The mines were dry and silent, with a variety of aria marks cast in the walls. Idris perused them for a while.

  “Stone magicians, of course,” he said to Lila, pointing to the mark of Magus Arundale’s attunement, the diamond enclosed around two circles. “Here is the weaver mark.” The weaver mark consisted of a series of forever-interlocking rings and shone in gold, suggesting that they had placed lights throughout the tunnels. “This looks like the fire mark, but it must be a branch I am unfamiliar with. One that deals with explosives, perhaps?”

  “How does the aria feel?” said Riette.

  “Strong.” Idris listened hard, looking for abnormalities or any repetition. “I do not hear any spells, but the aria is powerful.” He frowned. “What would Layton want in here?” he said, more to himself than anything else.

  “What kind of mine is this? Precious stones?” said Lila.

  “Not this far south,” said Riette. “Coal, I expect. Or iron.”

  Idris shifted his jaw. “He would have no need for either of those things.”

  “Thralls?” she said.

  “No. Only skeletons available here, and old ones at that. Nothing he wants.”

  “Maybe he only came here to shelter from the weather, to camp for the night,” said Lila.

  “We will only make a small detour, then,” said Idris. “I want to find the camp, if there was one – or the second pentagon.”

  “I will go ahead,” said Lila, taking out her sword.

  “Good idea,” said Riette. “I will watch the entrance.”

  They moved slowly, into the deep darkness, away from the sound of wind and rain. The mine creaked and rocks clattered somewhere further down, but the entryway was relatively well-kept. It must only have stopped producing two or three years prior – or at least stopped being worked so that the miners could fight in the war. Pickaxes still sat against the wall. Carts filled with rubble waited on tracks.

  “There are many people who died here,” Idris said, rather absent-mindedly some minutes later, and was surprised when Lila held out an arm and stopped him from going further.

  “Is this what we’re looking for?” she said, gesturing to the floor.

  A second, near-identical pentagon sprawled along the rock floor.

  “That is exactly what we are looking for,” Idris whispered, moving past her. “Can we get some light?”

  “I saw some flares,” said Riette. “Let me...”

  With a hiss, the flare came to life, glowing in fire-aria red, stinking of fire magic like sulphur in the back of Idris’s throat. In the scarlet light, the pentagon looked ghastly, dripping with blood and malintent. But it also glinted off something else, in the walls.

  “This mine...” Idris took a deep breath, reached up to touch the glittering object. “This is a crystal mine.”

  “For clarifying crystals?” said Lila.

  “I think so. They do not hurt to touch, so they cannot be sapping crystals.” He thought. “This must be where Layton got the second crystal,” he said to himself. “But what was that crystal for?”

  “If these are clarifying crystals,” said Lila, using her minimal knowledge of Idris’s craft, “then this pentagon was placed just right so the thralls would keep moving. I think.”

  “You are most correct,” he said, looking out towards the front of the cave again. “With a pentagon this size and all of the crystals in the walls, absolutely.”

  There was a small pile of ash, suggesting a camp fire, and a sack where Layton may have rested his head, but besides that, there was nothing to indicate where he went afterwards.

  “I suppose this is where Her Majesty’s trail went cold,” said Riette.

  “Likely before then,” said Idris.

  “It is a good place to get lost in,” she said, peering back out towards the mine entrance. “Close little pathways. Nowhere an army or the Queen’s escort would like to get stuck in.”

  “He is a real tactician, that’s for sure,” said Idris to himself, irritated.

  “Back out?” said Lila.

  “I think so. There is nothing else for us here. Oh, except...” He gestured to the marks on the floor. “Do you mind if I sketch these?”

  “Do you have enough light?”

  “Yes. It will not take long...”

  Lila had just passed him a piece of parchment and a quill when, from somewhere outside, there was a foreign noise. It sounded like a clicking, then a rumble, far off.

  “What was that?” said Riette, turning the flare to try and see.

  “Rock fall?” said Lila. “I don’t imagine these old tunnels are very stable...”

  But Riette pulled her sword and stood alert.

  Idris abandoned his sketches. The sound was rhythmic, coming closer.

  “I -”

  The death aria came second, flooding through his bones.

  “Oh, bells,” he whispered, stuffing the parchment into his pocket. “Salt.”

