by D. T. Kane
Valdin paused, breathing so hard he was nearly frothing at the mouth. Then, with eyes like sulfurous embers, he looked at Devan and spoke two final words.
“My Autumn.”
Devan flinched away from the name, as if it held some power over him.
Without warning, twin streaks of flame rushed across the floor from the burning curtains. They arced around Devan, intersecting just beyond him where Bladesorrow stood. The Grand Master threw up a shield of shadow, but it was a poor defense against the power Valdin was able to draw from the inferno behind him. A weaker channeler would have been set ablaze like kindling on a dry day. As it was, Bladesorrow managed to fend off the worst of it, though the skin of his right arm steamed and began to blister under the onslaught. The blade clattered from his hand, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.
Without thinking, Ferrin flung a hex at Valdin. The man didn’t even flinch as he batted it away, and his counter hex was so quick Ferrin hardly had time to turn away before it took him in the side. He was spun to the ground as the smell of burning flesh hit him. He clamped his mouth shut over a scream.
“You can’t protect them from me,” Valdin bellowed, triumph coloring his voice. “You never were any good at that. Protecting others. No wonder you always find yourself alone. Perhaps I’ll let you live long enough to see what happens to the Path once I’ve succeeded.”
Devan glanced over his left shoulder to where Bladesorrow was trying to collect himself, then over his right to Ferrin. Ferrin could see what the Angel was thinking—they were too far apart for him to shield them both from Valdin’s next onslaught. He would have to choose. For just a moment, indecision flashed over the Angel’s face. He closed his eyes. There was movement beneath his lids, as if he searched for some unseen answer. Then Devan’s face eased, became tranquil. He smiled.
“Lad.” Devan turned to Ferrin. “Catch.”
The Angel lofted a small object towards Ferrin. It glinted gold in the light of Valdin’s blaze. Ferrin caught it without thinking, then nearly dropped it in surprise. Raw elemental power flowed through the object. Shadow. Water. Fire. Earth. They were all there, pouring forth in abundance, no different—better even—than if he’d been standing right beside an elemental shrine. Ferrin looked into his hand. It was a pocket timepiece, not dissimilar to the one he’d seen Master Raldon carry.
“I wish things could have been different, my friend,” Devan said, turning back to Valdin.
Valdin only curled his lip in reply. Then, in a motion as if he were lifting a heavy object up and over his head, he threw his arms towards them. A duo of flames shot forward once more, this time one headed straight for the Grand Master, the other right at Ferrin, too wide to evade.
Ferrin was ready. He reached into the timepiece and willed forward a wall of water. It met the flame and exploded into a sizzle of hot steam. For several moments, the air became nearly too hot to bear, forcing Ferrin to retreat from the point of impact. The giddy thrill of still being alive surged through him. But as the steam cleared, his moment of triumph turned to dismay.
Devan, charred so badly that bone showed through skin in several places, collapsed to his knees several paces in front of Bladesorrow. He had shielded the man with his life. As the Angel’s form toppled forward, Bladesorrow released an enraged cry.
“Noooo!”
Ferrin could only stare. He might not have liked Devan, but he’d been the glue of this plan. And he’d been so confident, never showing weakness. The possibility of his death had never even touched Ferrin’s thoughts.
But now was not the time to consider such things. Valdin appeared momentarily distracted, staring at the seared mass of flesh and bone that had seconds earlier been the last of the Aldur. Meaning to capitalize, Ferrin reached into the timepiece and sent forth a burst of elemental energy toward Valdin, so powerful it nearly knocked Ferrin from his feet.
Somehow, Valdin was able to not only recognize, but block the attack, dissipating the hex with little more than a wave of his hand. Ferrin stumbled back. That had been one of the strongest hexes he’d ever channeled, and Valdin had swatted it away like a fly.
“I don’t relish having to kill you, boy,” Valdin said, eyes leaving Devan’s dead body to look at him. “But it’s been foreseen that your existence spells disaster for my people. There’s no choice left to me.”
What? Ferrin had known Valdin sought to kill him. But he’d thought it was simply to steal his shadow power. What was this foretelling Valdin spoke of? Who had seen it? And his people? Did he mean the Aldur?
