by A. K. Wilder
Ash
Kaylin grips my hand painfully as we scramble up the stairs. I don’t want him to loosen the hold, though, not one little bit.
With the field impossible to cross, we’re working our way down the street, hiding in buildings and behind rubble while flaming boulders scorch rain from the sky and Aturnians search for survivors. Their phantoms and savants attack without warning, capturing and questioning anyone they find. The gruesome truth is they are looking for callers. If they find one, they take them prisoner. Any other kind of phantom they kill on the spot.
Plenty of our savants fight back. Kaylin and I certainly fight back, but Aku is shattered, outnumbered, and falling. Most who survived the first round of catapults are students, not fully trained or ready for battle. They’ve never had to fight for their lives before.
With no quick way to Marcus and the others, Kaylin and I retreat to our room in the main temple for supplies. He goes in first, and when he gives the all clear, I slip in behind him.
“Food, boots, your other satchel?” He edges to the window, peeks around the curtain, and checks below. “We’ll try to cross the field from here.”
I run to the bed and pull out my satchel stowed underneath. With the library completely destroyed, the only text on the next Great Dying and Amassia’s second sun might now be in my possession. The realization is like a punch to the gut, and my hands shake. Or maybe that’s fear from the last dozen brushes with death.
I kick off my fluffy sheepskin shoes and put on a pair of wool socks and my winter boots, lacing them tight. Kaylin grabs his pack and tosses in a compass, the waterskin, and a sack of gold. I have no idea where that came from. It would take a lot of hand-carved lures to fill that bag, but I don’t ask. I wrap up bread and dried fruit left from breakfast and pack it with another waterskin and a skein of nuts, the knives that are on the table, two pens, a blank scroll, and a bottle of ink.
“Wear this,” Kaylin says as he tosses me a knit cap.
I plunk it on my head, tucking my hair back behind my ears, and crisscross the satchels over my back.
Kaylin is at the door, eyeing both ways. I turn around and take a final look at the room. It held so much promise until today. Mystery and fear, too. My eyes go to the window, the tapping sound’s haunt, the table where our discoveries were made and where Kaylin and I shared so many meals. My bed… “Let’s go.” I turn away quickly and we slip out, footfalls silent.
After climbing down to the second-floor landing, I glimpse the foyer, gape for a second, and pull back, flattening myself against the wall. There is no way to erase what I’ve just seen as the image brands the backs of my eyes—three blue-robe savants cornered by a reptile ouster walking on hind legs. It twirled its clawed fingers, gathering air, and blasted it outward. The robes were torn away, followed quickly by skin, muscle, and guts until the bloody bones of the three students collapsed in a heap.
Nausea rises up the back of my throat.
“We can’t go that way,” Kaylin says needlessly.
The enemy savants swarm through the lower levels, taking savants prisoner, questioning them, asking if they raise callers. I hear their interrogations, and it’s a wonder I can make any sense of the madness surrounding me. Why do they want callers? “I don’t understand—”
Kaylin puts his finger to his lips and motions me back up the stairs.
When we are on the third floor, I ask, “What now?” As far as I know, the only other exit leads to the roof.
Sure enough, he points at the ceiling.
My knees go weak and I shake my head. “F’qadin demons, no.”
He nods a yes and leads the way. We climb a narrow ladder at the end of the hall to a hatch. Kaylin opens it a crack and looks out before he pushes it wide, snow from a few nights ago falling around our feet. “Wait here.”
This time, maybe for the first time in my life, I do what I’m told without question. The sounds of screams and clashing weapons ring in the distance and the wind slaps my face. It has lost its fresh sea scent and is laden with smoke, debris, and the taste of burnt metal.
When Kaylin returns, he sheathes his sword and scans me up and down. “Are you all right?”
I palm the tears from my eyes, wondering if I’ll ever be all right again. “I’m fine.” I climb out onto the roof and see a trail of red spatters in his prints. “Are you?”
“Aye, lass.” He smiles. “I’m well, but the guards on the roof will need more than a light healing.”
