by David Estes
Because he knew he needed the monster too. If he was to defend Annise against the evil that haunted her, he needed to be stronger than he’d ever been, and he could only achieve that with—
My help. Yes. Now you understand. Good. That is good. I might even be able to forgive you for trying to kill me.
Tarin almost laughed. Being forgiven by a formless monster was the least of his concerns.
“Sir,” one of his men said, snapping him from his reverie. “The scouts have returned.”
The beat of Tarin’s heart doubled in speed. He searched the man’s grizzled face, trying to divine answers where there were none. “And?”
“The refugees have reached Walburg.” Tarin closed his eyes, feeling a massive sense of relief.
“What is the condition of the city?” he asked.
“Deserted. Sir Metz and his soldiers did their part in evacuating the citizens. By now they will have reached Darrin.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Should we follow them?”
Tarin considered the suggestion for a moment, but quickly dispelled the notion. For all he knew their enemies were lying in wait within the bounds of the very forest he’d been watching for the last few days. Waiting for them to retreat so they could continue their pursuit. “No,” he said. “We will hold the line.”
A sound awoke Tarin from a light sleep. It was too windy to erect tents, so Tarin and his men had unfurled their bedrolls under the open sky, and now stars winked down at him.
What had awoken him? he wondered, listening to the night, which was as still and silent as a corpse.
There it was again, a muffled sound, like the beginning part of a shout that never escaped the back of one’s throat.
Tarin was on his feet in an instant, his hand already finding the hilt of the Morningstar in the darkness, closing around it like the touch of an old friend.
Shadows coalesced into shapes, blurry and moving. Then came the shouts. Next:
The screams.
Something launched itself at Tarin, and he was instantly reminded of the first time he’d seen the creatures in Crimea, the foreign way they moved, a strange mixture of grace and power that reminded him, in some ways, of himself.
All those thoughts passed through his mind in an instant, but his body was already acting on instinct, swinging his spiked ball around, gauging the distance and the speed of his foe’s flight through the air.
Crunch!
Gore exploded, splashing across Tarin’s armor as the creature’s head crumpled. The momentum of its attack carried the body into him and Tarin was knocked back, twisting as he fell to force the headless corpse to the side.
He had less than a moment to spin away before the next enemy was upon him, its long claws and jagged fangs flashing in the moonslight. He kicked it in the gut and scrambled to his feet, barely managing to duck as he sensed another attack from behind.
A powerful fist thudded against his helmet, but it was a glancing blow and he countered with an uppercut, rocking the barbarian back. Something grabbed his ankle, and he nearly swung his spiked ball down upon it before realizing it was one of his own men, the same scout who’d brought him the good news of Annise’s safe arrival in Walburg earlier that day.
“Help me,” the man said, his voice grating from his throat. Blood trickled from his lips.
Tarin reached down to pull the soldier to his feet, but then he was gone, dragged away with a swiftness that stole his breath. Dozens of pale hairless forms darted through the night, screeching and snuffling with animalistic fury.
His men were dead or dying, he knew, but still he held back the monster, afraid of becoming the very enemy he now faced. Release me, the monster purred. I will kill them all.
Oh Annise, Tarin thought. I am sor—
In his mind, he began to pry back a single brick.
The impact of the blow from behind was so sudden and powerful that Tarin was unable to complete the thought. Stars danced before his eyes as he stumbled, nearly falling over the body beneath his feet. Awkwardly, he swung his weapon but caught only air, still trying to regain his senses.
Release me.
I’m trying!
Another blow, this one even more powerful than the last. He staggered, his legs wobbling. He whirled to locate his foe, but there were dozens of them, all around him, some separating into two, three and more additional enemies. They were multiplying before his eyes. Everywhere.
And then they fell upon him, their fists and claws raining down like hundreds of falling stars.
Tarin roared, but it was an empty challenge, for his weapon and strength had already been stripped from him by a Horde more powerful than any he had faced in all his years.
His monster went silent.
And then so did he.
Eleven
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Roan Loren
Roan had the urge to scream, but settled for digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
“That went well,” Windy said, raising an eyebrow. “Where’s my tea?”
Yela grumbled something under her breath, fumbling at a teapot, trying to pour the thick liquid inside.
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing, my lady. Coming right up.” She said the last with feigned cheerfulness and Windy smiled.
“That’s better,” she said, finally taking the cup, cradling it in both hands like a precious object. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” The last she said to Roan, who was staring at the splotchy red bruises he’d created on his hands. They throbbed. The pain, unfortunately, did nothing for his frustration.
To Roan’s own surprise, he said, “Yes. Please.”
Yela looked at him like he’d gone as mad as a three-headed dragon, but then shrugged and poured him a cup of the thick, noxious concoction he hated. He pushed the mug to his lips, slowly at first, but then greedily, throwing back the entire portion of steaming liquid like a shot of whisky. The bitterness burned his tongue and throat, but he relished the moments of clarity it provided.
“This world is doomed,” he said and Windy laughed.
