Chapter 14 Daesra #2
I can’t remember the last time I felt truly tired as a god—or even as a demigod or a daemon.
I’ve carried Sadaré to the tops of mountains just so we’d have a nice view while we caroused.
I’ve crossed distant lands and seas without pause.
I’ve fought all manner of beasts and strange creatures without breaking a sweat.
I’ve become winded on occasion, but never before has this bone-deep ache of fatigue gripped me.
And yet, since I entered the underworld, I’ve inspired fear and hilarity in thousands of mortal souls without any means to repay the cost of my actions.
Even Melé notices, leaning over my shoulder to eye me with concern. “Are you all right?”
It’s the question I only recently asked her. Unlike her, I don’t want to go into details, because giving voice to my concerns might make them more real. “Yes. We’re almost to the top. Then we can find somewhere to rest, away from the others. Give you some blood if you need it.”
She politely doesn’t point out that I might need the rest more than she does, even after my stomach growls loudly.
I can hardly remember the last time I was hungry, either. For food, at any rate. I’ve had appetites aplenty—including an unfortunate one that’s all too new.
I try not to notice the aether calling to me from the nearby shades, tempting me more than a hot meal might.
Drops of my blood will restore Melé, but what about me?
At least the shades haven’t started eyeing each other hungrily yet.
As I hike, I wonder with vague apprehension when that point will come.
Melé said she attacked Sadaré at the mere sight of her blood, but then she’s been here for so long that she’d forgotten herself.
My blood might cause a riot, even among shades that aren’t starving—provided there’s still some power left in it.
A moment to recover is all I need, I’m sure—and yet, recover what, exactly? And from where?
I know what, and from where. But I’ll have to worry about that later.
The top of the pass unveils itself rather dramatically beyond the mist of a thundering green waterfall that pours out of a cave in the cliff face on our right to become the River of Regret, carving its way down the mountain behind us.
Rainbows arc through the sparkling droplets, but I don’t let us linger—even sprinting quickly past before any spray has much of a chance to reach Melé.
Once we’re through, I pull up sharply on the other side. And not only because I can’t run much farther than that.
Hell spreads out beneath our feet—our first true glimpse of it. Well, my first glimpse, and perhaps the first that Melé remembers, because she gasps audibly behind me.
The entirety of the underworld curves in a crescent shape around the bowl of the same sea we just tried to leave behind us, where the dark, stormy waves have eaten their way into this side of the landmass to form a massive bay under a gloomy sky.
I can just make out the spikes of a towering fortress off the coast, no bridge visible at least at this distance, with the pale glow of golden clouds beyond, as if the sun were setting over the horizon.
Except there is no sun here. Those must be the Blessed Isles, so far away we can’t see them.
Much closer to us, the pass we just climbed continues down the other side of the mountain range that constitutes the scythe-shaped spine of the underworld.
The trail is partially carved into the dark stone by another waterfall, this one a deep, glittering blue that drops into a midnight jewel of a lake spreading over the plain below us.
The lake lies between us and what must be Isha’s fortress—and is undoubtedly not as tranquil as it looks.
To the right of the lake, the land hooks into the foggy-gray distance like a talon, threaded through by a smoky-black river that meanders so widely over the expanse that it pushes back the mountains.
The Plains of Forgetfulness, if I had to guess.
To the left of the lake, the crescent shape of the underworld takes a darker turn into something more hellish and toothy.
The heavy clouds obscure most of the light in that direction, but I glimpse a flickering glow like fire within the craggy peaks, dancing sinuously until concentrating in one shadow-shrouded spot deep in the mountains. A pit, perhaps.
Perhaps even the Pit of Hell.
“Let’s not go that way,” I say, too breathless to sound as nonchalant as I would like.
“It looks like our best path is to stick to the right, between the lake and the plains, until we reach the inner shore of the sea.” What we’ll do at that point to gain entry to Isha’s fortress, lurking just off the center of the crescent in those treacherous waves, is beyond me at the moment.
“I’ve never seen it from the outside,” she murmurs. “It looks so small from here.”
