by A Van Wyck
The orb floated alone, caught in a gentle whirlpool – no mere trick of ink – that slowly molded the surface of the mural… into the shape of a many rayed sun, as large across as his palm.
It took a while before he could move.
When he could, he risked divesting himself of one knife in order to raise the pendant in a slightly shaky hand. He eyed the little sun dubiously as he stepped forward.
The pendant fitted the niche perfectly and clung there of its own volition. For a moment, he thought he had become lightheaded and he shook himself, blinking furiously, before he realized the stone opposite him was moving. Like the interlaced fingers of two hands sliding apart, massive spars of stone receded into the floor, their neighbors retracting into the ceiling. What must be tons and tons of stone moved without a sound, yawning wide.
He stared in silence past the stone teeth and down the throat so revealed. A brilliant ramp wound slowly down and out of sight into the bowels of the tower. Sepulchral air from the corridor played over his limbs.
His heart slowly slowed to a more manageable sprint.
“And where were you during all this?” he glared an accusation at his ring, cold and quiescent against his skin. As it had been throughout the chapel’s transformation. Receiving no answer, he transferred his glower to the waiting maw of the Lily Tower.
Best thief in the world. He shook his head.
“I’m definitely asking for more money,” he promised to no one in particular.
He set off into the brilliant unknown of Seven Deep.
PART IV
The final days of the Age of Magic
The day before the Fall
Continent of Thell
The precise violence of his stroke made his sword whir like a bird taking wing. The creature before him – all fangs and lunging madness – was lifted off its feet. It catapulted back in two neat pieces, adding to the abattoir of jumbled limbs. Bones crunched wetly as he climbed the swell of carnage, his breath misting as it braved the bloody furnace. Somewhere beneath this bloody hill of his own making lay the remains of his honor guard. Elite soldiers all. Handpicked. They’d fought to the last man. But their foes had been anything but men.
From the crest, he looked upon the swathe of death they’d carved. And there, with its maw buried in the armored ribcage of a fallen comrade, crouched the alpha of the pack. It was aware of him but unwilling to halt the sop and pop and grind of its feeding. It wasn’t animal indifference that stole its attention, he knew. These creatures had cunning enough to pass for sentience. Neither was it human arrogance. It was simple fearlessness, devoid of rage or frenzy – though it certainly had those to spare.
With his free hand he hefted a severed head – whether from one of theirs or his, he didn’t check except to judge its weight – and sent it whipping through the air.
His aim was true. The creature, however, was fast as thought. It went from its preoccupied crouch to a ground-devouring charge without transition. Between one blink and the next, fangs and claws seemed to reach for him from all sides.
Not that he blinked.
Razor talons scored his unbreachable armor as he turned his shoulder into the attack. Rending canines cracked beneath the impact of his gauntleted fist.
Blood spurted from the twitching carcass as he tore his sword loose.
The stillness of death descended at last.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply the cloying miasma of war. Once, that charnel stench would have tasted of joy. Now its fetid breath, rising from his gory armor, from the carpet of carcasses, from the very ground beneath his feet, hollowed him.
He flicked the blood – for want of a better word – from his blade as if he could flick these things away as well. The droplets buried themselves in the muck.
Turning, the battlefield assaulted his gaze. It stretched from horizon to horizon.
Thell.
What a waste of landmass. This vast plain had not known mud in thousands of years. Now he stood ankle deep in crimson sludge – the viscous fluids of countless slain inundating the soil. He could track the scorched paths, some as wide across as he could toss an anvil, where wild sorceries had surged across the field. A few still steamed bright magenta, their gullets choked with husked corpses. This land would be dead after this, he could sense. Every possible hope of life forevermore extinguished by the violence and sorcery unleashed here. In ages to come, not so much as a weed would flower here to tempt a living creature to take up residence. A thousand years from now, a fly would die of despair and fall dead from the sky before it could trek more than a league across this battle site. He felt a moment of pity for this young world, having to bear such an ugly scar.
But even at such a high price, it was the least of the sacrifices that would be made this day.
The distant clash of weapons, drifting from beyond the painted hillocks, told that the battle raged on. It was the sound of titans vying for control over this dead stretch of land – his foothold, this beachhead. That vicious tide had turned and turned again in a span of bells, like the most fickle ocean in existence.