I draw in a breath. Death comes so easy to him. Peace be their paths, I say silently.
“Peace be their paths,” he says aloud and leads the way toward the eastern corner of the rooftop.
When we reach the edge, I gaze down three stories, hand going to my throat. “Kaylin, I don’t know how to break this to you.”
“What’s that, lass?”
“I can’t fly.”
His eyes crinkle with his smile, and the wind blows his curly hair back from his face. For a moment, the battle cries and urgency disappear. I take a step closer. Kaylin bends toward me and touches my cheek. I close my eyes as his lips brush across my mouth. “I’ll let no harm come to you.”
I peer over the edge. “How?”
“There are steps laid into the stone.”
I squint. “For ants?”
“They’re chinks, really.”
My stomach drops. “Chinks?” I give him an incredulous look. “I’m going down the wall holding onto chinks?”
“I’ll guide you.”
“If I fall…”
“You won’t. Trust me.” He smiles again. “Have a little faith.”
56
Marcus
Pain wracks me from head to toe, but De’ral’s strength helps me ignore it.
I follow Destan with phantom eyes, sending a small kernel of awareness back to my tortured body. The traitor runs catlike across the stable roof then jumps, free-falling to the ground. The downward force as he hits launches his phantom high into the air. Together, they burst into the fray, his phantom sweeping up a sword from one of the corpses on the road and locking onto the sun leopard. Destan heads straight for Belair.
I roar a warning, but it comes out as an unformed cry from De’ral’s mouth. Just before impact, Belair turns toward Destan. In my phantom’s body, I struggle against the restraints that pin me to the road. From my own flesh and blood, I watch on, helpless to save my friend. Destan’s momentum thrusts him forward, an unstoppable surge. The redhead’s free hand comes up to his chest. For a split second, a smile crosses Destan’s face. Belair drops, twisting his shoulders into Destan’s legs as he bends to throw him.
But the move is predictable, seen dozens of times on the training field. Before Destan flips off his feet, his knife hand comes up. In one clean sweep, he slashes out at Belair. The blade rakes from ribs to shoulder, carving a path through cloth and flesh, taking a chunk from his right ear. Destan slams hard into the ground, an arc of dark liquid sailing off his blade. From the tip flies a mat of wet hair.
Belair hits the dirt face-first as Destan rolls and then springs to his feet. I roar a challenge again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the leopard trying to fend off Destan’s phantom. The warrior is harrying the cat from every angle. Belair has found his blade and is trying desperately to defend himself. A kick to the chin knocks him out.
Even so, his leopard fights on.
Destan’s phantom has a hold of the sun leopard’s neck, but the big cat twists around to bite and slash, its hind legs raking to disembowel. More ousters come, whipping up the air. The cat is thrown on its side by the invisible winds, pinned to the ground, legs scrambling against the gale. It tears up dirt and fallen bodies but can’t break free. Destan’s phantom raises his sword high. As it comes down, the whistling blade slices through paw and neck, forcing the sun leopard to ground. Belair’s b
ody shudders as the phantom finds its home.
Rage fills me and I curl my hands into fists, splintering some of the spears that impaled De’ral as he emulates my actions.
Destan gives a rebellious cheer. Warriors of his realm are everywhere, snaking up the road, swarming the Sanctuary in the hundreds through the toppled gates. “Victory!” the traitor shouts, and beats his chest like a beast. He stands tall, basking in the rallying crowd until he turns, searching.
He’s coming for us next.
And I see him, heading for me, not De’ral.
In panic, I rip a fraction more of my awareness from De’ral and snap it back into my body. I’m weaker than I thought, basically a lump of wounded flesh and blood. But I don’t feel pain. Not yet. All I know is the rapidly building wall of blind, voracious hunger within. I struggle to stand and fail, my frustration adding to the rage. Dirt and saliva run from my mouth, and a strange gurgling wells up. It’s coming from me, from my throat.
