A Respite From Storms

by Robert J. Crane

  “You were held to account—” Longwell started.

  “For my father’s sins.”

  Baraghosa’s eyes glittered. His face parted in a grin—a ghastly, terrifying grin, the sort found only in the darkest of nightmares. “Now, though … I plan to commit sins of my own,” he said, waving at the pedestal just beside him. “Right now, in fact.”

  Baraghosa lifted his cane—Jasen gripped the handle of his sword—and he slammed it into the bricks at his feet.

  A concussive blast of energy ripped through the air, and slammed Jasen in the chest just as he took his first step into battle.

  28

  Jasen was rattled by the blast. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs—

  Already, Huanatha had pressed in. She sailed forward, Tanukke swinging—

  Kuura followed suit a moment later.

  If they had been in perfect time, Jasen believed Baraghosa might have been felled that moment. But the slight pause between them gave the sorcerer a fraction of an instant to deflect the attacks one by one.

  He flung up his cane, whirling toward Huanatha. Tanukke and cane met, clanging as though steel rung against steel.

  He thrust up, forcing her backward—

  Then he spun to Kuura. Instead of meeting the axe, he thrust out with the cane—and a blast of power spat from its end. Hitting Kuura hard in the chest, he yelled as it tossed him backward, end over end.

  Huanatha was already coming back in. She swiped, low—

  Baraghosa stepped over the blade as if he were a child jumping a length of rope. Then he hit the cane against the stone underfoot, between himself and Huanatha. A wave of invisible energy rolled at her, hitting her feet. She staggered back, almost toppling—

  And then Longwell surged in.

  Every moment Jasen had imagined Longwell flying into the fight with Baraghosa—and he had done so, every night upon the sea between the Aiger Cliffs and this cursed isle—he had pictured the same swipes and thrusts that he had watched Longwell perform upon the Lady Vizola’s deck. They were precise, powerful blows—

  But those practiced blows that were nothing compared to this. Longwell moved as a literal blur. He sped forward in an instant, like a man flung by a cannon. His lance cut through the air—

  Baraghosa sidestepped, barely in time.

  A harried look crossed his face, the slightest flare of his temper.

  Hope exploded in Jasen’s chest.

  Longwell turned—

  Baraghosa struck out with his cane.

  A blast hit Longwell, knocking him back—

  But he hardly stumbled. Where Huanatha and Kuura and Jasen and Alixa and Scourgey had all been tossed easily aside by Baraghosa’s attacks, Longwell endured it.

  He gripped his lance and pushed forward again.

  Baraghosa dodged.

  Huanatha flew in again, swinging high with Tanukke.

  Baraghosa lifted his cane to meet the strike—and he did—but the movement was spastic, sudden, without precision.

  We can do this, Jasen thought. We can beat him…!

  Longwell thrust out with his lance—

  Baraghosa deflected with a blow of power from the end of his cane. The lance’s tip was thrust out of its path—

  Kuura blundered in. He had the axe raised high. A war cry came from his lips—

  Baraghosa blasted him away again—

  Already Huanatha was sailing in again.

  He met her blade—

  She cut in low instantly. Baraghosa dodged back, jerking a foot out of the way—

  She swept in again.

  He twisted out of the way of Tanukke’s razor-sharp edge.

  He thrust out his cane. A blast of energy hit Huanatha side-on. She was punched backward by one shoulder—

  Now Scourgey leapt into the gap between them. Carving a hole through the fog behind her, she sailed, a perfect black silhouette against the pulsing light in the middle of the room—

  Baraghosa smacked at her with his cane. But with so little time to force her away from him, instead of blasting Scourgey with an invisible shot of energy, the cane made contact. It must have lost some of Baraghosa’s power, for although Scourgey was pushed out of the air, she landed only a few feet away.

  Scrabbling quickly to her feet, she bared her fangs—

  “Damned scourge,” Baraghosa murmured. He thrust out with the cane, and

  Scourgey jerked backward as though she had been kicked in the face. She howled—

  “NO!” Alixa roared. And she flew into battle, her daggers raised—

  Baraghosa twisted toward her. His eyes widened momentarily.