His eyes were drawn to the east where a second, unnatural sunrise clawed at the hilltops, lighting a quarter of the sky violet. The Rent: the wave that threatened to sweep them all under.
He could feel it, like a pinprick in his mind. It was unstable, not yet fully formed. The creatures lying dead at his feet were never born of this world – proof that the Rent was operational, if not optimally so. He felt a brief pang for his dead honor guard. They had been human-fragile but each had been a giant in his own right. That should have counted for more.
Shaking himself, he took his bearings. He hadn’t realized the battle had drifted so far west. He could sense his kin, out beyond the low hills, embroiled in the battle as he’d been just a moment ago. But it was a desperate defense now, falling back to the coastline. He itched to join them.
But there was a different pull he had to answer first. He sheathed his sword, unmindful of the runnels of blood that wept over and down the length of the scabbard as he rammed the soiled blade home. Placing his feet with care, he made his way around the hill. A spine of exposed bedrock ran the length of the shallow valley and up an incline. He followed it. A cliff’s edge hove into view.
She was waiting where he knew she’d be.
She had her back to him, looking out over the plain. Her flowing robes, spotless even amidst all this carnage, billowed around her to the pluck of a breeze he could not feel. He climbed the hill and came to stand on her right. He avoided her gaze, opting to look out over what should have been leagues of battlefield. Instead, as her influence embraced him, he saw a depthless, dark expanse of bright stars.
Orphans of lost worlds tumbled through the star-speckled void, trailing their memories of childhood like banners. Foreign suns smiled down upon unknown realms. He took a moment to enjoy the relative tranquility of the vision before him.
“So peaceful,” she said at long last, staring out into the distance, “and yet, filled with the potential for appalling violence.”
He gave that due consideration.
“Such is life,” he shrugged at last.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn to regard him and could imagine the exasperated smile on her face. He couldn’t bear to look at that smile, lest it break his heart.
“I hope to one day cure that immortal cynicism of yours,” she chided.
He could hear the affection in her voice – could hear the goodbye in it. It speared him as no weapon could.
“I pray that someday you may succeed,” he managed, before his throat closed up.
“I know you do,” she said easily.
She did know, he realized. Of course. A sad smile tugged at one corner of his wide mouth, feeling alien and out of place. They stood awhile in silence, just absorbing each other’s presence.
“My chariot,” she gestured at length. The stars were darkening with the passage of something colossal that seemed to
drink their radiance.
Ponderously, a jagged expanse of rock hove into view, virtually on top of them. The enormous edifice ground past, tumbling slowly end over end. In sheer size it was breathtaking. Daunting. It was ribboned with crags and ravines that could swallow cities. Its face was pocked with craters where lesser ones of its kind had plummeted to their deaths, pulled down by the juggernaut’s irresistible summons.
He could feel the pull of it himself. The hunger it radiated.
“Your tomb,” he corrected.
It was her turn to shrug.
“Such is life,” she returned.
When he trusted himself to speak, he voiced the question burning a hole in his chest. He already knew the answer, of course. He’d known it the moment he’d felt her summons, calling him to this lonely hillock, overlooking a battle that would soon cease to matter.
“You have made your decision.”
“I have.”
There was no hesitation in her voice.
“Can I not…?”
What? Convince her to reconsider? He knew she would not. These were her people, her world. She would not leave.
Diminished as she was, he could force her away, he knew. Her power was spread thin enough. But she would never forgive him. And he was too selfish, still, to live with that.
The tilt of her head said that she had caught the cant of his thoughts… and wasn’t worried. She had much more faith in him than he did.
His sad smile hitched higher.
The shadow of the passing colossus began to lift.
“My moment comes,” she declared.
She turned to him then, stretching up on her tiptoes to lightly kiss his blood splattered cheek. He remained motionless, fighting the despair inside.
“You will do well.”
It was a statement of fact but he took it as a command.
“Yes,” he managed to choke out.
She raised her hand and her gentle, benign touch lingered on his clenched jaw a moment before withdrawing.
“Go now, brave one. There is still much to be done.”
Without a word, he turned and stumbled drunkenly down the slope, feeling for the first time the weight of the endless years he’d lived. If he’d had the ability to weep, he would have done so, now, unashamedly.
Goodbye, my Helia, he prayed, knowing she would hear him.
