Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  Val was guarding something. And not just with Parents. He was somehow using creatures from the Elsewhere to do his bidding as well.

  Devan made his way back to the tower, chewing on these bitter thoughts. When he arrived back, he hesitated at the doors, that haunting image of the fear in Stephan’s eyes surfacing in his mind. He stomped it down, angered at his cowardice. This was precisely the sort of thing Master Horologers did—sniff out the source of threats to the True Path. And the source of one of the greatest threats it’d ever faced was quite possibly in this tower.

  He shoved the doors open and stepped in.

  Dead silence.

  So quiet, he wanted to rub at his ears to ensure he hadn’t suddenly lost their use. He looked over his shoulder, noting the light from outside also didn’t penetrate the threshold as it should. It just stopped at the opening, cut off as surely as if it’d been severed by a headsman’s axe. That meant he’d be without the benefits of peregrination until he could find a window to the outside. The pit in his stomach deepened.

  The area within the doors was just empty space. Bare floorboards. The only structure a solitary staircase leading up into darkness.

  Devan let out a hoarse laugh that he tried to swallow as soon as it left his throat. He rolled his shoulders. Exhaled.

  Up he started.

  He expected a creak. Or groan. Or something. But the stairs issued not a sound as they took his weight. After about twenty steps, he looked back and nearly tripped over himself. The lighted entryway was gone. Nothing but murk stared back. He considered retreating, but somehow he thought it almost certain he’d find no doorway if he went back. Perhaps not even the ground. Choking back another laugh, he did the only thing he could.

  Climbed on.

  He came to and passed more landings than he could remember. Some had only one way to go; others offered multiple routes. Many branched off into the center of the tower, going on for so long it seemed they must be floating in air. Once, he reached a landing with two ways. He chose the left stair, but after about ten steps it simply ended, nearly sending him toppling into the abyss. When he backtracked to the landing, there were now three paths available to him.

  This went on for an undeterminable length of time, causing dread to build within him. He always had such a firm grip on time, but it seemed to have no meaning here. He resisted the urge to check his or Stephan’s chronometre, afraid of what they’d show. At one point, he simply closed his eyes, trusting his elemental senses to at least tell him whether solid or air would meet each footfall.

  And then, he was at the tower’s top. One step, he was continuing his ascent into darkness. The next, he was on a grand landing, light streaming onto it from a mighty stained-glass window at his back. Another set of double doors stood at the landing’s far end. Golden door handles fashioned in the likeness of roaring panthers. Or perhaps lions. The metal couldn’t seem to make up its mind.

  Devan took the first deep breath he’d been able to muster since he’d begun the ascent. He turned to glance at the stained-glass window, hoping for a moment’s reprieve. It showed a gaunt man, standing behind a woman with auburn hair. One arm was wrapped around her as if in warm embrace. With the other he grasped a blade, slicing her throat. Blood flowed down the woman’s front.

  He spun away from the scene and back to the doorway, sweat breaking out across his forehead. Fearing that loss of all nerve was now a distinct possibility, he flung the doors open without further thought, the vigor with which he did so forcing him to stumble into the chamber within.

  A great expanse of a hall spilled out before him. Stone pillars standing two-by-two stretched into yet more unknowable darkness. A scarlet carpet led between the pillars, beckoning him onwards. He heeded its call without conscious thought. As he walked on, an occasional streak of light spilled over his way, peaking through satin curtains that covered walls that were virtually all windows to either side.

  Almost as abruptly has he’d come to the landing, a dais appeared before him. A single towering chair upon it, its stone back curved in the disconcerting likeness of a Lesser Terror. But he hardly noticed the chair. It was the seat’s occupant that dominated Devan’s perception.

  It was Bladesorrow. Just as he must have appeared at Riverdale before he’d been attacked. A golden helm sat upon his head, massive pauldrons in the likeness of lions stood out from his shoulders. And his eyes. The piercing blue they ought to be.