  “Salt?” said Lila, frowning, just as Riette settled her stance and dropped the flare on the ground.

  “Wolves,” the soldier said.

  Coming down the tunnel entrance, lit monstrously in clawing shadows by the red flare, was a pack of thin, shabby wolves. Their fur was blotchy with decay, the hinges on their jaws showing through sunken cheeks; saliva-like mucus dripped from their bared teeth. Grey fire burned in their hungry eyes. The death aria leaked from them like juice from a rotting fruit, pungent in Idris’s nose, deafening in his ears.

  It was calm. Controlled. Layton’s.

  “He knows we are here, he is trying to trap us, slow us,” said Idris, holding his salt vial in his left hand, his right hand on the handle of his grandfather’s stiletto.

  “Lila,” Riette ordered, “formation three.”

  “Form-?” said Idris, baffled, but Lila nodded and drew her own sword, moving to stand at Idris’s right side.

  “Sir Idris,” said Riette, “stay on my heels. We punch out and through. If we get separated, move through the gorge, we will find you. Do not come back.”

  “What? No -”

  “Follow my lead,” said Lila.

  “Duty first!” said Riette, in some sort of battle cry.

  “Duty always!” Lila responded.

  And Riette sliced her sword down at the first wolf.

  The chaos Idris was expecting did not come. Riette’s blow drove deep into the shoulder of the pack leader, which barely made a sound. Undead animals did not behave like live ones. Instead of howling and retreating, the wolf moved through the attack, came right up on the commander and lurched forwards in an ugly swipe. She sidestepped and swung the sword down again, lobbing off the head of the creature with a sickening crunch. But the other wolves did not waver. They continued on.

  “Move against them!” said Riette.

  Idris counted quickly – ten blocked the path ahead – but the aria felt like it had control of much, much more. What had Layton been doing out there? Why had he felt the need to animate so many corpses?

  “Riette, this is a mistake,” he said, but she was not listening.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Lila kicked one of the wolves in the head, aimed for the neck with her sword and missed. The wolves’ behaviour was strange, even for thralls. They were not fighting back, simply pushing through the women -

  Towards him. They only wanted Idris.

  “Stop,” said Idris, touching Lila’s arm.

  “What? No,” she said, pulling him through the tunnel as the creatures continued ever on, pushing forwards. Ahead, Riette hacked at the legs of them, driving them back.

  “They will keep coming, we cannot stop them -”

  “Out!” said Riette. There was now a gap in the pack they could get through. “Everyone out!”

  As soon as Idris entered the hole, the remaining wolves filled it in – even the ones with missing forelegs or with parts of their faces gone – like they were herding him. Lila cleaved through one with relative ease and frowned.

  “I don’t rightly like this,” she said.

  “Me neither,” said Idris.

  In the gorge, it was dark. Riette stood in front of the mine entrance, scowling at the determination of the dead wolves, as Idris stared wildly around, trying to pinpoint where the energy was strongest, trying to figure out Layton’s purpose.

  “Salt,” he said firmly to Riette. “Salt them, now.”

  She pulled out the jar he had given her and flung a heavy amount across the tunnel’s entrance. The moment it touched the wolves, the aria began to burn in florid, wispy flames, and eventually, the animals faltered and lay still.

  “What was that?” she said, breathless.

  “Layton’s attempt to – wait,” said Idris, still feeling the aria burning in his blood. “Wait, there is still...”

  And, sitting on the walkways, crags, ladders, gorge edges, anywhere they could perch, were hundreds of ravens, staring right at them.

  It was oddly silent. The ravens did not move. Their feathers rustled in the chill wind but they did not caw or scratch or take flight. They simply sat, and stared, and waited, as if the very darkness of the night itself waited, feathered and beady-eyed, for something to happen.

  “Are they...?” whispered Lila.

  “Dead?” said Idris. “I think so.”

  He felt it, the song of hundreds of tiny corpses, being conducted by a single man, somewhere far away but boring into the marrow of his bones, a song which whispered, bring me my boy and nothing else.

  “What now?” said Riette, following their gaze.

  “If you can get back up there, I think dropping salt on them would be wise,” Idris said. “This is too many to target individually and I do not think they will wait and let me remove the aria from them.”

  “I can try.” She hesitated. “What do they want?”

  “Watch,” said Idris.

