The Land of Broken Roads

The pup was likely too far to see Dirt’s thoughts, so he shot to his feet and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Run, Socks! Run! The Devourer is here!” Then he stood and waited for an answer, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Was Socks even watching right now? Hopefully, but there was no immediate reply.

Dirt knew he should run and help if he could, but how would he ever find him? Socks could tell where he was and see the landscape at significant distances with ghost sight, but Dirt had neither of those faculties. He’d need them both to have any hope of success. Perhaps he should just start running vaguely northward?

That might work until he got to the thicker part of the forest, where he wouldn’t be able to see the stars. And for all Dirt knew, the other tribe wasn’t straight north in the first place. Perhaps it was northwest or northeast, and Dirt would run all night and end up several miles out of the way.

If he could even go fast enough to find Socks in time, which he couldn’t. Dirt wasn’t even sure how fast Socks could run anymore, but in the summer when the pup was smaller, his fastest had been terrifying. It was certainly faster now.

“Socks! Soooocks!” he shouted again.

The earth rumbled beneath him and Dirt froze in place, listening with all his might. His blood ran cold, as did the slight, frigid breeze licking his face. It was freezing now, not long after sundown. Shockingly cold. Was that natural? Such a drop, so quickly? It could be. This was still the deepest part of winter.

With a crackling sound that exploded into a boom, Face’s old tree burst into flame, just a few paces away. It burned with fervor, flames erupting into a swirling, towering pillar that reached as high as the wind.

The heat singed Dirt’s forelocks and eyebrows. He turned his face away, blocking the heat with one hand. He stepped back, then back again. Already he could feel the fear rising in the town as they heard the sound and saw the flash of light.

A spout of flame slithered from the main pillar and twisted downward, and Dirt barely jumped to the side in time to avoid its sudden strike. The ground hissed where the flame pushed into it, penetrating deep into the loose dirt atop the grave.

That was not the only one. Another spout of flame twisted away from the main pillar and shot into the ground, then another, and another. The ground began to hiss as sickly smoke squeezed out of the earth.

Dirt spared a moment to turn his mind to his mana body, and just as he expected, the world around him was full of magic. Brilliantly effortless spells, dizzying in their complexity, spun all around him. They were too vast and quick-moving for him to fully comprehend, but he saw parts. Fire, there. And there, motion.

On a desperate whim, he tried to inject a word of his own into the largest spell, the sigil for empty. It might have worked against a lesser mind, but Dirt’s will was as a drop of dew sliding off a polished granite mountain compared to the Devourer’s. That left no question about what was happening. The Devourer was still here.

A flaming, skeletal hand pushed up from the ground, nothing more than bone and a few blackened sinews. The rest of the flesh fell off as ash. The fire lifted it, drawing it upward like a puppet. More of the skeleton rose as the grave gave way, organs and fat sizzling in the pressure of the flame. It rose to standing, and the hole it left behind glowed the red of an iron smelter. It took an unsteady step toward Dirt, one burning arm forward.

The town was about to become a battleground. Another immolated corpse pushed up from the ground a few paces away, then a third. This was just the beginning, too, Dirt was certain.

Dirt couldn’t let that happen. There was no chance the children would survive if the Devourer fully manifested here, or was even slightly serious about killing them. The only hope any of them had—the only hope Dirt had, for that matter—was that the dead wolf was trying to draw out his living grandson using Dirt as a focal point. Threaten the pet until the owner appears.

The dead wolf had no mind that Dirt could see, and he prayed that meant it couldn’t see his thoughts either. Just his actions. He swallowed hard, steeling himself, and shouted, “Socks, I’m coming to you! We have to get out of here!”

Then he ran straight southward, the wrong direction. He filled himself with mana and sprinted faster than was wise in the darkness. Only a moment later, he hopped straight over the barbican, and the bright pillar of flame lit up the patches of snow in orange.

“I have to lure it away! Get out and fight if you have to, Antelmu!” he shouted with his mind, and that was all he had time for before he was too far.

Without even looking back, he shouted again, “Socks, wait for me! Turn around!”

