The Lightning Wastes (The Traveler's Gate Chronicles: Collection #3) Page 4

  The shu'kra, or cavern-worm, was a ravenous rock-eating monster the size of one of Cana's sewer pipes. Rasmus could only see its head and a few segments of bright pink skin; the rest of the creature's long body was hidden underground. The exposed portion was still nine or ten feet long, leaving him to wonder exactly how massive the worm's whole body must be.

  Its head was a nightmare of clacking mandibles and spinning, grinding teeth in a vertically slitted mouth, with no apparent eyes, but Taichon reached up and patted the worm on its salivating maw with no evidence of discomfort.

  “There's a good boy,” Taichon said, smiling up at the shu'kra. “You're hungry, aren't you? Don't worry, we'll have plenty for you to eat.”

  Taichon had the pale skin of a Damascan and a mop of curly black hair. He was the son of a minor noble—one of Overlord Eli's relatives, Rasmus had heard—and the two boys were much the same age. Rasmus had come to study in Naraka only four days before Taichon showed up, and they had been trained together ever since. By rights, they should be closer than brothers by now, after three years of rigorous training in the history and methods of Naraka.

  Rasmus hated him.

  There was no test in which Taichon didn't have to out-perform Rasmus, no trial he didn't have to complete just a little faster. He had his noble training to fall back on, that was what it was. Rasmus was the son of a weaver, he didn't have the sorts of advantages that a rich boy like Taichon must have enjoyed. It wasn't fair that they should be held to the same standard.

  “Marvelous!” Tutor Petrus said, clapping his hands and beaming at Taichon. “You're doing a wonderful job of exercising such delicate control. In the best partnerships, as you know, there's a subtle degree of give-and-take.”

  Taichon ran a hand down the cavern-worm's pale skin. “I never thought it would be so easy. You just have to nudge him in the right direction, don't you? He knows what he's doing. It's not even a command, really, so much as a request.”

  Tutor Petrus chuckled. He was an older man, perhaps as old as Rasmus' grandfather, with a bulging belly and a prominent bald spot. The boys were lucky to have him, or so they were told, because he usually served as the personal advisor to Overlord Malachi himself. He had a soft eye for Taichon, that was for sure.

  “Binding a shu'kra at your age. You'll be in high demand around here if you can keep this up, I’ll say that for certain. We haven't had a good rock-worker at the outpost in years. Once we get past your Initiation, you can help us expand the farmland, maybe even clear out that tunnel between the Cana and Eltarim waypoints. We'll put you and your worms to work, son, no need to worry about that.”

  Finally, Taichon seemed to remember that Rasmus was there. It was about time someone did.

  “What happened to the ash hound, Rasmus?” Taichon asked.

  The question sounded innocent enough, but Rasmus' face burned. He knew what the other boy was doing. He was trying to compare his shu'kra to a plain runt of a dog. “I sent him off,” Rasmus said casually, just as if he didn't notice Taichon's plan. “There was no reason to keep him around, I can always call another.”

  “Have you given it a name yet?”

  “Why would I? It’s not as though it’s special. If I need a hound, I’ll just call up the closest one.” On a sudden burst of inspiration, he decided to try and get the instructor on his side. “Then again, I haven’t heard Tutor Petrus' input. Sir, what can you tell us about ash hound naming conventions?” Tutor Petrus rarely missed an opportunity to demonstrate his familiarity with Narakan history.

  The old man flapped a hand in Rasmus' direction, walking over to squint at Taichon's worm. “Name it whatever you like, son. I named my first ash hound after a boy who used to throw sticks at me. Petty, I know, but I got a sense of satisfaction out of being the one to throw the sticks for a change. So, Taichon, what kind of bait did you use? I could have sworn I saw you walking down here with the skull of a thief, but could you perhaps have had a stretch of hangman's noose somewhere about you?”

  Ignored completely. Rasmus felt like this was his lot entirely too often, and it was always Taichon's fault. He acted like he didn't plead for the attention, that he didn't beg and dance like a dog for scraps, but Rasmus knew the real story.

