She looked at him again, both eyes wide and rimmed white. “What are you, boy? Why will you kill a god? Why have you come to destroy us all?” She punctuated her questions by pounding a fist on the table. The candle tottered for a moment, and wax spilled onto the paper.
Then it flowed over the paper, up through the wrinkles. The black wax added strokes to some of the words and erased strokes from others. Dunos could read very little, but one mark-the month mark-stood out clearly.
The mark of Grija, the wolf. The god of Death.
“Answer me, boy!”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
She reached out, grabbing him by his hair, forcing his face toward the paper. “Look, the death god’s mark! The lines, all conflicts. Triangles within triangles, disasters all, squares showing no resolution! It is all death and destruction. Death, ruin, for everyone.”
Her voice shrank into a harsh whisper as her hand tightened, and long nails sank into his scalp. “For everyone but you, Dunos. What are you?”
“I don’t know!” Dunos’ left arm came up somehow and batted her away. He heard something snap and she screamed. The crone tottered back and almost fell off her stool, then stood and tried to lift her broken arm. She couldn’t.
The paper began to move, drawing itself up in folds. It collapsed and opened, twisting and narrowing, then straightened out. In seconds, it formed itself into a folded paper wolf, its flesh decorated with all the words Uttisa had written.
The crone fished in her robe for a circular talisman, which she raised to her left eye. “You’re his thing, Dunos. You belong to Grija. You’re death’s pet and he’s come to claim you.”
“No, no I’m not.” Dunos grabbed the paper in his left hand and fed the wolf to the candle flame. “I won’t be his pet!”
The flame caught and the wolf vanished in a bright flash of light. Yet instead of hearing the hungry snap of flame, the lonely howl of a wolf echoed as smoke drifted up into the dimness. And though his hand remained in the flame, he felt no pain, no warmth, and somehow wondered if the god of Death had not claimed him anyway.
Suddenly, the hut’s door exploded inward. Shattered planking gouged the dirt floor. The door’s remains hung from one twisted hinge and, in the moment before the night’s breeze extinguished the candle, Dunos caught sight of hulking forms bursting into the hovel. Broad shoulders smashed the doorjambs, and harsh, clicking, guttural sounds filled the hut, as if the creatures were gargling sharp stones.
Uttisa screamed, but her cry ended abruptly. Something warm and wet splashed over Dunos. He closed his eyes, then wiped blood from them. They’ve killed her!
He didn’t want to open his eyes again because he didn’t want to see what the creatures were doing. The crack of bones and the wet sucking scrape of teeth stripping flesh communicated more than he could have seen. He decided that seeing would be better than imagining, so he opened his eyes and found he was half-right.
He should have been in complete darkness, but his left arm glowed with a pale grey light that cast no shadows. Other parts of his body glowed as well-the parts that had been splashed with Uttisa’s blood. Most curious of all, the glow around his left arm showed him a limb both hale and hearty.
The three squatting creatures gorged on the crone, ignoring him entirely. They were completely hairless and, though he could see that their flesh was scaled, the ghostly glowing imparted no hint of color. The triangular teeth that filled their maws made short work of the witch. They lifted their chins when they swallowed, but had no discernible necks, and their powerful shoulders hunched above the rounded domes of their heads. He saw no ears, and their large round eyes had the flat black quality of wet river stones.
They squatted on short but powerful legs. Their long arms easily snapped the witch’s bones, and their long talons dug marrow from the hollows. They sucked the grey jelly from their fingers, gurgling with delight.
Dunos had no idea what the creatures were, and didn’t want to remain to find out. He darted for the doorway before any of them had a chance to react, then he ran as fast as he could. His left arm almost felt as if it were moving normally. He glanced back once to check on pursuit. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t slow him a bit.
He ran down the forest trail toward Muronek, thinking that he could raise the alarm. Then, as he neared the forest edge, the light of multiple fires alerted him to greater danger. The town was under attack, and somewhere his mother and father were in danger.
Or are already dead!
No! Dunos poured his anxiety and fear into his running, and sped through a ruined gate. All around him monsters abounded, dragging shrieking people from their homes. Many bled from small wounds, others had lost limbs. People collapsed in the street, their lives pumping into puddles, screaming until death took them.
Fierce fires lit the town. Burning people ran through the streets until they fell and roasted. He could feel the heat, but it remained distant somehow. He ran on, leaping human pyres, rejoicing as one of the vhangxi staggered from one inferno, the beast’s upper body on fire. He’d named the creatures after a demon from the Third Hell, and darted aside as the burning one reached for him.
Up Green Dragon Road he sprinted, then cut north on Seamster Lane. He refused to look west, toward the home his grandparents inhabited, but as he turned west on Gold Dragon, nothing but fire remained of the houses on either side. He continued running, his gait faltering only when he came to a body lying in the roadway. The fire’s heat had already scorched the gold robe, and the person’s head had been ripped clean from her body, but there was no mistaking his grandmother.
He stared at the golden-white flames blazing through the house. The fire roared and wood popped loudly. Somewhere within lay his parents. A lump rose into his throat. His knees quivered and he would have fallen, but then he heard another sound. It came from within and, though it could not possibly be, he heard his mother calling his name.
Heedless of his own danger, Dunos dashed into the fire. On his third step into the building, a floorboard gave way beneath him. As he fell into the shallow space beneath the house, timbers above cracked. The last thing he saw as he looked up was the house’s main beam splitting in half and crashing down upon him.
Dunos had no idea how long he lay in the ashes that had been his grandparents’ home; the ashes that had been the town of Muronek. Night had flowed into day, and he guessed several days had passed, since the ashes from which he emerged had long since grown cold. Ash tiger-striped him in grey and black.
He moved cautiously through the ruins at first, then more boldly. Skeletal dogs and feral cats skulked through the town. More majestic, and more numerous, carrion birds perched on the highest points available, descending in flocks to chase dogs away from the choicest bits of food.
Dunos didn’t want to see what they were eating. As he explored he picked up a battered pot here, a blackened knife there and, toward the outskirts, he stripped robes and sandals-all oversized-from half-eaten corpses. He washed the clothes and himself in the river outside the town, then dressed and started walking.
He had no more idea where he was going than he did why he survived the attack and fire. All he knew was that he had gotten away, and had to get still further. He had vowed he would not be Grija’s pet. The more distance he put between himself and such slaughter, the closer he’d be to keeping that vow.