“Why? Because a bunch of kingdoms who haven’t gotten along in a century still refuse to get along? Did you expect more from them?”
In truth? Yes, he had. After the united effort required to destroy first the Phanecian slavers and then the Sleeping Knights, he’d believed in his heart of hearts that a true alliance was possible. That there could be peace amongst the Four Kingdoms as they allied themselves against the Horde. He’d believed in the Western Oracle’s plan.
But after Sai Loren and his retinue had stormed out chased by Rhea, there had been a domino effect. Grey Arris had slipped away quietly, while Raven Sandes had opened a window to meet her dragon. Much to Roan’s dismay, Gwen had followed her. The Black Tears had simply shaken their heads and exited. Gareth’s departure had been more pointed. “I’m sorry,” he’d said, “but there’s something I must do. The northerners need the east’s help and I will not deny them. The legions will do everything in our power to slow our enemy’s march south.” Roan had nodded, though watching him go had sliced him to the core. Falcon Hoza, the last remaining leader, had stood slowly. “We need to speak,” he’d said. “Later. I will find you.” And then he was gone, leaving Roan with Windy, Yela, and four of the fatemarked.
None of the fatemarked had said a word until Sir Dietrich had grunted and stood. “Shall we stand together against the Horde?” he’d asked. “If we each defeat ten thousand, we should stand a fighting chance.” The moment of grim levity had helped, but not enough to stop the other attendees from exiting through the main door. For all Roan knew, the entire council had already left the city.
Windy slurped her tea, smacking her lips and sighing. Yela studied a book. Roan stared at the door, wondering what to do next. The entire journey since he’d departed Calypso inflicted with the Beggar’s plague had been about
seeking the truth. But now that he had the truth, he didn’t know what to do with it.
A knock sounded through the door. Yela glanced up and looked at Windy, but Roan was already on his feet, striding to open it. Any distraction was a good one at this point.
He opened the door to find Falcon Hoza. He was adorned in traditional Phanecian garb, spots of muscled skin visible through gaps in his strappy leather tunic. His pants were form-fitting, allowing for the greatest range of motion. The Phanecian emperor placed a hand on his chest, tapping it once over his heart. Roan returned the gesture, remembering the traditional greeting used in these parts. “Will you walk with me?” Falcon asked.
Roan nodded, considering whether to invite Windy and Yela. But no, something about the request felt personal, and he didn’t want to insult the only leader who had yet to abandon him.
So they walked, first down a long, lavishly adorned corridor and then through a door that led onto a moonlit terrace. They didn’t stop there to converse in private. Instead, steps led to a narrow path through the canyons, far from the main thoroughfare, hidden behind the palace itself. The shadows thickened, congealing around their feet.
“Where are we going?” Roan asked, feeling a shred of apprehension at being alone with a man he barely knew.
“A place of truth,” Falcon said, not turning around, pushing forward into the darkness. “The walls are close. Use them as your guide.”
Roan did, running his hand alone the stone, which was surprisingly smooth, unlike the rough texture of the towering cliffs he was accustomed to. “What place?”
Falcon laughed. “A place my brothers and I used to joke about. My father, however, believed in it. It was one of the few things he believed in.” He said the latter with a note of sorrow.
“The Slave Master.”
The emperor hesitated for two heartbeats. “Yes. That is what he was at the end, though he was also a man. Once he saw beyond the power and wealth. But that was a long time ago.”
Roan knew how it felt to long for a different path, to see the past and the infinite possibilities. Fork after fork appeared on the road of his life, and each path that he’d taken felt like the wrong one.
And yet he was here, now, and still more forks appeared. Were any the right ones?
He had to believe they were.
After what felt like an eternity, the narrow chasm widened once more, but then deadended into a roundish space. Something dark seemed to slither along its surface and Roan stopped. “Is that…”
“Yes. Water.”
Roan shivered. Phanes was the hottest place he’d ever experienced, the climate even harsher than what he’d experienced growing up in Calyp. And within the canyons of Phanea the heat became an oven. When he’d first arrived, he’d inquired about the water, which was drawn from deep wells within the rock. But a pond open to the air? It felt impossible.
“Why hasn’t it dried up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does it rain here?”
“Almost never.”
It was impossible, and yet when Roan bent down and plunged his fingers into the dark surface, his hand returned dripping with moisture. “Does this pond supply the palace?” he asked.
“No,” Falcon said. “No one is permitted to drink it.”
Roan frowned. It seemed like an awful waste of resources. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Patience. The time is nigh.”
“I don’t understand.” But even as Roan stared at the inky surface, a spot of light appeared, the reflection of one of the moons cresting the cliffs as it made its way across the night sky. The spot became a halo became a broad swathe, illuminating the still, pellucid water, which was deep, far deeper than Roan expected.
Something darted beneath the surface, there and gone again. “What was that?”
“I didn’t see anything,” Falcon said. “I never have. But my father…”
“What about your father? What did he see?”