These questions and many others ricocheted about Ferrin’s mind. But there was little time to consider them. He felt Valdin begin to draw power for another hex. One Ferrin wasn’t certain he could defend against. In quick desperation, he said, “Isn’t that just what the Conclave did to Autumn? Killed her for something done in the future?”
Valdin froze, face contorting.
“Don’t you dare speak her name,” he said, voice taut as a hangman’s noose. “You’ve no—”
Valdin’s words cut off with a sloppy burble. A cloud of red began to pool outwards on his white robe, below the throat. Ferrin grunted in surprise. The ebon dagger protruded from Valdin’s neck. He rotated slowly to look at Bladesorrow, whose arm was still extended in a throwing motion. Valdin reached a hand to his throat, eyes agog. Then he did something utterly unexpected.
He smiled.
Opening his mouth, blackish-purple shadow energy began to slither from the dagger into his maw, even as blood trickled out. His eyes began to take on the same byzantine glow. The dagger slipped from the wound and splattered to the floor. Before it even hit the ground, the wound was closing. Purple light streamed from his mouth and eyes.
“Ferrin,” Bladesorrow shouted. “Kill him. Now.” As he spoke, the Grand Master crouched, retrieved his sword, then rushed forward.
But Ferrin was slow to respond, transfixed by the transformation taking place before him. Valdin’s hair, completely white a moment earlier, was now streaked with a deep walnut, his wrinkles smoothing over. Even the deformity of his face was healing, his formerly lolling eye alight with the purple glow of the shadow power he’d harvested from the dagger.
Then he was gone. Simply there one moment, then not the next. Bladesorrow’s sword slashed through the empty space Valdin had occupied an instant prior. The Grand Master looked all about, as if he expected Valdin to reemerge from somewhere else in the room at any moment. But he didn’t. Finally, Bladesorrow’s eyes fell upon Devan’s charred corpse and he ceased to look about. His granite expression began crumbling away.
“Light help us, Ferrin,” he whispered. “What have I done?”
58
Taul
Duty’s toll is ceaseless as an ocean, death but a drop in responsibility’s sea. The true leader welcomes death, for it is only then that duty’s strain eases.
-Excerpt from Agar’s Authorities
THEY STRODE FROM THE tower, cries of battle hanging in the air. Shades slipped into and out of view all around the space encircling the great spire.
A man in a blue tabard thrust a sword at them. They batted it aside with a gauntleted hand, sneering, then grabbed the man by the throat and squeezed. Bone snapped, blood trickling warm over their fingers. They pushed the dying man away, throwing the remains of his throat back at him.
Several more approached them, looks of determination on their faces. Fools. A cackle began to crawl up from their throat. They drew their blade—a weapon that once meant something to these Keepers—and swept it before them in great arcs. Limbs flew as men screamed. Died. One man charged them, stumbling over a corpse. They turned a shoulder, the man’s face smashing into one of their golden, lion-shaped pauldrons. A crazed laugh escaped their mouth, followed immediately by a woman’s satisfied sigh. They picked the dazed man off the ground, stared into his confused eyes, then crushed his skull with their bare hands.
“Grand Master?”
They turned, dropping th
e body, to look down upon a dwarf clad in red plate. The dwarf’s eyes widened.
“No,” the dwarf murmured. “Not the Grand Master.”
“We are as much Taul Bladesorrow as that failure of a Linear you followed here, Nellis Lonemage.” Now their voice was melodious, smooth as a blade slicing through water.
“Yer an abom’nation,” the dwarf yelled, swinging his staff. They parried the blow with ease, forcing the dwarf back. Nellis lunged once more, the blow meeting nothing but air as the Seven caused their host to slip from place to place like a shade, appearing behind Nellis. The dwarf turned.
“Ye won’t win,” Nellis said. “The Grand Master and the Angel will beat ye. The whole Path stands with ’em.”
“Ah friend dwarf,” they said. The voice that came from the mouth this time was icy calm. “Your faith is inspiring. But wouldn’t it be much easier if you did not resist?” They gave a back-handed wave in the dwarf’s direction.
