by Nick Horth
‘Its power was terrible, even then,’ the creature continued. ‘Even from afar my master sensed the violence of its birthing. A blade to cut the strands of fate, to unmake the great tapestry. It could not be.’
Time shifted once more. Night and day whirred past with dizzying speed. They watched as Xoantica grew, greater and grander than ever before. Endless columns of slaves poured into the city, guarded by legions of masked warriors. The city rose, tearing free of the earth, and the Taloncoast fell away beneath them. As if at the hands of a god, the very shape of the Fatescar Mountains began to change, moulded into being by waves of blinding light. Defeated kingdoms were cowed, their masters dragged through Xoantica’s streets in chains. Armies of winged creatures, golden-helmed and beautiful, sought to lay the masters of the city low, but they were defeated alongside all the others, their wings broken and their ankles shackled. Shev and the others saw all this in a matter of moments, a dizzying rush of images that seared into their minds and made the stars spin overhead.
And then, with terrible suddenness, the passage of time ceased. Shev collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath, her head spinning. She looked up to see that they were in the grand plaza of Xoantica, which was lined with cowled figures. There was the masked priestess, surrounded by armed thralls and cultists, tracing burning sigils in the air. The woman carried the daemon’s gift in steady hands. There was a faint halo of orange flickering above the canopy of the surrounding halls, and Shev smelled smoke upon the air. Screams echoed in the distance. War had come to the streets of Xoantica. The stars overhead burned with blinding light, transforming night to day in an instant. Columns of starlight slammed into the plaza’s marbled tiles, coalescing into ranks of saurians and mighty war-beasts. Shev saw lizard warriors mounted upon bipedal reptiles with bone-crushing jaws, lumbering, spiked behemoths with diminutive saurians scampering across howdahs raised on their sturdy backs. There, in the centre of this starhost, was the same bloated creature that had rested upon the dais, though here its flesh was lustrous, and its eyes blazed with the light of the heavens.
The Xoanticans joined their voices in blasphemous communion, and the Silver Shard flared in the darkness. A sickening wound tore open in the sky, vomiting varicoloured light across the forum. From this breach poured a tide of capering, pink-skinned monsters with gangly limbs and wild, brimstone eyes. Something else stirred behind that roiling portal, and insane laughter rolled across the land like thunder. Unperturbed, the reptilian army came on. The mortal cultists leapt towards their enemy with no thought for their own lives, loosing bolts of silver-white energy that blasted apart onrushing saurians. Gangling daemons spat fire, and in turn were crushed or blasted apart by spiked clubs, or pierced by javelins of black stone. Lord Pa’tha’quen’tos soared across the battlefield at the head of his starborne host, straight towards the wielder of the Silver Shard. Lashes of power from the priestess cut down the scaled warriors. The Silver Shard sang shrilly in the heretic’s hands as it slew, making Shev’s ears ache as though they were bleeding. The masked woman struck the shard against the paving of the plaza, and the ground split open. Waves of magma vomited through the split, drenching cultists and saurians alike, melting them to ash. She flicked the shard and tore gilded columns the size of ongoro-trees free from their roots. They hurtled through the air to crash amongst the invaders, crushing them beneath the weight of the grinding marble.
Lord Pa’tha’quen’tos came on, through the rain of magma, deflecting the sizzling downpour with a dismissive wave. Meteors screamed in his wake towards the priestess. Shev’s heart leapt as the priestess barely raised the Silver Shard in time. The flaming missiles disappeared in a burst of light, turning into clouds of many-hued dragonflies which danced in the air.
The battle that followed was almost impossible for Shev to interpret. The storm of magic was blinding, a display of cataclysmic power that filled the air with fire and raining comets. Ruptured bodies littered the ground, and daemonic forms cavorted amongst the smouldering ruins of the once great city. On the steps of the great palace, the battle was won. Opening his stubby arms wide, Pa’tha’quen’tos raised his hands and the tortured night skies flooded with light. Rays of celestial magic speared down to immolate daemons and cultists alike, and where they struck saurian warriors, the scaled ones were enveloped in radiant energy, their wounds fading away and their relentless assault intensified.