  He took a step backwards. The birds shivered collectively.

  “Hello, Father,” he called, his voice echoing strangely in the haphazard walls.

  Every single raven cocked its head to the left, with a shuffling sound that made his neck itch.

  “Oh, that’s awful,” said Lila.

  “Rather obsessive, you must admit,” he said to the birds, taking another step backwards. To Lila, he whispered, “Be ready.”

  “For what?”

  “As soon as I get out of here, they will move. When that happens, Riette can climb up. You can, too. Get as much caustic salt as you can and rain it down on these terrible things.”

  “What if -?”

  “No ‘what if.’ I cannot go quickly, you will find me with ease. Follow me.”

  He took three more steps back. The birds hopped forwards in a cloud. The rungs of the ladders were free.

  “Come and get me,” he said, to Layton’s hundreds of eyes, and he backed up into the gorge’s single-file cracks.

  There was a sound like a book being flicked through at a fantastic pace, and the minimal light that the moon provided was suddenly gone. Idris swallowed hard, used his hands to feel for the walls. He wished he could block out the cacophony of the aria; it blasted through his body like earth tremors, filling every sense.

  “Do you hear me?” he said, his voice soft. “I know you can.”

  Then, the music changed.

  It had been rather calm, melodic and plodding, in the way that a thrall with a simple task would walk towards his own demise without a care in the world. At once it became insistent. Urgent.

  The rustling of feathers increased. The darkness shuddered above him.

  Idris turned into the gorge and started to walk as quickly as he could. He could not see his feet or his hands, only feel his way through the dark, surrounded by the sound of birds enclosing him. They stank, he could smell them now – like drowned pillows and musty attics and droppings. The air felt hot with them, with the aria.

  Idris did not know why he had to keep moving, but he felt it like a desperate need. When he paused, he was sure he felt a beak in his back, a nipping at his wrist, so he did not stop again. It was clear to him that the birds were trying to push him somewhere, move him away from his protectors, but he did not want to go too far – if he walked somewhere that the women could not see, the salt would be useless. He was turned around, confused, disorientated, filled with the death aria that assaulted his every thought; there was no time to think or make a plan. There was the dark, and the song, and the movement.

  It felt like hours, but Idris was sure it must only have been minutes until the gorge’s tunnel suddenly opened out. He stopped abruptly on the edge of another deep pit, pressed himself to the wall. The ravine was so deep that he could not see the cliffs descending into it, only feel the warm air coming from inside the earth. The ravens shattered around him like ink spraying from a broken quill and then turned back on him, still not cawing but forceful, now. They pushed in around Idris, using their numbers to move him by force. Their little talons and beaks snipped and gripped at his skin, at his face; he put his arms over his head and tried to shuffle along the thin track above the gaping abyss.

  With a lurch, his riding prosthetic slipped on the wet rock.

  Idris slammed himself backwards, heart racing. Rocks rumbled down into the crack. He could not pause for breath or to regain his balance before the ravens were on him again, picking at his clothes, tugging at his hair. While they did not seem to want to hurt him, they did not want him standing still. There was purpose. He was not fulfilling it. His safety was unimportant.

  He tried shooing them away but they did not respond to his movements at all, except to try and drag him further along the treacherous path. The more he moved, the more certain he was that he was going to slip.

  “Idris?” he heard, somewhere – he was sure it was Riette – but there was no way for him to call back. He was cocooned in the feathers of a murder.

  “Idris, we can’t see you!” another voice shouted.

  Throwing caustic salt on an aria wielder was considered a particularly awful punishment. Idris understood their hesitance. But his circumstances were not much improved and he did not see a way forward except to do what the ravens wanted.

  Carefully, he continued on, holding his breath so he did not smell them, trying to focus on the feeling beneath his hands and his left foot, dragging his prosthetic behind him; it was the safest way to make sure he did not slip with a misplaced step again.

  And then the gorge’s hair-thin path was gone, and he was standing on fresh dirt, and the cliff behind him was less craggy.

  Idris chanced a breath through his mouth and tried to look through the wings and feet that blocked him in, but he could see nothing beyond his cage. The bleeding nicks on his cheeks and neck stung in the cool air. He could not hear Riette or Lila anymore – all sound was gone except the aria.