But it’s not, go her unspoken words. Her shock over the distance we’ve yet to go weighs as heavily on me as her.
“First things first. Can you walk?” In response, she slides stiffly from my back, and Pogli dances excitedly around her ankles to have her back on his level—or at least closer to his level.
I can’t help feeling the relief in my muscles, as much as I wish I didn’t.
“Good. Then let’s get down this mountain and find somewhere to pause. ”
WE HAVE TO CLIMB MOST of the way down the pass before it widens into a small valley that allows us enough space to hide ourselves away from the shades journeying both behind and in front of us.
We’re still not as far away from the beaten path as I would prefer, but our options are limited with the head of the lake spilling forth from one end of the valley and the Plains of the Forgotten fanning out on the other.
I tuck us around a hillside near the shore, where it seems other shades are reluctant to wander, even though there’s a scraggly copse of trees—more vegetation than we saw anywhere in the mountains—and a few broken pillars left over from what must have been some sort of structure, now in ruins.
It’s welcoming enough, hidden from line of sight, and even provides a smooth place to sit on one of the toppled columns.
I collapse with the enthusiasm I’d lost for walking as Pogli sniffs around the perimeter, but Melé remains standing, eyeing our surroundings warily—specifically the lake.
“It don’t think it will bite,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.
She frowns, though not at me. “Perhaps it won’t bite you. But just as with the rivers, it might affect me.”
“We’re far enough away.”
“And yet it’s trying to bait us. Look.” She points. “A boat.”
She’s right. Just off the shore, floating placidly out on the water, is a small rowboat.
There’s no dock, only some splintered wooden posts remaining of what must have been one, trailing off under the surface.
To reach the boat, one would have to wade in, perhaps even swim, and haul themselves inside.
The picture it paints is deceptively inviting, especially if the lake is dangerous.
And it very well might be. There’s probably a reason the other shades aren’t stopping to rest here—one that Melé can sense and I can’t.
“Well, we certainly won’t be going in. We just need a moment.” I gesture for her to come closer as the familiar weight of the black-pearl hilt of my sword solidifies in my other hand. “Even a drop should protect you from any malign influences and give you the strength we need to press on.”
“What about you?”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, even though I’m obviously not fooling her. I’m not even fooling my own stomach, or whatever it is that can sense Melé’s aether like a delicious smell wafting from an oven. I ignore it, readying my thumb over the tip of the blade.
She sighs and sits down next to me. “I wish you didn’t have to do this.”
“Because it’s revolting?”
Her mouth twitches. “Because you shouldn’t have to take care of me. That’s what I should be—” She pauses, shifting in obvious embarrassment. “Perhaps not anymore, but you certainly shouldn’t have to do this for me.”
“I’m a god, not a child.” Not your child, I don’t emphasize this time. “Allow me this much, at least.” I give her a wry smile as the point pierces my thumb and the blade vanishes.
When I lift the droplet toward her, there’s a rush of air against my cheek and a dark blur out of the corner of my eye.
That’s the only warning I have. And then something slams into me, ripping me away from her to send me tumbling over the ground.
Melé screams. The force is enough to stun me, and the weight against my shoulder enough to pin me to the ground, so for a moment I can’t see what hit me.
I assume it must be a ravenous shade, but once I finally manage to roll over, I nearly shout in alarm.
There’s a half woman, half—bat? bird?—standing over me with writhing snakes for hair, leathery wings for arms, and powerful feathered legs that end in viciously clawed talons.
A plumed tail spreads behind her like the train of a gown, whereas her chest is entirely bare.
That she has beautiful breasts and a lovely face only adds to the horror.
Her talons flex in the dirt, and I immediately roll to my feet before she can lunge at me, raising my arm in preparation to summon my sword again.
But when I do, I realize two things. One, my arm doesn’t obey me very well, preferring to burn in agony, and, two, her claws are already coated in golden blood.
My shoulder is drenched in it. She has already wounded me. That she can puncture my flesh at all is no less concerning.
I’m either terribly weak with hunger, or she’s incredibly strong. Or a combination of both.