  But despite all the rightness, he knew this man was even less the true Grand Master Keeper than the man he’d left at the cottage. The figure was wrapped in shadows that hung about it like a shroud. And the eyes, blue as they might be, tracked Devan’s movements with a calculating cruelty that had never touched the true Bladesorrow’s features. A smile of recognition touched the avatar’s lips, freezing Devan’s heart. His mind screamed for him to run from this place and never come back. Yet his feet remained firmly planted before the dais.

  A name for the thing upon the dais came unbidden to Devan’s mind, like a nightmare from which he couldn’t wake, refusing to leave no matter where he bent his thoughts.

  Messorem.

  29

  Erem

  Many old tales, original sources now forgotten, tell of an army of Angels coming to the Leveande’s aid during the Great Shadow War. Yet the Oral Histories make no mention of this. Most take this as proof that the Aldur had no hand in the War, and some take it so far as to say it shows the Aldur never existed at all. This is poor reasoning. Tragnè herself mentions the Aldur elsewhere in the Histories, if not in the greatest of lights.

  Still, this omission cannot be ignored. Is it possible the Aldur slighted Lady Tragnè in some way that motivated her to omit discussion of them? Or, perhaps the Aldur themselves requested the omission. Even adherents to the Angelic faith will admit the Aldur often work in mysterious ways.

  - From the preface to the Millennial Printing of Tragnè’s Oral Histories, written by Rikar Bladesong

  THE DREAMS WERE CONTINUING to get worse.

  He sat with his back against a tree, Jenzara and the boy sitting across from him. He’d been pleased to discover neither was a complainer, though they weren’t conditioned for this kind of journeying either. The going through the Woods of Falume had been relatively thus far—a slight upward grade, nothing strenuous. But the pair had desperately needed to rest by midday, and their progress since then had been frustratingly slow. He’d called a halt to the day’s journey well before sunset. Ferrin and Jenzara had immediately slumped to their current positions in the shade of the day’s lengthening shadows. At this rate it would take a week or more just to reach Corim’s Crossing, days more until they reached Riverdale and the outskirts of the North. Outrageous.

  But truth be told, his frustration was minimal. It warmed him to see Ferrin and Jenzara getting along; warmed him even more to see the glances they stole at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. He’d been surprised to find himself still capable of such simple enjoyment. For so long he’d had little more than bitter memories for company. He’d forgotten the simple pleasure of seeing another’s happiness.

  He also wasn’t particularly eager to reach the Crossing. Despite what he’d said to Jenzara the day prior, he couldn’t deny to himself the likely danger awaiting them there. The Parents were nothing if not diligent when it came to hunting shadow attuned. It wasn’t that he doubted his ability to protect them from whatever threat the Parents posed. Not exactly. He’d faced slanted odds in the past and come out alive. But the thought of putting Jenzara, or even the boy, at risk of harm sat ill with him. Messenger birds traveled far quicker than men on foot. Every Parent within a hundred leagues of Ral Mok would already be on notice to look for Ferrin, and the boy hadn’t been entirely wrong regarding the barges either. If they kept their current pace, it was doubtful one carrying the Grand Father and the other Parents from Ral Mok would beat them to the Crossing. But if there was any delay... Part of him wished for nothing more than
to face the man again, repay the Grand Father for all the pain he’d caused him. But doubt consumed him as well. After what had happened the last time he’d met the Grand Father, Erem feared what another encounter would bring.

  It seemed that not only had he become old, but also a coward.

  He’d kept the West River to their right as he’d led them north. The water was hidden by tree cover, but even from here the muffled roar of it echoed through the forest as it crashed over rocks far below them. It felt strange heading north; he’d never thought to return there. But it was truly the only option; he’d never go back to Tragnè City. Not after how he’d failed them. He rested his head against the tree at his back, trying to keep his mind clear, letting the sounds of the river’s rapids wash over him. Gazing up at the sky, he tried to remember that last time it hadn’t been overcome by that red glow.