He created lights and sent them ahead, a row of them to fly far enough in front of him to let him see where he was going. Gods in Glory, let it work! Come, you old dead wolf, come chase me! Your prey is running!

The skies blackened overhead and became covered with angry, rolling clouds that filled with so much lightning that it made one long rumble of thunder. Turning back, he saw the flame pillar had gone out, which was such a relief he almost slowed down. It might be working! Might.

Instead, he ran faster, and as he did, he had to focus more and more on the path, just the path, and little else. The constant flashing overhead made it hard to watch the much smaller light of his magic candles, and any tree root or rock might send him rolling.

“Socks! Come! Hurry!” he shouted again. He ran ever southward, away from the village and from Socks; at least, he hoped he was still going south. Without the stars, he had no point of reference.

A wolf’s face of pure, vivid lightning descended from the clouds, larger than Father’s. It fell with mouth open to consume him, and just slow enough to give him time to avoid it if he ran sideways. The sound it made when it hit the ground made Dirt’s teeth rattle, and it landed so close sparks in the ground caused his legs to lock up for an instant, sending him crashing. He rolled to his feet before his mind even registered the flash of bright pain it had caused, but his legs were wobbly for a moment longer.

The lightning ceased for a time and the world became black, save for Dirt’s weak little lights showing the path a few paces ahead. He made them glow brighter and kept running. Thank Grace it was winter, or the dead wolf would probably be making it rain, too, and then he wouldn’t see a thing.

After the briefest of respites, the lightning returned, drawing across the clouds like it was winding onto a spool. It gathered into another gigantic wolf face, which bared its fangs and snarled. All the world roared and it descended for him a second time.

As before, it was a close thing. Fear of pain made him hesitate and he just barely got out of the way, but this time he jumped at the last second and the shock never hit him. So what would happen if he just stood there? Would the Devourer simply kill him, or keep him alive to keep acting as bait? Dirt preferred not to find out. Better to get far enough away that the Devourer had no chance to find Socks. And then, maybe the dead wolf would keep him alive to try again someday. Maybe.

He kept running, mana cycling inside him to speed his legs. He hit a long, curved depression shaped like a bowl and suddenly the snow was deep as his waist, slowing him terribly. The crackling in the sky slowed slightly and Dirt felt eyes on him, watching. He paused, since the Devourer was also drawing back. “Socks?” he said aloud, hoping the pup hadn’t actually come.

Dirt kicked through the snow and did his best to hurry through it and was nearly at the edge of the depression, where the trees started growing again, when he heard a high-pitched howl, which almost sounded wolf-like.

He turned toward the sound, but whatever had made it was still hiding in the shadow at the edge of the depression. He caught motion behind him and there, not ten paces away, was the tiniest wolf he’d ever seen. It was scarcely as tall as he was, the deep gray of adolescence instead of the black of adulthood, and that predatory stare on its face would have been quite intimidating if it was bigger.

“Hello,” he said with his mind, reaching out to the poor little runt; but he quickly realized it only had the mind of a beast and it saw him as prey.

“What are you? You can’t be a real wolf,” he thought again, hoping the tiny wolf might wake up somehow.

The creature regarded him silently, its yellow eyes catching the glare of Dirt’s magical lights, and crept forward through the snow.

Dirt opened his mind sight wider and found not one more, but seven others hunting together, all eagerly tasting his scent on the chill air. In their minds, he saw himself from several different angles and knew he was already surrounded.

He sent them all the idea of ‘friend’ in the language of wolves, a simple enough concept for even Dirt to replicate. He pushed it into their minds like it was their own thought, and for a brief time it seemed to work. His scent grew familiar to them and his appearance was no longer related to hunger; but it didn’t last. The Devourer sent thoughts of his own, unrelentingly ferocious, and pushed aside what Dirt had done.

Dirt turned and ran, knowing that would just make them pounce, which it did. Only his mana-fueled burst of speed kept him out of their jaws. He just had to get a good start and run as fast as he could—there was no way they’d catch him then.