  While the other two talked excitedly about the potential uses for a tame cavern-worm, Rasmus watched his dog drag the end of a bone all over the red dust of the cavern floor. He lost himself in a vision of a snapdragon lurching up the side of the cliff, wreathed in flame, and gulping up the ash hound in its crocodile jaws. It would turn on Petrus and Taichon, but Rasmus would save the day at the last second by commanding it in an overwhelming burst of psychic talent. Maybe that would count as his first successful summons, and he could forget the dog ever existed.

  Rasmus replayed this version of events in his mind several times—sometimes Taichon escaped with no wounds except to his pride, sometimes his shu'kra was sliced to ribbons, and sometimes Taichon suffered terrible wounds before Rasmus could finally bring the snapdragon to heel—until he noticed Tutor Petrus clearing his throat pointedly.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, it is time for you to be about your chores. The tower sanctuary needs water, after which you should deliver four buckets to my personal dwelling. Quickly, now.”

  Taichon patted his worm on the flank one more time, and it slithered backwards into the rock, no doubt to continue tunneling somewhere far below. Rasmus didn't spare his hound a second glance. He simply followed Tutor Petrus, hoping the old man would notice his dedication and focus.

  Damasca controlled most of the useful routes through Naraka. Rasmus had always assumed this was because of the inherent superiority of Damasca-trained Travelers versus those taught in Enosh or on their own, but it had turned out there was a much simpler reason. Damasca simply built an outpost around each waypoint, a towering obsidian obelisk marked by golden runes. The waypoints marked the only places where you could make a Gate into or out of Naraka, so they became the only points of strategic importance in the entire Territory. Enosh controlled the routes in and around their one city, but they could have that barren stretch of wilderness. Between all the other major cities, Damasca owned the roads.

  The outposts were villages, really, each centered around a waypoint leading to one of the kingdom's major cities. Rasmus and Taichon approached the Bel Calem outpost, which was surrounded by a ten-foot wall made of bound planks of coal-black wood. Rasmus had only ever seen one tree in Naraka, and it wasn't the kind that you would cut down for wood. Without water or sun he didn't see how any plants could survive here anyway, but he was assured that the charwood was in fact native, and was heat-resistant enough for the climate here. He had never seen the wall burst into flames, so he supposed the material must live up to its reputation.

  Inside the walls, past a couple of savage-looking Itasas tribesmen standing guard, the complex looked largely empty. Only a handful of buildings were scattered all over the empty space inside the wall, leaving plenty of bare ground—one stubby tower of red stone for the full Travelers, one blocky barracks of charwood for the Itasas tribe, a second, almost identical charwood building for holding supplies, and the tiled courtyard surrounding the obsidian tree. Its spiked black branches stabbed into the sky, almost higher than the walls. In the very center of the wall, surrounded by all the man-made buildings, the waypoint stood straight and tall, its black spike pointed at the cavern ceiling far above. Its runes shone brightly enough that they lent a soft yellow light to the whole outpost.

  Those were the only constructions that, for one reason or another, needed to rest aboveground. Everything else rested below, in natural tunnels expanded by tame cavern-worms.

  Today, there was one extra feature in the outpost: a wagon shaped like a vast barrel, pulled by four nervous-looking oxen. Rasmus always thought animals from the outside world looked exotic, though he couldn't understand why merchants insisted on using them here. The creatures inevitably hated Naraka's persistent smell, and panicked at the f
irst sight of any native wildlife, so they were less than practical to bring along. But most water merchants insisted on trying.

  A line of people waited behind the water-wagon, carrying buckets, pails, pans, smaller barrels, canteens, flasks, and bottles. Anything they could use to carry a mouthful of water. There were no full Travelers in line, of course; they had people to haul water for them. People like Rasmus and Taichon.

  Petrus nodded toward the water line, as though they hadn't performed this same chore a hundred times. “He'll have buckets for you. Bring two each to the foot of the sanctuary, empty them in the well, then fill them again and take them to my house. If you hurry, we can talk about your Initiation.”

  Rasmus' gut seized up, and he found himself grabbing his teacher by the sleeve. “I'm sorry, sir. Initiation?”