  With his companions too tired for conversation, Erem’s mind insisted on going places it shouldn’t. His thoughts wandered to the dreams that continued to plague him. He’d had one the night before prior to beginning their journey, though it had been somehow different than the others. The setting had been the same, the dark room of endless columns, the lone sentry upon its terrible throne. That shaded, not-quite man of many voices. Armored and wrapped in shadows, at once familiar and utterly unknown to him.

  This time, though, Erem had been a spectator. A mote on the wind. A non-participant. And there’d been a third present. Unlike the dream’s permanent resident, whom Erem constantly felt he ought to know yet did not, this newcomer was one whom Erem felt he actually did know. From where, though, he couldn’t quite place. A thought just beyond the brink of remembrance. His mind never quite worked during these visions.

  “Angel,” the dark being on its throne had said to the dream’s newcomer, in what Erem had come to consider its primary, and most terrifying, tone. So placid it threatened to suffocate his mind with calm. Yet this time there was also fury beneath that undercurrent of calm. Maybe even some alarm. Like two badgers battling beneath the surface of a frozen lake.

  “We’d wondered when you would visit us,” the being had continued, now in a voice that might have been male, pitched like nails on stone. As with the first, surprise lurked beneath its façade of confidence, as if the newcomer to the dream was unexpected.

  “I’m a bit insulted.” The voice of a woman lecturing a child, though concern shaded her tone as well.

  “He doesn’t care for the residence we’ve assumed.” The booming voice of a man tinged with a cackle.

  The newcomer’s lips tightened with dismay, an expression that seemed utterly foreign on his face, though Erem couldn’t say why he thought so. His hair was so short he looked bald, eyes shaded by face paint that ended in points halfway down his cheek bones. The face paint also seemed out of place, as if Erem had seen the man before without it, though his mind couldn’t quite grasp where or when.

  The dismay dripped away from the newcomer’s face as he spoke for the first time, replaced by a grim determination.

  “You’ll not be permitted to remain here, Andstaed.”

  The ground tremored, forcing the Angel to stumble back a pace, into a dim patch of light beaming through curtains Erem hadn’t noticed in previous dreams.

  “Say it.” The raspy male voice shook like a quake. “The only name you’ve left for us.”

  The Angel narrowed his eyes and swallowed before speaking. “Messorem.”

  The cackling basso of another male voice shook the chamber. Black tendrils launched from the seated figure’s hands, straight at the Angel. Before the black tendrils struck him, the gaunt figure disappeared, quickly reappearing several paces away, remaining in the dim sliver of light.

  “Oh, very good,” chirped an impossible female voice from the depths of the creature the Angel had called Andstaed and then Messorem. The creature clapped its hands together and rose.

  “It’s a wonder Valdin was able to kill the others so easily,” uttered a moderately pitched voice of a petulant woman.

  The Angel’s face drained, as if he might be sick. He stepped forward, dropped to a knee, and placed a hand upon the Andstaed’s dais.

  It turned to sand.

  The creature upon it began to fall backwards, then slipped in time—just like a shade—appearing upright and directly over the still-stooped Angel. It now had a blade in its grasp. Once more the nagging sense of just-beyond recognition tore at Erem’s mind. From where did he know that weapon? A sword with a hilt fashioned in the face of a roaring lion.

  The Andstaed drove the sword at the nape of the Angel’s neck. He dropped fully to the floor, rolling to his back, and held up his paws.

  Hands?

  The sword stopped inches from the Angel’s face, the outline of a shield shimmering before him. He rolled with the force of the blow, then disappeared once more when he hit the sliver of light bleeding across the floor. He reappeared halfway across the room, upright and appearing decidedly unconcerned for one who’d nearly been skewered.

  “Dear friend.” The serene voice that made Erem want to weep in fear had returned. “Surely there is no need for this? There is room here for another. Why not join me and my companions?”

  “Yessss,” purred one of the female voices, so seductive that Erem felt a stirring in his loins. “Your friend has already joined us. But he is damaged; little more than a pawn. But you? We could be great together.”