  The cane lifted—

  Then Longwell was flying back toward him. “YOUR DAYS OF HARMING CHILDREN ARE DONE!”

  Baraghosa sidestepped, to be met by Huanatha again, on one side, Tanukke cleaving through the air—

  He dodged that too—

  Then Kuura came in again, swinging for Baraghosa’s guts with his axe—

  “Meddlesome man,” Baraghosa muttered. He jabbed out with the cane twice. The first blow knocked Kuura backward, stalling his momentum.

  The second hit him like an uppercut to the jaw. He yelled, arcing high overhead—

  “CRUEL SORCERER!” Alixa cried.

  She thrust out with her daggers—

  Baraghosa turned to her. The cane lifted again—

  This time it was Jasen who surged in. Drawing his sword high, he sprinted hard at Baraghosa. He was aiming not for the sorcerer’s head, or neck, or heart, but instead his hand, with its horribly knobbled knuckles and fingers which were far too long. He would slice it off, parting him from that damned cane—

  Huanatha swung in again too.

  Baraghosa’s eyes flared. A moment of panic registered upon his face—

  Then he slammed his cane to the brick underfoot.

  A pulse of power exploded from it, rebounding outward. Jasen was thrown backward. Alixa sailed too, shrieking—

  He crash-landed near the steps,

  blinking back stars—

  “Do not touch that!”

  Whose voice was that?

  For a second, Jasen was sure that it was his father’s.

  But that was only where something had rattled loose inside of him. He rose to find that it was Longwell who had shouted. At the chamber’s edge, he was pushing into motion once more, becoming a blur as the lance stretched out for Baraghosa—

  —who was reaching for the pewter pot within the center of the chamber.

  He gritted his teeth. Braced.

  Then he stepped sideways.

  Longwell had pre-empted him, though. He changed course at the last moment—and Baraghosa gasped, eyes and mouth wide, like the specter he had summoned to defend his spire in case of intrusion—

  He thrust out with his cane. That movement, too, was a blur—

  It crashed into Longwell’s back.

  There was an almighty CRACK!, as though lightning had struck within the chamber.

  Longwell sailed clear across the room—

  He slammed headlong into the western column—and fell, slumped so that he was half-sitting.

  He did not move.

  “Longwell!” Jasen cried.

  He rose—

  Baraghosa rounded on him. “Cease this, boy.” He jabbed at him with the cane, and

  Jasen sailed backward, slamming the wall.

  Alixa sprinted for him, daggers raised again. “NOT MY COUSIN!”

  Baraghosa gritted his teeth. He lifted the cane—and as though she were suspended on strings, Alixa was lifted too. Her body went rigid, as though ropes bound it—

  “Leave her alone!” Kuura boomed.

  He sailed in again—

  But Baraghosa said, “You are too old and too tired for this.” He swung his cane around to meet Kuura’s axe. It caught in the point between its two heads—

  Then he smiled, the grin of a monster. Kuura’s eyes went wide—

  Then Baraghosa pushed.<
br />
  A blast of energy threw Kuura back. He spun, end on end through the air, over Jasen’s head—then slammed against the wall and fell down upon the stairs.

  Like Longwell, he did not move.

  Alixa still hung. Utterly petrified, her face was a mask of terror. Her knuckles had gone white, clutching her daggers by the handles. But none of her fear could slip past her lips; an invisible binding seemed to cover her mouth, too.

  “Meddlesome, all of you,” said Baraghosa. He glanced sidelong at the pewter pot. The pulses of light were farther apart now. It still coughed intermittent bursts of purple vapor, but the mist had mostly dissipated from the chamber. With Baraghosa’s focus elsewhere, the spell upon the pedestal was no longer belching enough cloud to rejuvenate the fading fog.

  “Leave her alone,” Jasen said. He approached slowly, sword raised.

  “No.” And with another thrust of his cane, Jasen was done away with; he careened backward, landed in a heap. Pain erupted through him—pain, and a wave of exhaustion that did not pass.

  “Do you know,” said Baraghosa to Alixa, “how easy it would be to destroy any of you? It would be very simple—very simple indeed. Why, just like … pulling a string.”