He broke from the encirclement as a young male snapped its jaws where his legs had been, snarling. The sound was just like something Socks would make, just higher-pitched, and it unnerved him. Fighting a wolf, even a tiny stupid one, was not something he was mentally prepared for.

The wolves gave chase, running with incredible speed, which shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d seen Socks run, after all. Even a miniature wolf should—

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Teeth closed on his ankles and tripped him, even though he pulled out of the bite. No sooner did he hit the ground than several pairs of jaws closed on him, snarling ferociously as they ripped and tore with all their might. The mana inside him kept their teeth from puncturing his skin, but they made a mess of his sleeves and pant legs. He tried to roll and push them off, but they were too wily and refused to let him get up. If he pushed one, two more replaced it.

One got its snout under his shoulder and flipped him over to close its jaws around his throat. Even without breaking his skin, the pressure squeezed his windpipe and cut off his air. Dirt panicked, realizing they could actually kill him if he wasn’t careful. He caught the one on top of him around the chest with his mind and hurled it away as hard as he could. The rebound force hit Dirt in the rib cage and made his bones creak.

The wolf squeaked in surprise, and again in pain when it hit a tree branch. Dirt felt a flash of guilt, but didn’t have much time for that as a second wolf used the opening to bite his throat as well.

He noticed a surge of mana that didn’t come from him and the wolf’s jaws closed much tighter, fangs pressing so hard into his skin that the mana sizzled as its teeth scraped his neck bones. He twisted and got an arm free to jam a thumb in its eye. That did nothing to loosen its jaws.

Another wolf bit his thigh, high up near his hips, with mana-infused strength. Dirt thrashed as they tried to pull him apart. Another wolf stuck its maw in his shirt and bit him on the side, just under the rib cage.

Dirt punched and hit with his free arm, but even with mana to strengthen it, he had no leverage. They were holding him across too many joints. In desperation he fumbled until he found his dagger hilt, pulled it out, and started stabbing. The one on his throat bled all over his torso, leaving him a sticky mess, but when it realized it was dying, it whimpered and slunk off to die nearby.

They gave him no time to sit up before the next one came for his throat, but he was ready and slashed with the dagger, scoring a long cut that ran from its cheek all the way down past the shoulder.

He twisted and convulsed and found himself free for just an instant. He braced and kicked one in the front shoulder, burning mana to make it as strong as possible. It should have crushed bone and sent the beast flying, but the Devourer’s mana protected it and it hardly moved.

From behind, a wolf closed its jaws around the wrist with the knife, but Dirt lifted the blade with his mind and slashed with that instead, giving one, then another, then another, nasty cuts as he swung it in arcs around him. They might just be tiny cousins of real wolves, but killing one was almost unconscionable to him, even if these were enemies. It was such an impossible idea in the first place that when it became possible it seemed like a sacrilege.

They might have fled then; Dirt saw them begin to reconsider how much they were willing to risk to take him down. He was poor prey in the first place, hardly enough flesh to go around. But it wasn’t up to them—the Devourer sent another mental command, and they attacked.

Dirt stabbed upward at the first one that jumped on him, slicing deep into the torso and when he sliced the knife sideways to open it up, it died almost instantly. He took that moment to turn and run with all his might.

The wolves chased, hot on his heels. He held the dagger behind him with his mind, slashing it back and forth to keep them away, and it helped. Even if they’d had no mana, Dirt might have had a hard time getting away in the choppy terrain; they were just as fast and twice as agile as he was.

Dirt made it perhaps a mile, zigzagging through the trees, before another pack joined the first, adding five more pursuers to replace the ones Dirt had injured. Two sped up to run on either side of him, and a third ran out in front and slowed down a bit, trying to hem him in. He slowed, letting it think it was winning, then jumped right over with a burst of speed.

He was almost proud of himself until he missed a divot in the ground and landed funny, losing his balance. Fortunately, he managed to roll to his feet without losing much speed, but he realized he’d dropped the knife.

Dirt spun and charged back toward the wolves, who moved out of his way only to snap at him as he went past. Thank Grace, the blade glinted and he snatched it with his mind.