The priestess of Xoantica cowered under the sudden blare of light. An enormous, bipedal war-beast barrelled through the press of bodies, bellowing in fury. Its rider, an armoured reptilian warrior, roared in triumph, his spear taking aim at the bearer of the Silver Shard. The war-beast grabbed the priestess in its jaws, and fangs the size of swords crunched down with terrible force. The cursed weapon fell from its wielder’s lifeless hands, clattering down the steps of the palace to land before the palanquin of Lord Pa’tha’quen’tos.
Even as it lay untouched, the blade began to shimmer. It twisted and reformed, turning into a flowing lash of quicksilver and then a great, avian talon. Finally, it settled into the image Shev had first laid eyes upon in the grand chamber – a twisting wound in reality, trembling with barely suppressed power.
The tableau froze once more.
‘Battle was fierce. The city destroyed, though at great cost to my master,’ said the lizard priest, and Shev thought she heard a hint of sadness in its melodic voice. ‘The masters of Xoantica were all slain, but the stain of their evil was not swept away.’
‘The Silver Shard,’ said Toll.
‘Could not be destroyed.’ The creature bobbed its head. ‘Not without great cost. Master’s power has kept the sword hidden, safe. Until now.’
‘And now Vermyre has it,’ said Callis. ‘And we’re all about to find out just how bad that is.’
‘Time is an enemy now,’ the creature continued. ‘Lord Pa’tha’quen’tos is gravely wounded, and this moment slips away like sand through our claws.’
‘Then why are we here? Where have you taken us?’ demanded Toll.
‘Nowhere. My master plucked this moment in time out of the great tapestry and drew you here. Will not last for long, but it will serve.’
They heard footsteps upon the hard stone of the tower top, and turned to see a figure approaching them. A short, balding man, skin weathered by the sun. He was dressed in the same rags that the sacrificial victims had worn, his body was thin and marked with bruises and cuts. Though his cheeks were gaunt and his eyes sunken, Shev recognised the face of Occlesius the Realms-Walker, the greatest statesman and traveller of his age, from her books. It was the same slight, weak-chinned visage she had seen in the man’s tomb, but here. He stared at his hands in wonder, pinching the flesh of one palm and wincing slightly as he did so.
‘I live again,’ he said. ‘Flesh and bone. How is this possible?’
‘It is not,’ said the creature. ‘Only memory. You were here on this day, far traveller. You were here at the fall, at the death of Xoantica. That is how you are present.’
Callis raised his hand, an expression of utter confusion on his face. ‘Would someone care to explain who in the Eight Realms this balding fellow is?’ he said.
‘I am Occlesius the Realms-Walker, scion of Asciltane and–’
‘This stone,’ Shev explained, cutting Occlesius off and raising the shadeglass gem.
‘This man was once a traveller, an explorer who journeyed far across the Eight Realms,’ Shev explained to the bewildered looking Callis. ‘Upon his death, he had his memories, his soul essence stored inside a shadeglass crystal.’
‘To simply fade from the world, all my experiences lost to the ages,’ said Occlesius, ‘that I could not abide. The great Katophranes of Shadespire demanded a high price indeed for that crystal, but I paid it gladly.’
‘So he’s been, what, in your head this whole time?’ said Callis.
‘In a way,’ said Shev. ‘It’s compl
icated.’
‘No time,’ hissed the priest. ‘No time for this! You were here, far traveller. Amongst thousands, your life alone was spared. We shaped your memories before we released you, so that you could not remember what you saw when Xoantica died.’
Occlesius’ eyes furrowed in confusion. ‘I remember all of my travels, but I remember nothing of this city beyond a few scattered images. All I know is that I witnessed something terrible here. Why? Why was I not killed when you purged the life from this city?’
‘Your fate is bound to the stars. You have been marked in the grand constellation, far traveller.’
The creature looked at them all in turn. ‘Same for you, young ones. This moment was mapped in the stars long ago by the Old Ones. This is why your lives have been spared.’