  One of the Tutor's gray eyebrows raised. “Yes, of course. We've spoken of this before. Once you've called your first creature, you're to be made an Initiate. Surely you should know this by now.”

  Rasmus felt his face flush. “Yes sir, I know, but I mean...so soon? I thought we would have time to prepare first.”

  “There's very little to prepare for, really. We call it an Initiation and surround it with ceremony, but really you just walk up to the obsidian tree and confess. Depending on the weight of your confession, it will grow you a fruit. You eat the fruit, and you're qualified as an Initiate. It's a practical requirement more than anything else. Now, if you will excuse me...”

  With that, Tutor Petrus hurried off, his hand raised to wave at another old man in red robes.

  Rasmus was familiar with the obsidian tree, of course. It was housed in this very outpost, so Naraka Travelers from all over the country came here for Initiation. Once the black tree produced its fruit, whoever ate it gained the ability to handle fire and not be burned. Some could only resist a candle's flame, and anything hotter would eat through them as quickly as anyone else. Rumor said that Overlord Malachi could swim through lava and bathe in molten iron without feeling the slightest discomfort. Your degree of protection depended on your confession.

  And there was Rasmus' problem: he had nothing to confess.

  As he and Taichon retrieved their wooden buckets from the water merchant, Rasmus considered his history. What had he done? Was there any crime he committed, anything he had hidden from himself? He wanted as dark a sin as possible: rumor among the other Travelers-in-training said that only the most severe, profane crimes earned the highest degree of protection.

  Taichon tried to start a conversation while they stood in line, but Rasmus was too tied up in his thoughts to pay much attention. He had tried to steal a sack of figs, once, from a stall in the streets of Bel Calem, but the stall owner had caught him with his fingers around the fruit. When they got home, his father had switched him. Surely that wouldn't work: he had already received punishment, which under Narakan law meant that the crime had never happened.

  The merchant worked a pump on the back of the water wagon, and the clean stream flowed out into Rasmus' bucket, splashing his hands. No charge for them; the merchant recognized that they were running errands for the sanctuary, and he would bill the Travelers later.

  What terrible thing must Overlord Malachi have confessed for his legendary protection? Perhaps he killed a family member, or organized a rebellion. Maybe he spat in King Zakareth's face and got away with it. That didn't make much sense, as he would never have risen to the rank of Overlord with any of those crimes on his record, but it had to be something truly terrible.

  Rasmus hurried toward the tower as best he could with a bucket in each hand, lagging behind Taichon, who always seemed to make everything a race.

  This time, to Rasmus' surprise, Taichon slowed and waited for him to catch up. “You're quiet today.”

  “That's my right,” Rasmus snapped.

  Taichon shifted one bucket to his other hand so that he could scratch his head. “Are you worried about the Initiation?”

  He held both buckets in one hand and he still didn't spill a drop. Rasmus tried to imitate him, as casually as possible, but he almost sloshed a pail full of water down his shirt. “Worried? No, of course not. Are you?”

  “Terrified,” Taichon said.

  They stopped talking when they reached the charwood door at the base of the red tower. The Traveler assigned to the door recognized them and waved them through, and they jogged down a short set of stairs to the well, where they dumped their buckets into the pool of waiting water. It wasn't a real well, of course, since there was very little natural water in Naraka. It was nothing more than a stone pool to collect their purchased water. But since the Travelers used it for everything from drinking to bathing to laundry while they were in the Territory, they called it the well.

  The boys hurried back up, and once they cleared the sanctuary, Taichon continued. “I know nobody's supposed to listen to the confession. And even if they do, nothing you confess to the tree can be held against you, but I can't help but worry.”

  “Why?” Rasmus asked, as they filled their buckets from the wagon again.

  Taichon waited until they exited the wall of the outpost before answering. “When I was just a child, back in the outside world, I was climbing a tree with my sister.”

  Rasmus didn't have any brothers or sisters, and he hadn't known that Taichon did either. The thought made him uncomfortable, somehow, as though Taichon had more of a life outside of Naraka than Rasmus did.