“Easy?” Nellis asked, lowering his staff, eyes beginning to glaze. “That does sound nice.”
They lurched forward. Nellis jerked, then looked down, hands going to his abdomen where that once-revered blade had skewered him. The dwarf looked up to the peak of the tower, smiled, then collapsed.
“NO!” TAUL CRIED OUT, grabbing at his head. The Andstaed was in his mind, merging its thoughts with his own. He had to remember who he was.
But part of him didn’t want to. Devan was dead. He dug his nails into his forehead, trying to process the thought. It wouldn’t click into place, like a key trying to open the wrong lock. Yet there lay the Angel’s mangled corpse, little more now than a charred pile of carbon and bone.
No, no, no. The list of those who had died for him was already far too long. Rikar. Atux. Suzahne. Westcott and his daughter. Raldon. Nellis, if the vision had been true. His face twisted at the idea of adding Devan’s name. What an idiot the Angel had been—the Path needed Devan far more than it needed him. Now the last of the Aldur was gone.
That wasn’t true, Taul realized with rising horror. For unless he was greatly mistaken, he’d just witnessed the rebirth of another. He glanced at the ebon dagger, lying on the floor where it had fallen from Valdin’s throat. He needn’t touch it to know it was no longer a Link, its shadow power gone.
“Bladesorrow.”
He let out a shaky breath and lowered his hands to look at Ferrin. The boy had his blade out, face all hard angles. But he was clutching at his side with his offhand where one of Valdin’s hexes had taken him, his grip on the blade not entirely steady.
“Are you still with me?” the boy asked, frowning. “Jenzara still needs us to finish this.”
Taul stared at him for a moment, then nodded, though the motion held no conviction. It was all he could do to stop himself from shaking. The boy’s eyes studied Devan’s remains for a cold moment, then looked back to him.
“Devan said, back on the steps, that he was still sensing some things from the Path. I think he saw something before shielding you.” The boy muttered to himself for a moment, searching for words. “There was this look of peace on his face, or something. I don’t know. And it’s no secret I hate how he used us all. But this plan was all he cared about. I don’t think he would have sacrificed himself if he hadn’t thought we could finish without him.”
Perhaps the boy was right. With Valdin apparently having fled, all that remained was to find the Andstaed. And then he didn’t even have to defeat it, just touch it. Touch it, and this could all be over. He set his shoulders, taking a long breath, the crushing wave of despair receding. Not gone, but enough that he could start breathing again.
“We should go down and find the others,” Ferrin said. “The Andstaed can’t have gone very far and they can keep the shades off us as we search.”
The boy’s words drove the hope from Taul like air from a slashed bellows. “I don’t think the others are alive,” Taul said, voice like iron on gravel. The vision that had flashed in his mind moments before. Of running Nellis through. Death all about him.
“What do you mean? Maybe some of them have fallen, but all? That’s too pessimistic even for you.” Ferrin walked off towards the open door that led to the balcony.
Taul reached out a hand to stop him, but let it drop. The silence that had fallen told him what the boy would see. Sounds of battle had been coming from below when Valdin entered. Now the air was taciturn, bellowing in his ears. The agony of the raw, seared flesh on his right arm was nothing compared to that quiet. He watched Ferrin walk out the door and peer down, unable to bring himself to follow. After an indeterminate amount of time, the boy turned and drifted away from the balcony, back towards Taul. He seemed dazed, eyes out of focus.
“Their blue robes don’t look right against the dullness of the ruins,” Ferrin said, stopping beside Taul. His voice came out soft, detached, almost as if he were half asleep. Then his hands began to tremble. Taul grasped the boy’s shoulders, squeezing hard until his shaking eased. Ferrin didn’t acknowledge his touch, continuing to stand in place, eyes focused on nothing.
Once he’d satisfied himself the boy wasn’t in imminent danger of collapse, Taul willed himself towards the balcony. He had to see for himself, know for certain the fate he’d brought upon the others. Yet at the last moment his eyes shut, mind already knowing the sight would ruin him.