  “Go away!” he said to the birds, waving his arms again. He was able to push through the flock but they filled in the space he left too rapidly for him to see accurately. It was too dark. “Layton, stop this!” he said instead.

  The ground was uneven beneath his already unsure feet, and there was no wall to follow, anymore. The birds made confident movement difficult. Idris walked, but he did not know where he was going. Twice he kicked right into trees and bushes. He was out of the ravine but he had no idea where he was now or where he was going. If he ever got out, he would not be able to find his way back, not even when the sun rose.

  The claustrophobia was becoming too much. The disturbance in his vision was nauseating. The sound was beyond everything. He wished he had brought Black Star or at least something he could take a huge swing with, take out a few dozen birds at a time. He groped for tree trunks and felt decaying feathers and cold flesh, and he squinted against the continuous fluttering of wings, and the panic rose in his chest and throat until he thought if he did not scream, he might die.

  What happened if he stopped? Did they pick at him until he died? And if he did not? Was Layton waiting for him?

  “Get away,” he hissed again, waved his arm -

  And the ground vanished beneath him.

  With a hard jolt, he hit his backside on the ground and scraped his back against a tree root, and he continued to fall. The ravens, intent on corralling him, tried to swarm against him again, but Idris was tumbling too fast for them to get a good circle around him. He felt a blow on his head, a snag on his sleeve, and he put his arms up to protect his face – and he kept rolling and falling and slamming his elbows and knees -

  Until, finally, he stopped, and the world stopped spinning, and he did not hear the ravens or smell their stink and the death aria was... gone.

  Breathless, dizzy, Idris looked up.

  The air felt warmer, thicker. The light – there was light, now, yellow on the edges and glittery. There were flowers, too full for the autumn.

  And, kneeling in front of him with a kind hand extended...

  Willard.

  Willard, hazy in spring dawn, smiling, his big brown eyes glowing with good-humour.

  “All right there, Master Dead-Talker, we got you -” said Willard, before Idris burst out a hard sob and threw his arms around his friend. Idris clung on tight, relieved and embarrassed; Willard hugged him without restraint. “There now, Idris. ‘S’all fine now.”

  “I am so sorry, Willard,” Idris gasped, his voice a thin wail. “I am sorry, I was so awful -”

  “It ain’t important. You’re safe, eh? Took quite a tumble. How’d’you get yourself into all these pickles, hmm? You shoulda been wearing that fancy hare’s foot, silly. Where’s Miss Lila? Thought she was protecting you.”

  “It... I... oh, Willard, I...”

  “Well now, let’s take a little look at you.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Fae realm.” Willard pulled back, tilted Idris’s face one way, then the other. “Me pa has scouts out on your trail, just for back-up, y’know? He said it’d be right proper for me to make sure you didn’t get yourself hurt and it was a good thing, too. All them ravens, cut your face right badly. Knotty stuff.”

  “I fell into the fae realm?”

  “Naw, dumb-dumb,” said Willard, grinning. “You fell into a ditch. I pulled you through into the fae realm. ‘S’much nicer than a soggy puddle.”

  Idris, too thankful to say another word, grabbed him in a hug again. Laughing, Willard patted his back.

  “’Ey, you’re welcome. Right tired me out, though. It ain’t easy pulling folks to this side without the shrooms or the circle. And you’re surprisingly heavy, for a little man. Might just be the aria.”

  “I am a fortunate little man because I have wonderful friends,” Idris whispered. “Wonderful friends who I do not deserve.”

  “Ain’t that wonderful. I ran off sulking, didn’t I?” Willard extricated himself, squeezed Idris’s shoulders. “I ain’t going nowhere, now. We’ll rest here awhile, hmm? I’ll get me pa to send a message to Lila, so’s she won’t worry herself silly, and we can relax with some fae hospitality. Tell me everything.”

  For a while, Idris said nothing. He put his forehead on Willard’s shoulder and absorbed his sunny warmth, the comfort of his optimism. Willard merely sat, rubbing Idris’s back, humming fae ditties under his breath.

  “Do you live here, now?” said Idris.

  “It’s... complicated,” said Willard. “But I’ll explain when you’re right-ways-up again.”

  “I am glad you are here, Willard,” Idris whispered.

  “Me too,” said Willard, his voice soft and sad. “I’m right glad, too.”