  “We started messing around, you know, just teasing. I couldn't take a joke when I was young, and I started to get mad, so I pushed her a little harder than I should have. I didn't mean anything by it, I was just mad, but she fell. The tree wasn't terribly tall, but she still broke both legs and hit her head. For a minute, I thought she was dead. I ran and got our father, and by that time she woke up, and she was in terrible pain. She recovered, of course—she's fine now—but she didn't remember the few minutes leading up to her fall. So when my father asked me how it had happened, I told him she had tried to reach a bird's nest and slipped. Everyone believed me, even her, and I was never punished for it.”

  That was a good one. It was a crime of passion, and thus not as damning as if it had been planned or premeditated, but he had harmed another out of anger, lied to cover it up, and injured an innocent in doing so. Taichon's fruit would surely be the size of a melon. Rasmus would be lucky if his looked like a grape.

  “Are you sure you should have told me?” Rasmus said, as he marched along the dusty red stone of Naraka's caverns. “Maybe the tree won't count it if you've already confessed.”

  “I don't think so. According to the Principles of Admission, an admission of guilt is only valid if it's made to a duly appointed representative of the law, or else directly to the wronged party. You're not either one of those. Besides, you're a close friend, so your testimony wouldn't be accepted in a court on my behalf anyway. Under the laws of Naraka, I'm clear.”

  Taichon always sounded so pleasant and certain, even when he was lecturing on principles that they had learned together years before. Rasmus knew the law just as well as Taichon did. And he couldn't help but notice how Taichon counted Rasmus among his close friends when it came to a court case; how convenient for him. That ensured that Rasmus would never be able to testify against him. Undoubtedly he was planning some crime and wanted a silent compatriot. Was that all Rasmus' friendship meant to him, after three years of joint training?

  Tutor Petrus' private dwelling was dug into the rock about half a mile from the main outpost. While most Travelers lived in the tower sanctuary during their stay in Naraka, a few of them—those who spent the most time in specific regions of the Territory—kept small, permanent houses here. Rasmus didn't mind the trip, since no senior Travelers were around to give him any other chores while he was outside the outpost walls, but the ever-present threat of predators hung over him like a cloud of smoke.

  The deadliest creatures waited deeper in the Caverns, away from populated human settlements, bu
t you could find ash hounds anywhere, trotting down tunnels or over cliffs. Sometimes a snapdragon or swarm of mor'we got hungry enough that they would hunt down the dogs near a waypoint. Everyone who lived long in Naraka knew someone who had vanished outside of the outpost walls, never to be heard from again.

  Tutor Petrus' well waited just outside his round charwood doorway. The pool was covered by a stone lid that took both of them to drag it off, and it was much smaller than the well in the sanctuary. Their four buckets filled it almost to the brim.

  “How about you?” Taichon asked, as they walked away from Tutor Petrus' house. “Do you know what you're going to say to the tree?”

  Rasmus couldn't tell the truth, of course. That would be admitting defeat to Taichon again. “I have...some idea,” he said.

  Though part of the route back to the outpost wound through tunnels carved in the red stone walls, much of the road was exposed. They had to step carefully on these sections, because there was often a sheer cliff to the side, dropping ten or fifteen feet to another plateau of solid rock. Rasmus had known careless students or visitors to slip in the grit and ash, tumbling down to the stone below. The fortunate survived with only a few broken ribs, while the unlucky could suffer a twisted neck or shattered skull.

  “Well, I told you my story...” Taichon trailed off uncomfortably. Good manners suggested that Rasmus should share his tale now.

  “It's a lot like yours, I would say,” Rasmus said. The bucket in Taichon's right hand swung out over a fifteen-foot drop. “Pushed someone. They fell and got hurt. The difference was, they deserved it.”

  “Huh.” Taichon sounded disappointed. He clearly didn't think Rasmus had any such story. That was just like him: he never believed anything Rasmus said. Sure, he was making up the tale this time, but he had certainly earned a little trust.

  “You don't believe me.”

  “No, that's not true,” Taichon protested.