“It’s here.”
Nahala had set up a slab of wood against the far wall and was practicing her knife-throwing when Olav suddenly spoke. He had been lying on his pallet, staring at the ceiling for hours while the knives flew, landed with a solid thunk! thunk!, and then were freed to be carried across the room and thrown again, over and over. The knives were one result of their newfound prosperity and, though they lacked the filigreed decoration Nahala’s magpie heart yearned for, they were well-made weapons. They would kill. “What’s here? she asked idly.
“My destiny.” Olav rolled over then, and went to sleep.
The next day, an earthquake toppled several towers and opened a chasm in the mountainside high above the city. News spread swiftly that something had made lair therein, where it could watch over the roads leading to the city from either direction. From there it sallied down to attack not just caravans but also the wagons bringing food to the city and even lone riders, feeding upon horses, camels, merchants, and farmers with equal ease, and defiling the goods and foodstuffs they brought with flame and smoke.
The flow of food into the city ceased and, though the Khesh ordered the granaries be opened to Kheshem’s poorest, prices soared. There were riots. These were easily quelled by the military, but everyone knew there would be more.
A troop of soldiers was sent to deal with the menace and did not return. A hero with perfumed hair and oiled mustachios marched into the cavern, bright sword in hand, and did not emerge. In his wake, an assortment of fools and scoundrels also disappeared, along with the schemes they had assured all would win the day. The citizenry began to wonder why the city’s wizards did nothing to counter the beast.
“My proud brothers have power but not force,” Ushted said, “and they will not work together.” He was talkative by nature. Merchants knew how to handle such men; whenever he came to see Olav, Nahala kept his wine cup filled and her mouth closed. “Against a brute that splinters bones and wagons with equal ease, their subtlety is useless. But I, Olav, have you. Together, we shall do what no others dare and accept no reward for doing so.”
Olav had raised his cup to his lips. Now he set it down untasted. Nahala had noticed that he drank lightly, if at all, in his master’s presence. “That makes no sense.”
“Every despot likes to think he inspires selfless obedience. When I have proved myself to be exactly such a subject, the Khesh will welcome me into his court. And that is an opportunity beyond avarice.” Ushted stood. “Sleep well tonight, for in the morning we go up the mountain.”
The next day, the wizard walked out of the shadows to report that he had just seen the menace slain only hours into the future. So, sitting astride Bastard, Olav left the city and started up the mountainside. With him went Ushted the Protector, Sliv the apprentice, and Nahala, who had neither title nor any desire for one.
Nahala had woken up feeling strange that day, detached in a manner new to her experience. It was not until she felt a drop of blood trickle down the inside of one leg that she had thought: Oh. She was now, she supposed, a woman. It seemed a terribly inconvenient time for it to happen. Quickly, she had torn a strip from the bottom of her sark—it was cut long, so she could grow into it—folded it in the manner her mother had foresightedly taught her, and staunched the bleeding. But the sense of estrangement stayed with her as they walked.
Bastard struggled slowly up the mountain trail, while the others trudged after him. Ushted was uncharacteristically silent. Olav was quiet too, but sullenly so rather than in his usual manner, less like a hero headed for certain victory than one on his way to die. Every now and then, Sliv, who swaggeringly carried Olav’s spear slung over one shoulder, threw her a strange look. It was a morning, it seemed, for odd behavior.
Once, when they had lagged far enough behind not to be overheard, Sliv flared his nostrils and muttered, “What’s that smell?”
“It’s just the mountain sage in bloom.”
“Naw, naw, it’s not that. I know that smell . . .” There was a terrible light in his eyes. “I know that smell and it ain’t no sage.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You’re a girl!”
“Woman,” Nahala said, trying to invest the word with menace. She had never felt less like fighting. But she took a step backward and angled her staff. “Ease up, Sliv. You and I are friends.”
“Girls can’t be friends. Girls are only good for one thing.”
If you have to fight, fight to kill. Olav had told her that. Nahala’s knives were in sheaths strapped on either thigh, but there was no need to draw them. All she had to do was wait for Sliv to lunge at her, aim the tip of her staff at his eye, and lean in hard.
For a moment, the potential for violence crackled in the air between them. Then Sliv spat at her feet and turned away. The others were far ahead, and Nahala, perforce, had to run to catch up.
As the mountain dwindled above them and the sky grew larger, Bastard became increasingly restive and hard to control. When he refused to go any farther, Olav alit and tethered him to a tree, saying, “You were wondering why I brought the horse. This is why.” It took Nahala a breath to realize that this was directed at her, that he was still teaching her. “The monster is near. We must be ready for it.” Turning to Sliv, he said, “Hand me my spear.”
Without being told, Nahala untied the shield from Bastard’s harness and held it ready to be taken from her.
“Everyone, wait here,” Olav said.
“No,” said Ushted. “We all proceed. This I have already seen.”
Olav shrugged. Again he led, and shortly thereafter, a twist in the trail took them to the mouth of the cavern, their destination. The rock lining it was raw and broken, and scattered on the ground were similar shards, as from an explosion. In a voice louder than Nahala had ever heard emerge from him, Olav shouted: “Abomination! Come forth to meet your doom!”
The creature that flowed forth from the cavern darkness was shaped like a monstrous lizard and taller by half than Olav himself. Its substance was so black it glittered in the sun, looking for all the world like the foul-smelling liquid that bubbled from the ground in the distant desert wastes and defiled any water it touched. Throwing back its head, it opened a mouth lined with teeth like ivory daggers.
In a dulcet, womanly voice, the apparition said, “Ohhhh, Olav. Sweet, sweet love, at last you have come to me! Long have I yearned for this moment. Great indeed will be your torment before you finally die.”
Olav’s spear sank. Then it rose again. “So it’s you. I suspected as much. Well, I killed you once, and if I must, I can kill you again.”
“Wait!” Ushted stepped to Olav’s side and pressed a lozenge to his lips, murmuring, “Take this. It will give you strength.”
Olav swallowed. Then he cocked his arm, ready to throw the spear. Jaw grim and eyes a-glare, he looked the perfect hero. As the firedrake reared up before him, he cried, “Attack—and let the blood fly where it may”
Then he fell flat on his face.
For a breath, no one moved. Then the creature bent its head to Olav’s side, sniffing at his body and nudging it like a cat. When Olav did not move, it screamed. Its neck spasmed and its tail thrashed, and its taloned legs dug into its own torso. It slammed against the rocky ground, over and over. With enormous violence, it tied itself into a knot, tighter and tighter, until it was as smooth as an egg.