‘Enough of this cheap prophecy. Vermyre has the Silver Shard,’ Toll continued. ‘Every moment we delay, the more damage he can wreak. Take us back. Now.’
The reptile’s wide, unblinking orbs fixed upon the witch hunter.
‘You cannot win,’ it said. It didn’t seem possible that the creature’s long snout and toothy maw should be able to even pronounce the common tongue, yet it spoke the words with perfect clarity. ‘With the Silver Shard – the fang of Nem’k’awet – in his grasp the sorcerer is beyond your powers to slay. There is only one way now to be rid of it.’
‘What do you intend?’ asked Toll.
‘Give the master time, distract the human for but a few moments. Lord Pa’tha’quen’tos can open a breach to the shrieking nothingness. The void between realms. There we will trap the Silver Shard, where none can ever reach it.’
‘Why didn’t you do this before?’ asked Shev. ‘Why didn’t you get rid of the damned thing while there was still time?’
The creature’s gaze turned to her. It cocked its head slightly, staring at the shadeglass amulet around her neck, and despite herself her hands twitched towards the gem.
‘Not easily done,’ said the creature. ‘May kill the master, and he has much still to do. Many tasks to be accomplished, across the star-ways. The stars burn in the fires of war, and my master’s kind are few. Each death is a defeat. Yet this mortal must not take the shard. No choice.’
‘And you?’ she said.
Again, it cocked its head in that curious manner. Shev was sure she caught a flicker of amusement in the creature’s expression, although it was almost impossible to tell for certain.
‘No more real than this earth,’ it trilled, tapping its claws upon the dewy ground. ‘Only my master’s memory. His last memory. And now our time is almost over. But there is another price. The reason we once spared your life.’
The creature turned to Occlesius.
‘The gem of soul-crystal that binds your astral form,’ it said. ‘We must trap the sorcerer within. In possession of the Silver Shard, he might escape from the Great Nothing, such is its power. No. We must trap him as we bound Nem’k’awet.’
‘Wait. What will happen to Occlesius?’ said Shev.
The creature tilted its head again.
‘He will join my master in oblivion,’ it said.
Occlesius closed his eyes, and shook his head.
‘Not now,’ he whispered. ‘Not when I am finally free.’
‘There has to be some other way,’ said Shev softly, knowing as she spoke that her words were meaningless.
‘It’s a sorry hand you’ve been dealt,’ said Callis, fixing the Realms-Walker with a sympathetic look. ‘But if we don’t defeat Vermyre here, we’re all doomed regardless.’
‘So are thousands more innocent lives. Vermyre means to burn Excelsis to the ground, and that is simply the beginning,’ said Toll. ‘The power to wreak such damage, in that man’s hands? It cannot be allowed, no matter the cost.’
The witch hunter strode over to Occlesius, and looked into his eyes without flinching.
‘I’m sorry, but you have already lived your life,’ he said. ‘If your existence has to end so that others may live on, then so be it.’
‘Not your choice,’ said the priest, then raised a claw to point at Occlesius. ‘His, only. Must not resist when my master draws his spirit from the stone – if he does, then the sorcerer will surely break free. Will not hold for long. But long enough.’
‘I… I shall not resist,’ said Occlesius. He looked up and met Shev’s eye. She saw fear there, but resolve too. ‘You are right, master Toll. I have already lived far too long. Perhaps it is time to rest at last.’
Shev stepped forward, and took the old man’s hand. He was trembling.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Occlesius smiled, and grasped her arm. ‘Promise me you’ll continue my life’s work,’ he said. ‘In my name, see the wonders of the realms. There are so many sights to see, Miss Arclis. So many beautiful things, even amidst the darkness and chaos of war. I have yet to see more than a fraction of what there is out there. Now I know that I never will. But you can. You’re going to achieve great things, I’m sure of it. I should have liked to accompany you, but it is enough for an old man to know there are others walking in his footsteps.’
‘In your name,’ Shev said. ‘I swear it. I’ll see it all.’
‘Should I meet your father in the afterlife, I’ll tell him all about our travels together. I’m sure he would be very proud of who you have become.’