My head hangs like a door off its hinge, but still the sound grows. I surge to my knees, my body a reflection of De’ral’s. Tags of flesh hang with torn strips of my quilted green robe, wet hair slapping my eyes. I raise my arms wide and strands of blood fling from my crippled hands. Destan stops short, and I slowly lift my head and grin right in the traitor’s face.
“I’ve been watching you, Baiseen,” Destan says. He would sound arrogant, which I think is his intent, but his voice cracks at the end. His eyes travel my ruined form.
“Have you?” I answer.
“There’s someone who wants to see you,” Destan goes on. He’s not as sure of himself, though. I can see it in the unease flickering in his eyes.
“Do tell.”
The traitor hesitates. Is he surprised by my composure in the face of overwhelming defeat?
He quickly gathers himself. “I had hoped you would be more reluctant,” he says, “but judging by the lack of fight, you’re all too eager to meet him, too.”
The building storm inside my skull roils. I laugh as wisps of rage escape through my mouth and nose like invisible smoke.
Destan sneers, then turns to the Aturnian soldiers joining him. “Take the Heir to Master Tann. He wants him alive for questioning.”
Tann? The High Savant of Lepsea? Lightning cracks through my veins at the thought of that Sierrak red-robe being behind all this. “It is I who will question him.” I grind out the words and spit blood on Destan’s boots.
He responds instantly, smashing his fist into my forehead without warning. My head snaps back, and fresh blood spatters the ground. Two of the soldiers grab me, one on each side, and haul me up. My chin drops to my chest as they drag me away, but the gurgling laughter returns.
Destan yells, the fear in his voice more apparent this time. “You want more? I’ve got plenty.” He stops his men and catches up.
From my throat comes a long, thin howl. Not pain. My body begins to shudder with it, yes, but this siren sound is from a stronger place than flesh and bone. I lift my head and stare Destan straight in the eyes. Power flows into me from De’ral, filling my core with red-hot fire. My limbs tingle. The agony retreats, replaced by something unfathomable. The rage and madness of us together, De’ral and I, hits the surface and explodes to life.
Destan glances at my warrior phantom struggling to break his restraint and hesitates. “Put that thing to ground,” he commands, and more ousters turn toward De’ral, their arms spinning, creating funnels of wind.
While Destan focuses his attention away from me, I launch. The soldiers hold tight, but I manage to spit blood straight into the Aturnian’s face this time.
Destan throws his blade down, his fists windmilling in a flurry of punches. He storms toward me, so absorbed in his assault he doesn’t notice the Aturnian soldiers flinging through the air, landing far afield. But I see them, through De’ral’s eyes, because I’m the one throwing them, still sharing his perspective with my own.
My phantom is free!
Through rage-red vision, I see the Aturnian captors slapped hard to the ground. They worm to get away before being crushed underfoot by my phantom’s boots. The ousters back away, whipping their hands about, but not fast enough. Enemy soldiers sail through the sky, heading toward the ocean in high, blood-streaming arcs, their cries cutting short on impact. The giant warrior rips apart enemy phantoms with his teeth. The guards release me and back away to the stable wall but Destan still hasn’t seen. He grabs me by the hair. “Call it to ground, Baiseen, or I’ll kill you, no matter what my orders.”
Through swollen lips, I shout, “To me!” Blood spurts from my mouth. “To me, now!” It’s not a call to ground, and De’ral and I both know it.
Destan’s breath comes in deep gasps, blowing air across my face, cool against broken, wet skin. The ground shudders from De’ral’s pounding stride. He runs low, nearly on all fours, spears sticking out of his hide, pieces of savants and soldiers spilling from his mouth. I see him, I am him, mimicking chewing motions with my own teeth.
Destan drops to one knee, clearly intending to bring his phantom in and raise it again right in front of me, but I lunge and catch him from behind, a death grip. My teeth sink deep into Destan’s shoulder while choking him down.
Destan’s war cry turns into a deafening shriek when De’ral smashes his fists into the earth, crushing the rising demon, sending it back to ground. Dirt rains and the giant warrior’s mouth closes around Destan’s kicking legs. I let go my grip and De’ral snatches him up. Leg bones crush under phantom teeth. Destan’s face, hanging upside down like a savaged bat, twists horribly as he swings, blood flowing over his body, dripping down his arms, fingertips, and from the top of his head.