  He lifted a finger … and Alixa’s left arm rose with it, exactly as though he controlled it. It rose and rose, until her fist was level with her face—and then it twisted, so the dagger she held there was pointed down … then angled … and then her arm descended, under Baraghosa’s control, so the tip of the blade rested against her stomach.

  She stared in horror, still unable to move.

  “I could do it, you know,” said Baraghosa. “Easily.”

  “No,” said Huanatha. “You could not.”

  And she struck out with Tanukke, from behind him, where she had snuck—

  Baraghosa roared as the blade cut through his dark jacket, carving a gash into his shoulder. He threw out a hand, a true spasm this time. Alixa was loosed—she was thrust upward, and slammed the ceiling, then the floor—

  Jasen cried, “ALIXA!” He sprinted for her—but he was tired, so tired, and his steps were heavy—

  He fell at her side.

  Blood spilled from her head.

  He reached out—

  Baraghosa’s cane hit the ground. An explosive wave of energy carried through the room again. It hit Jasen hard in the face, forcing him back.

  Huanatha’s attack had drawn blood—but only that. He stared at the wound grimly in the moment’s pause he had been granted by the impact of his cane.

  Huanatha spat at him, from her place on the floor, “Another thousand of those is still less than you deserve.”

  Baraghosa turned to her. He drew in a long breath.

  They stared at each other, hate burning in both their eyes.

  Then Huanatha shoved onto her feet. She roared, a battle cry that would have made Kuura proud, and flung herself at him, Tanukke raised—

  Baraghosa clenched his teeth, baring all of them. He drew up his cane—

  Tanukke swung through the air—

  Baraghosa met it with a blow like no other. Steel rang, a high-pitched clang that threatened to burst Jasen’s eardrums—

  Then Tanukke’s blade exploded. Fragments showered in all directions.

  Huanatha gasped, the shower of fragments slashing her face with dozens of small cuts, little drips of dark crimson rolling down from her cheeks and forehead. She seemed not to notice. “What—?”

  “Begone, shaman,” Baraghosa growled.

  And he hit her in the chest with his cane.

  The enormous force of it flung her backward. She made a strangled sort of noise, armor crumpling into her breast—

  And then she hit the wall, and all was still.

  Jasen panted, dazed.

  They were down, all of them—Longwell, by the column; Kuura, his form slumped over the steps; Huanatha, her armor splintered and Tanukke shattered; Alixa, face-down on the stone, scarlet seeping about her head.

  All five, and Scourgey too … bested by Baraghosa.

  Again.

  All that remained of them was Jasen—Jasen, who was exhausted beyond belief, who could barely stand, after only the slightest exertion.

  But he could stand, if he forced himself. Still there were energy reserves upon which he could draw. He could still raise his sword—could still drive it through Baraghosa’s heart.

  So he pushed himself up, from his cousin’s side. His body shook under the strain …

  Yet he rose.

  The sorcerer looked down upon the body of Scourgey. She lay there in a crumpled heap. Dead? Jasen did not know. He hoped not—hoped none of them had died in this mad quest—but Huanatha’s words rung out in his mind: Scourgey was with him until the last. She had known the choice she was making, in her strangely intelligent way. They all had known what they were walking into.

  And he most of all.

  He lurched toward the pedestal in the chamber’s center. The purple mist breathing out of it had mostly dissipated now. Only a faint cloud was left, drifting by the ceiling. The liquid inside glowed with yellow light, as if part of the sun had been poured into the vessel. But even that, too, seemed dimmer somehow. Had they interrupted the spell long enough for it to wear off?

  Or perhaps, a distant part of Jasen thought cynically, his vision was only failing.

  Whether the spell remained at full strength, or it was dissipating—it was imperative Jasen stop Baraghosa.

  So he took painful, tired steps. So little strength left in him … but he moved, closing the gap between him and the pedestal, Baraghosa’s power, waiting to be tapped …

  He was four feet from it when Baraghosa tapped his cane on the brick. The click sound that came from it was stark in the silence, now the battle was almost done.