‘No more time,’ said the creature, staring up at the heavens.
Shev held the Realms-Walker’s hand while the storm broke over them.
Thunder rolled overhead, and where there once had been dark skies, cracks of searing light were breaking through. The golden ziggurats of Xoantica began to crumble and fall, collapsing in on each other level by level. Then the ground gave way beneath their feet, and once more they were falling into darkness. Shev saw the saurian’s small, clever eyes one last time before they were swallowed up by enveloping night.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Toll’s eyes opened and he was once again in the collapsing grand hall of Xoantica, the deafening sounds of disintegrating masonry filling his ears. He rolled to his feet, ignoring the sheet of white fire that enveloped his chest as he rose. At least three ribs broken. They ground and clicked against each other when he moved. The agony was exquisite, and stole his breath.
Hate came to his rescue, lighting its own fire inside him and burning away the weakness of pain. Vermyre was still alive, and the bastard thought he was going to escape justice once again. Toll had decided that he was very much willing to die to see his former ally served his due.
‘Ortam!’ he bellowed, throwing his useless pistol aside and drawing his rapier.
Vermyre turned, a mad light shining in his eyes, somehow even more unsettling than the ruin his face had been. He laughed, taking in the witch hunter’s battered appearance.
‘I should have known you wouldn’t lie down so easily,’ he said. ‘You know, you’re a very stubborn man, Hanniver. It can be most irritating.’
‘I see you’ve given up using a blade,’ said Toll. ‘You used to consider yourself quite the swordsman, if I recall. Of course, I cut your face the last time we duelled.’
Vermyre’s eyes narrowed. ‘Toll, are you trying to anger me? That’s really quite unnecessary.’
‘You know, you did have me fooled, Ortam. I admit it. Your betrayal shocked me to the core of my soul. You had every advantage over me. And still you failed.’
The traitor was advancing upon him now, his frenzy of destruction forgotten. He swung the Silver Shard low, and as it moved, its form flowed into that of a duelling sabre, still rippling with molten energy.
‘You had the city at your mercy. You had your moment – the moment you’d spent your life in preparation for – and you let it slip from your fingers. I would say your wretched god is very angry with you, Ortam. And as powerful as your new toy is, I don’t think it�
�ll stay his wrath.’
‘I care nothing for the gods,’ spat Vermyre. ‘I only ever cared for what they could grant me. And now I no longer require the Changemaker’s aid. Here, let me show you what I mean.’
He lunged forward. Toll had forgotten how fast the man was; he was a born duellist. Last time they had fought, during the last fight for Excelsis, only good fortune had seen Toll escape with a narrow victory.
This time luck was not with him.
He managed to pull back from the blow, but not far enough. Vermyre’s blade sank deep into the meat of his upper arm, burning as it tore through flesh and bone. Toll gasped and fell to his knees, his own rapier tumbling from his hand. Vermyre’s face leered at him, and through the mask of illusion he briefly saw again the monstrous form beneath.
‘You took my moment of glory from me,’ said Vermyre, his teeth bared like a rabid hound. ‘Let me take something from you, old friend.’
He stepped back and brought his blade around in a tight arc. White-hot agony engulfed Toll’s arm, and he heard something thud to the floor. Knowing what he would see but somehow also not believing it, Toll glanced down to see his severed arm, lying in a pool of spreading blood.
Callis was too slow. He saw the blade fall, and Toll’s arm fly free, trailing an arc of spurting blood. The witch hunter sagged to one knee, gasping in pain. One hand went to the torn stump below his shoulder. Vermyre circled, twirling his blade in a duellist’s flourish, delight writ large upon his features.
‘It’s a terrible thing, is it not, to find one’s body altered forever?’ he said.
Callis charged across the floor and leapt at Vermyre. He crashed into him, bearing him to the floor and raining heavy punches into his face. It was like striking stone. He felt his knuckles crack, but knew that the moment he let up, he was dead, or worse. Callis had to buy time. He rolled, slipping through Vermyre’s guard and wrapping his forearm around the man’s throat in a chokehold. He hauled back with all his might, but it was futile.