  The Angel shuddered, appearing to experience the same burst of lust as Erem. But only for an instant. Like the foundation of a stone structure only momentarily shaken.

  “I will end you, skomn.” The Angel spoke this last word as if he’d been struck in the face and was now spitting blood.

  The screeching wail of a woman emanated from the Andstaed, shaking the chamber so violently that bits of plaster sprayed down on the Angel like rain. It might have been a laugh at the Angel’s confidence or rage at the insult.

  “The rest of your people couldn’t even stand up to Valdin,” the Andstaed said in a tittering, gender-ambiguous melody. The sound slid over Erem’s eardrums like silk down a blade. “And yet you retain arrogance enough to believe you will defeat us?”

  The thing let out a sound that might have been a giggle, but might as well have been a starving child’s plea for how it chilled Erem’s soul. Yet the Angel’s eyes remained cold as deep wells while he endured the outburst.

  “Besides,” one of the female voices cut in, “the Elsewhere shows us much. It is your end that is set, not ours. At this very spot, not long from now. You and others will seek to oppose us. And fail.”

  Dismay danced at the edges of the Angel’s mouth. But his eyes continued to probe, studying the creature like a map.

  “If you’re so confident,” he said, in a tone entirely too casual for the situation facing him, “then why wait? Why haven’t you left this place and just ended me already?”

  The tittering voice snorted with disdain. “The fallen Angel. He’s failed to find a way to release us from—”

  The creature cutoff abruptly and staggered back a step as if struck. Whimpers in numerous different voices emanated from it.

  “That is enough talk.” The prime voice. Calm like an oligarch preparing to order the death of children. Almost too calm, as if masking great anger.

  A satisfied smile replaced the Angel’s dismay.

  “Thank you.” He bowed to the Andstaed. “For the information.”

  One of the female voices had begun to screech once more, but the Angel had already disappeared and the dream along with him. Erem had awoke lying on his back, left with a dull ache in his side and a sense of both wonder and foreboding. The dream had been just this morning, before they’d left the house and the fields he’d spent so long tending.

  What had it all meant? The dream had been far more vivid than any of the previous ones. Like he’d been viewing an actual event. But that was impossible. He needn’t look any further than the name the Angel had given the dark being. Messor
em? That couldn’t possibly be the name of any being now living. But he couldn’t shake the sense that he’d witnessed something vital.

  And worse yet, though the scene had been different from all the other dreams he’d had, he couldn’t shake a nagging sense of familiarity at the events it’d shown. Almost like hearing a story you hadn’t heard in years. You almost knew what the teller was going to say next. But not quite.

  Erem grunted to himself, a vibrating sound deep in his throat. Thinking of that wouldn’t help them now. He searched for something to pull his attention from the unpleasant thoughts.

  “Boy.”

  Ferrin had been dozing and twitched in surprise. Jenzara leered at him for disturbing the peace, or perhaps for not calling the boy by his proper name, but said nothing. He was glad at that. She’d become increasingly skilled at finding ways to talk him in circles.

  “Our travels are done for the day, but more than enough of the day remains for us to continue with something productive. Let’s begin the attempt at teaching that Jenzara insists I bestow on you.”

  Ferrin groaned. “I don’t think I’ve enough energy to do any serious channeling, Erem.”

  Light, this boy might be full of a knowledge, but he can be thick.

  “We won’t be doing any channeling,” Erem said. “Tragnè only knows the lengths the Parents will go to locate you.” Us, he thought, but didn’t say. “A shadow channel could alert them to our location.”

  Ferrin reddened. “Of course. But if no channeling, then what do you intend?”

  Erem pondered for a moment. So rarely he used his shadow ability that he was unsure where to begin. It was like dusting off an old blade and becoming reacquainted with its heft and balance. He tugged at the ring he wore as he considered. It seemed to have grown tighter since he’d left the clearing, as if disconcerted to be away from it.