For a time he just stood at the threshold between inside and out, muscles in his legs quivering, undecided between moving forward or running away, screaming, perhaps to hurl himself into the darkness of the tower’s endless stairs. Eradicate his anguish once and for all.
He had to know, willed his legs forward. His limbs were heavy as anvils, unwilling participants in his movements. The light hurt even through closed eyelids and when he opened them he squinted, temporarily blinded. But when his sight returned, he immediately wished for it to leave him again.
He’d once toured a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Tarmin. Observed the whole process, from crushing the animals’ skulls, to butchering the meat, to packaging for shipping and sale to all corners of Agarsfar. The sight below made all that seem like a summer’s fair.
Blood was everywhere, splattered on cobbles, oozing down walls. Various body parts lay scattered about. Several men had been pulverized to little more than mush, blue Keepers’ tabards shredded and sodden with gore. Here and there a shade clothed in azure rags staggered, the terrible transformation brought on by shadow hearts having already taken some of the Northerners. Their movements were the same disjointed stunts of any other shade, yet they brought to mind the terror and confusion that must have gone through the men’s minds in their last moments of life. The body of a dwarf in a dented red breast plate caught Taul’s eye, a battle staff lying near an outstretched hand. His face had been burned beyond recognition by a dread hex. A blade wound through his gut left a smear on the trampled ground.
A few panthers still milled about, wailing over the bodies of fallen riders. Even as Taul watched, a shade stuttered up to one of the beasts and plunged a shadow heart into its hind quarters. The cat screeched and tried to spin on the monster, but its legs failed, and the panther merely tripped to the ground. It flailed about, roaring in anger and pain. Dark tendrils snaked up the feline’s sleek form, radiating out from where the shade had stabbed it, eventually reaching its eyes and mouth, encroaching upon the openings like slithering worms. Its struggling ceased, a look of terrified confusion frozen on its face. Taul turned away, eyes aching.
“The shades did all that?” Ferrin mumbled. He’d begun to shake again.
Taul didn’t bother to answer. He staggered back into the dim ballroom. His head spun and he grasped at a pillar for support. All those men. Keepers. They’d all come here for him. And just like Riverdale, he’d led them to their doom. Despair began to overtake him, his will draining away like water from a sieve.
“It is a shame you had to lead all those poor creatures to their deaths,” an agonizingly calm voice said, putting words to Taul’s
thoughts. “You could have accomplished the same on your own.”
Taul looked up, brushing sweaty hair from his eyes. A dark shape moved towards him, seeming to glide through the gloom. As the figure grew closer it was like peering into a soiled looking glass. Its armor was familiar, dull gilt in the murk of the room. Enormous pauldrons in the shape of lions punctuated its outline. The thing strode with purpose, but not quickly, broad shoulders back, chin raised. The confidence of one who wielded great power. Or terrible power, more like. Taul took a step back as the old scar in his side began to burn like he’d been jabbed by a white-hot iron. Ferrin cursed under his breath beside him, grasping at his shoulder.
The Andstaed stopped less than a sword-lunge distance from them. All-too-human eyes stared out from the dark mist that encircled its form. Those familiar, blue eyes looked down at Devan’s remains. The Andstaed prodded them with a boot as if they were a pile of dirty laundry.
“A shame,” the tranquil voice said, sending a tremor of anxiety down Taul’s spine. “Some of us had been quite looking forward to seeing the last of the Aldur alive. But it appears Valdin wasn’t quite as useless as he seemed. He’s done the greater part of our work for us.”
“I think you’ll find us more than a match for you,” Ferrin said, seeming to have regained at least some of his wits. The boy eased into River stance, leveling his blade at the creature. “We’ll send you back to where you belong.”
“Silence,” an altogether different voice rasped from the Andstaed. It slipped like a shade, rematerializing inches from Ferrin. The boy had no time to react as the thing moved its hand back and forth over his head, as if rubbing the air around his face. Ferrin stiffened, then collapsed to his knees, eyes agape. The Andstaed planted a foot square on his chest and pushed, sending the boy sprawling to the cold stone of the ballroom’s floor where he lay unmoving, save for an occasional convulsion.