Falcon sighed. “He always told us this pond was full of magic. My brothers and I only ever saw unused water, but he wouldn’t allow us to drink or swim in it. Now I think maybe we just didn’t understand.”
A place of truth, Falcon had said before. What truth?
“Understand what?”
Falcon shrugged. “I don’t know. But they say the Western Oracle passed through these canyons on her return journey from Teragon. That she blessed these waters. Now my people call it the Well of Truth, though none but the Hozas have been permitted to visit it for years.”
Roan froze. He’d never heard such a thing and Bear Blackboots had never mentioned it. Then again, Bear Blackboots had never been particularly forthcoming with information. “She was here?”
Falcon shrugged. “No one truly knows. She wasn’t so infamous back then. Just a woman from the west in a time of relative peace. Most thought her an eccentric.”
“And your father?”
“He didn’t speak of her. All I know is that he was fatemarked. He used his mark to carry out great evil, the enslavement of an entire nation, but that doesn’t mean his mark was evil like the westerners believe. He used to come to this place, back when he was a good man. Then he stopped and everything changed. But he never stopped believing in magic.” Roan opened his mouth to voice another question, but Falcon waved it away. “I don’t have all the answers, but perhaps the water does. Now I must rest, today has been a long day.” Once more he tapped his chest, and then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows.
What next? Roan thought. After the frustrating day, Roan was spent. What could he hope to learn from a mysterious lake in the heart of a canyon? Then again, he’d experienced far stranger things in his life, and who was he to shun the beliefs of another? And if the Western Oracle had been here after communing with Absence…
Anything was possible.
Roan leaned over, peering into the still silver-sheened waters. The truth, he thought. The truth about what?
Again, something darted, moving so fast Roan couldn’t track it. He leaned further, trying to find whatever had disturbed the calm of the pond. The water rippled slightly, concentric circles trailing out from a single point in the center, where the light seemed to brighten. The ripples began to move faster, almost pulsing like the beat of a heart, as if the water was a living, breathing thing. It has a hypnotic effect, and Roan felt himself falling into the depths—not physically, but mentally. Or spiritually, like his soul was being pulled away from one place and into another.
Images flashed, one after another, like still shots of a future he had not yet lived. The first few were familiar, but still they shocked him, a Horde of pale, bald creatures pouring from ships, loping over the Four Kingdoms, a swarm without heart or feeling, designed to do one thing and one thing only: end life.
But then the scene changed, and Roan saw himself standing in a field of green grass, a place he was familiar with. The Forbidden Plains, he recognized. The barren, forlorn wastelands that separated the west from Phanes. The Horde covered it, their numbers endless, a sea of death.
Only Roan stood against them, a single stone set against a rising tide. His chest was beginning to glow, blinding white light pouring from his skin, burning away his shirt, shooting into the sky. A weaponless power that would do nothing to stop the enemy he now faced.
But wait.
Wait.
There was another, hidden amidst his own shadow, which he seemed not to cast, but to wear like a cloak. Though Roan couldn’t make out his features, he recognized the other person immediately.
“Bane,” Roan said, the word coming from both versions of himself, the future one clothed in white and the real him, watching from the past.
“Save me,” Bane said, falling to his knees. “Please. Save me.”
Roan didn’t understand. He already had saved Bane, healing him from the plague that would’ve eventually ended his life. But now he couldn’t sense a wound, not a cut or a bruise or a break. Nothing. But the
n…
He felt it.
A pain unlike any other. Worse than a knife to the gut. Worse than a lance to the spine. Worse than death.
The pain of self-hatred. It burned within Bane, and Roan could see it now, physically manifested on his scalp, which was ringed with orange fire, a circle split into ten equal portions, each filled with the blood of the murders he’d committed because he thought he had to for the greater good, driven by an instinct neither of them would ever truly understand.
“Save me,” Bane said again, but this time he finished the thought with the two words he’d been holding back. “From myself.”
Before either version of Roan could do anything, the flames on Bane’s scalp raced downward, consuming his flesh. And Roan knew.
He knew.
Bane was the only one who had come to stand with him, even though he knew it would kill him.
Bane is the key to everything.
Not me.
It was never me.
The scene vanished and Roan couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, his entire world enshrouded in darkness, and his arms and legs were moving too slowly, hindered by an unseen force that held him in its grasp.
Water! he realized with a gasp, his mouth opening and allowing the water to rush in. He choked, but managed to blow out a huge breath, dispelling the water and a flock of bubbles. He blinked, surprised to find his eyes were open but still he couldn’t see a thing, the darkness complete. The moonlight had moved on and he’d fallen into the pond.
Up, he thought, desperately trying to determine which direction was the right one. In the back of his mind was the frantic knowledge that if he died now, the truth would die with him. Peace would be lost with him.
He shoved the water to each side, moving in the direction he hoped was up. Seconds passed. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty… Still he toiled, his chest burning now, a stark reminder of the fire that had consumed Bane in his vision. Fifty, sixty, seventy…