-I am coming, little Dirt. Keep moving,- said Socks.

Dirt screamed with his mind, “No, don’t! It’s a trap! It’s the Devourer!” Socks gave no reply, likely too far away to hear him. Did he dare warn Socks aloud?

Yes, he did. Socks simply had to stay away, at any cost. “Don’t come!” shouted Dirt. The wolves circled him, ready to pounce. He should probably get running again before they did. He took another deep breath and shouted, “It’s the Devourer! Don’t come!”

Dirt swiped at the wolves with the blade, who shifted and growled and snarled, just out of reach. He lunged for one just to make a point, and it easily danced away.

It was then he realized he was completely lost. The sky overhead was still dark with low clouds and flashes of high lightning, not a single star visible. Was he even still going south? What if the Devourer was guiding the wolves and the storms to nudge him gently back around until he ended up at the village? And for that matter, which direction was away from Socks? The pup wasn’t close enough yet to be spotted, or the Devourer wouldn’t be running in storms and chasing Dirt.

A big wolf shot in for Dirt’s leg, and although he spun away, the beast caught his torn pants and yanked him backward. Mana offered no help there, not without any leverage, and Dirt was pulled off his feet. He was slashing with the blade before he hit the ground and only felt one strike. It was a lucky one, though, right in the throat of an unlucky wolf. It made a gasping, sputtering sound as it stepped back and collapsed.

That gave him enough time to get up and start running. The direction didn’t matter, if the other option was waiting until he was dragged down and killed. Surely more wolves were on their way, too, and Dirt prayed to nothing that no real wolves would show up to help.

-MY SON IS A FOOL, AND I CANNOT RISK HIM GETTING CAUGHT. I AM COMING. RUN!- roared the Father of Wolves. Dirt felt a mighty clash of wills in the sky that resounded in more worlds than one. A beam of light punched through the clouds, far off in the distance, and Dirt knew it was southward. Father was guiding him.

A moment later, the Devourer’s will won out and the clouds closed up. The beam of light vanished, replaced by another one in almost the complete other direction. Dirt would not be fooled, however, and sprinted with all the mana he could gather straight southward. He had to push his lights out ever farther forward just to see any obstacles in time as he ran with all the passion and ferocity he possessed. Even the wolves began to lag behind.

A large feline almost the size of a wolf leaped down from a tree, but Dirt brushed it to the side with his mind and kept running. Had that been a cat? He almost turned to look.

He broke from the trees into a rough, rolling field. Somehow, that empty darkness was worse than dodging trees had been. The unbroken darkness hid terrors, he was sure; predators just waiting their chance to come for him.

The Devourer called up a wind that blew in from the plain with hurricane force. It slowed him down considerably, and he did his best to put up a wall of mental force like Socks did. It helped somewhat, but Dirt’s mind didn’t comfortably bend in that direction and extra focus slowed him down, too.

The cold was the worst part of the wind; it blew right through all the holes and tears in his clothing so badly that he might as well not be wearing any. The most tattered parts acted almost like kites to slow him down even further, but he didn’t dare strip or he’d freeze to death before anything else killed him.

Dirt ran for all he was worth. He sprinted faster than his mind could keep up with, praying that his legs would keep the rhythm and he wouldn’t trip on a big rock. He just had to keep away from Socks until Father arrived, and then all would be well.

No, there would probably still be a fight. Socks had long scars on his belly from the Devourer during a time when Mother and Father were both right there guarding him. But it was a better chance than none, which is what Socks had if Dirt couldn’t run faster.

The exertion required to keep running after so long was starting to cause problems. His mana body felt raw and increasingly inflexible and Dirt channeled a wide, steady flow of mana through it. He wasn’t designed for this. Thank Grace he had some experience, and knew he could keep pushing before he hurt himself, but it was starting to hurt.

The Devourer kept trying to turn him back, likely knowing that if Father wanted Dirt to go one way, he wanted him to go the other. When the wind didn’t do the job, heavy snow began to fall, so thick Dirt might as well have been running with his eyes closed. He could only see ten paces or so ahead, and even that was unclear. The snow got into his clothes and melted against his warm skin, then froze in the wind, and Dirt began to feel truly miserable.