I stare into De’ral’s face, seeing my own eyes, wild and black and furious. It revives me, though blood runs from my hands and down my wrists as well when I raise them high, the victory now mine. We stand to full height, phantom and savant. The rage buried for so long is free. Destan’s eyes bulge, his spine breaks, and the last sound he utters drifts over the wind, a shrill cry for help.
The advancing troops have weapons drawn, but they cower at the darkness in me, in De’ral. All save one. He rushes forward, spear raised as he drops to the ground. His phantom erupts—a white-furred ape with long yellow teeth and fisted hands. Its arms spiral in classic ouster movements, and chunks of wood and tiles fly toward us, the stable rooftop breaking free. With phantom arms I block before impact and punch the roof midair, sending it down the road. Enemy soldiers are strewn aside like windblown leaves, the rooftop skidding along until it flips, breaking into pieces. The smaller bits skip farther down the road, hitting troops as they dash out of the way. Some evade. Others are smacked to the ground.
In the midst of battle, I pull more of my awareness back into my body. In savant form, I rush the ape and bowl it to the ground. Straddling the ouster, my elbows rain into its face in place of curled and bleeding fists. The phantom’s bones cave, and it melts into the ground.
Power engulfs me, my vision tunneling into a tube ringed in dark blood.
“More!” I shout and leap to my feet. De’ral and I challenge the enemy coming up the road. They flee, De’ral pounding after them in pursuit. Those too stunned to react, or too slow, are stomped flat. My phantom’s grinding jaws finally open and Destan, what is left of him, a scrap of torso, a bit of his worn green robe, falls out.
When I catch up, De’ral and I stand over the remains. “You lost,” I tell him. Ignoring the searing pain in my hands, I yank a spear out of De’ral’s flesh and plunge it through Destan’s rib cage, aiming for the meat of his heart.
“Marcus, stop. He’s dead.” Samsen runs up from the ravine behind the stables, his face pale, blade wet. “Enough. Bring him in.”
De’ral snarls and charges after more retreating soldiers.
“To ground,” Piper shouts, panting behind Samsen. She stands with a
short knife in each hand, snake around her neck, her chest heaving. “Before it’s too late.”
I can barely understand her words. Too late for what?
Samsen shakes me. “Bring him in! You’re going to bleed to death if you don’t.”
My eyes flutter, knees going weak.
“No!” Samsen slaps my face. “Stay awake and bring him in!”
The part of me that is trapped in phantom perspective seeks the door, the barrier De’ral tries to keep me from crossing. I reach for it in my mind and wedge it open with my thoughts. It burns, acid on skin, but I struggle, push, and squeeze my way through. “To me,” I say, returning completely to my own mutilated body.
With no more hold over me, De’ral melts into the ground, leaving broken spears, swords, and knives behind on the road.
I glance briefly at my friends before falling forward, the phantom energy sustaining me dissipating like the mist.
“Marcus!” Piper’s snake scents near my face as she lifts my head out of the dirt.
“Off the road!” Samsen tries to hoist me, but I resist.
“I won’t desert Aku.” My voice is low and rasping.
“And I won’t let you throw your life away.” Samsen shakes me again when I close my eyes. “You’re the Heir of Baiseen, and Aku has fallen. Come. We must find Ash and escape the Isle.”
At the sound of her name, my heart turns black and squeezes shut, along with my eyes. “She was in the library…” Salt tears burn down my face, cutting pathways through blood and dirt.
Samsen curses. “Stand up, man. Ash lives. My phantom tracks her now.”
I open my eyes, push up to my knees. “Where?”
“With Kaylin. Coming this way.”
I throw every ounce of remaining strength into gaining my feet. “Ash lives?”
“Hurry!” Piper says, guiding me.
I stumble off the road, leaning hard on her and Samsen both. Ash lives, and the thought brings me a few inches back from the brink.
57
Ash