  “This,” the sorcerer said slowly, “is all that remains to stop me.” He turned, away from Scourgey—and those dull, dark eyes of his fell upon Jasen’s face. “One dying boy?”

  Jasen froze.

  The question was wrought on his face, for Baraghosa nodded. “You heard me. You are dying. An illness grows within you. You won’t last the year.”

  Dying? Illness?

  Jasen stared. His mouth had gone dry.

  Somehow, he croaked, “It’s not true.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Baraghosa began to amble toward him. He used his cane as a cane now, not a weapon. Click … click … The quiet between his steps was terrifically long—yet it filled with the sound of Jasen’s heart, suddenly beating in a frenzy.

  “It’s why I chose you as my sacrifice, you see,” said Baraghosa. “I sensed it within you … the way your pet does.” He waved a hand, backward, to Scourgey’s limp form. “It … clings to you, like a bad scent. To the scourge, perhaps it is. Bad meat. Unpalatable. Not worth pursuing. Perhaps that sense they have gave them other insight as well—perhaps the volcano brewing beneath Terreas was why they avoided it for all those long years. I didn’t sense that one. But this I see clearly, the pall hanging over you … it’s death.”

  He was close now—close enough that Jasen could lunge, could stab out with his blade, and could slice those too-long fingers from his hands as Baraghosa gestured.

  Yet he was frozen. Horror had overridden him. All he could do was stand. And stare.

  “It lingers around you,” said Baraghosa, “twisting … spiraling.” His fingers traced a contortion of darkness Jasen could not see. “You appear to be embraced by thorns. It grows over you now. Why, in just the few weeks since I set eyes upon you, when my trade was denied, it has grown incredibly fast. Around your chest—” He pointed, fingertip swirling. “Its tendrils snake ever nearer to your heart … to your brain … I could show you, if you like.”

  “No.” Another croak—one Jasen hardly heard.

  “No?” Baraghosa nodded distractedly. “Of course … so few wish to see, after all. To look death in the eye … but you’ll see it soon enough. Here the whisper of its footsteps in your waking mi
nd.”

  Dying. Ill.

  It could not be true.

  And yet … all his fatigue these past weeks; the way he had struggled, when others had not.

  When had it first manifested itself?

  He recalled that climb up the pathway to the clifftops, how he had needed to pause to catch his breath, how he had toppled when the stress grew too much.

  But that was not the first, was it? As if remembering a part of some other lifetime Jasen recalled that he had almost succumbed to exhaustion on the road between Wayforth and Terreas too. How had he justified it then? Poor sleep? Stress? Too little food?

  Had there been earlier signs of this darkness growing within him?

  He racked his brain for them—

  And then the pewter pot behind him coughed. Pink fog spewed over its edge, one thick spurt of it that rolled over pedestal and onto the ground. It spread out, already thinning.

  It brought Jasen back to the room. For, at this moment, this was all that mattered. Not death. Not illness. Not when he might have seen, how this might have been prevented.

  The only important thing in the entire world was stopping Baraghosa.

  Jasen steeled. Gripping his sword tightly, he turned back to the sorcerer.

  His teeth clenched, bared.

  Baraghosa lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you look at me as if I am a monster?”

  “You’re a murderer,” said Jasen. “A monster. A stealer of children.”

  Baraghosa nodded. “I confess, I have done monstrous things, yes,” he said, more to himself than to Jasen. “But I have made decisions to limit death. For example … all your friends here are alive.” He swept a hand around the chamber, and the still—unconscious, if he was to be believed—bodies littered throughout it. “I have taken no lives in my action against you, even when my own was threatened. Twice now you have assailed me with your blades … and twice I have let you walk away, bruised but little worse for wear, when in return you would have bled me dry.”

  His gaze lingered on Jasen’s sword … and then fell, once more, upon Jasen’s face.

  Jasen took a breath.

  “You believe me a monster,” Baraghosa lamented—

  And suddenly, in a flash, he was beside Jasen, the distance between them crossed in a blink. He gripped Jasen by the shoulders, tighter than a man of his frame should ever be able to grip. And his long face leered down into Jasen’s, almost gaunt, ghastly and terrible, eyes dark and flat and so awful upon him—