He felt a gentle tug inside him, readjusting his course. He followed it, turning southward again, and kept going.

The cold, the constant mana drain, the excessive focus, it was all starting to tire him beyond what he was capable of. But he only had to do it once, he told himself. Just long enough for Father to get here. Even if it killed him, he had to keep going. Discipline and sincerity, he reminded himself. Discipline to hold his hand in a flame and not flinch. Sincerity to give everything he had, holding nothing back.

Run, Dirt. He tried to chant it to himself along with his steps, but his legs were moving too fast and his mind was too tired to keep up.

Somewhere ahead of him, mana surged accompanied by loud cracking sounds, but he didn’t dare slow down. Not until he found the lake, which he almost ran right onto despite its surface now being covered entirely by jagged spikes of ice. Even with mana protecting his feet, it would be too uneven to run on, and probably slippery. He turned to run around it, losing precious time, and hoping it wasn’t a very big one. Or a river. He couldn’t see far enough across to know.

He only went about twenty steps before he slipped and crashed hard, then slid another ten paces across snow-covered ice. The entire lake hadn’t been spiked, it turned out. No, there was plenty of smooth ice under two inches of snow where he couldn’t see it.

Dirt felt the tug in his chest pulling him southward again, and he turned and did his best to cross the frozen water. As expected, he couldn’t run. Every foot had to step in a steep crevice between two spikes, and there was no way to do that quickly.

It occurred to him that all the Devourer had to do to kill him was melt the lake and refreeze it when Dirt fell in. Hopefully, the dead wolf still preferred live bait.

He heard howling behind him, but the wolves didn’t pursue him onto the ice. Which was just as well, since they likely wouldn’t be able to move any faster than he could. More than once, he slipped and would have impaled himself on a two-foot spike of ice, but the mana protected his skin. The hardest part was getting back up afterward; there was nowhere to grab or push off.

Stumbling, sore, and soaking wet, he finally made it to the other side. The wind roared all around him and the snowfall never slowed. Thunder rumbled as he trudged up the incline through the bushes. He really needed to pause to warm up. Did he dare? What would be worse, freezing to death now, or not going far enough before he fell?

He summoned ten hot embers and walked for a moment instead of running. He held them close to his body, especially anywhere there was a hole. He had to burn them hot enough to sting before the heat started doing much good—the cold had soaked that far into him.

A LITTLE FARTHER, HUMAN. KEEP MOVING, said Father. A surge of strength filled him. Not just mana, but life. Vigor. It felt like when he’d eaten one of Home’s berries, so long ago. He’d been fleeing the Devourer then as well, it occurred to him.

“Thank you!” he shouted. He started jogging, but waited to break into a full run for just a moment longer so he could soak up as much heat as he could. Then he ran again, sprinting for all he was worth.

Dirt dodged around trees that grew to hedge his way, past tiny wolves and other things that charged in to stop him. He danced away from lightning and fought through hailstones the size of his fist.

Spikes of pure stone shot up out of nowhere with enough force to stab past his mana. The first one, he avoided by pure luck, getting stabbed inside his upper arm instead of his lower belly. After that, he watched with his mana body for surges and spells, and quickly came to realize that the Devourer was now trying to kill him.

Spike after spike stabbed at him. Most he avoided, sensing where the mana was gathering, but one got him in the flesh of his foot, right through his shoe. He refused to slow down, even though he could feel how much blood he was leaving behind. Another came so close to his body that it cut his cheek and sent him tumbling when he crashed into it.

The sky roared in frustration and the ground opened beneath him. He fell, flailing, trying to catch anything, and stopped after only a heartbeat. His lights showed him a ring of stone teeth just now beginning to close on him, but before they did, he shot upward and into the sky. A shadow the size of a mountain passed beneath him, and he slammed down into soft fur. Father had found him.

HOLD TIGHT. MY SON IS CLOSE.