didn’t hurry, the malice would infect the entire town.
She went about cleansing this developing malsite the same way she had the other: plunging her sword into the wall or floor, burning away veins of malice, and spreading holy fire in between fine grains of earth and shifting plates. The pain struck, as she knew it would, and it slowed her work, but she didn’t let it stop her. The magic-infused obsidian of Beloved drove into the rock without so much as chipping. What use was a Nightrender thwarted by mere stone?
As the ripples through the throat of the mine tightened, she sheathed her sword and braced herself, holding the tunnel open through strength alone. When the swallowing movement passed, she found her hands covered in sticky red bits of pulverized human.
So many workers had been crushed just within sight of escape. They were plastered against the walls, dripping down the curves and chisel marks, mashed beyond recognition.
Did Princess Johanne know that a mal-device had been delivered to her home kingdom?
Would she care?
Probably not. The voice seemed to echo as the tunnel opened into a larger chamber, crisscrossed by wooden walkways and ramps, abandoned carts parked throughout. Why would she care? Perhaps she likes malice. You should kill her.
Nightrender paused at the top of the first ramp, one hand bracing her on a rocky section of the wall, and breathed around the voice’s dark temptation.
The mal-device wasn’t far—perhaps halfway down the cavern—and all she had to do was burn away malice and take the device somewhere people would never find it. Perhaps the bottom of the ocean, although she didn’t trust what was down there to behave any better than the humans.
What was down there? The memory flashed out before she could grasp it.
Frustration clawed at her, but she had to let it go. There was work to do.
Below, the cavern was relatively still, but a long grinding noise came from deep within the darkness; it was moving with malice, but not like the tunnel had been. Perhaps she’d reached the stomach.
“Hello?” A man’s cry came from far below, across the great chasm. “Is someone up there?”
Nightrender’s heart leaped. A person. “I’m here.” She forced her voice to be calm and level. “I’ve come to help you. Tell me if you can walk.”
A faint sob echoed through the cavern. “Thank Malvir and Luho.” The Numina of Hope and of Mines. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Carefully, Nightrender started down the ramp, following the black stains of malice closer to the device.
“Who—Who are you?” asked the man below.
Telling him the truth was a bad idea, given how scared people were now. And the precarious state he was in. “Someone who wants to help.”
“Good.” His voice was softer again. “Good. I don’t think I can walk. My legs are hurt. Something’s on them.”