He could not rise above his despair but he could bury it for a time. His sword leapt eagerly to his hand. He angled toward where he could feel his kin.
Still much to do. Yes. And he would do well.
After all, it wasn’t every day one’s god personally entrusted one with the future of the world.
CHAPTER 17 – UNBOUND
Abject terror had proved physically unsustainable. Instead, he’d been oscillating between nervy fidgeting and panicked stillness. He lay on the damp ground, his wrists and ankles tied in the small of his back, his eyes tied to the shape of the silent assassin. The cowled figure moved purposely about their musty confines. Some kind of disused warehouse.
Unregarded but unforgotten, he felt like a mouse trapped in a hole with a snake that wasn’t hungry… yet.
The fall from the princess’s window was a blur in his mind. He remembered the howling of the wind, the sickening weightlessness, the terrible waiting for the final impact. Instead, he’d felt momentum jerk his stomach as something fought to arrest their fall. From the corners of his eyes, he’d glimpsed gossamer cables, tethered to nothing corporeal. The sound, as the impossibly thin strands of magic drew taught, had been a discordant thrum. Like a thousand, metal crickets. All playing out of tune.
He had no memory of landing. Save for the sensation of hitting his head – or being hit. The next memory after that was the dank of the sewers and a knee in his back as his hands were tied.
After that he’d been kicked, prodded and marched at knifepoint through the constricting gloom by his wordless captor. Dazed and almost undone by his near death, he vaguely recalled passing through a grate. The rusted bars had shown shiny cuts where the thick metal had been sheared through cleanly. He recalled the culvert that had led to this warehouse. Its bottom had been littered with raw ore, speckled with mica. Perhaps this used to be a stone-works or even a mining dump.
Upon cresting the short ladder, his legs had been swept from under him, then tied as he lay recovering from the hard fall. Gasping and groaning, he’d been unceremoniously dragged to this corner, from where he’d watched the day crawl past.
His thoughts had hared after each other in maddening circles all day long. He’d seen, again and again, the still form of Jossram. He’d watched Dailill’s face transform into a thing of naked avarice over and over. And always, he’d smacked headlong into the reality: Justin had been taken.
Eventually, with all his energy sacrificed on a nervous pyre, sleep had claimed him.
Now he slammed awake from his nightmare with scream halfway up his throat. The leather thongs on his wrists and ankles bit him bloody as he twisted, trying to escape the unseen horror hounding him. Slowly, the interior of the cobwebbed warehouse resolved. In time, his wheezing gasps took on a less hysterical rhythm.
The sun had set sometime while he slept.
A monstrous shadow slunk along the wall. The assassin, painted by the flame of a single candle.
The smell of rock dust lay heavy in his nostrils. Pain knotted his side, unimpressed by his violent awakening. He didn’t think he’d reopened his near-healed wound. At least, he was getting only a thin whiff of blood. Thinking of his sensitive nose set his circling thoughts in motion again. How were the masha’na faring without him?
Could his freakish new sense somehow aid his escape?
Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. The scent of rock dust and wood mold obscured everything beyond the warehouse walls. Inside… His own fear was an acrid note, his blood a metallic tang. The tickle of musty fur and the dry crumb of droppings said rats made their nests here. With his eyes closed, he could almost hear them skittering in the mounds of detritus. Small claws clicked on rafters as they watched the intruders. The scratching of a quill brought him to the assassin’s table. The mercurial stain of ink in the air was familiar, as was the fungal spoor of old parchment. The bitter scent of weapon oil was a new acquisition, the beeswax sweetness of supple leather an old acquaintance. And there, beneath the sewer-scented cloth…
“You’re a girl!” he gushed in surprise.
The assassin’s hooded gaze lifted from the tabletop to regard him. Fear instantly pinned him to the floor. But she returned to her study after no more than a moment.
He lay marveling at this revelation as his hyperventilation slowly de-escalated. Now that he knew, he could see it. The slight build, the fluidity of motion… No wonder the assassin had chosen to remain silent all this time.
How does this help me get out of here?
The corner where he lay was inconveniently bare of anything resembling a sharp edge.
Now that he knew the assassin was a girl, she had no more reason not to speak. Perhaps he could talk her into releasing him.
“Could I get a drink of water?”
She ignored him.
“Please?”
The hooded head snapped up to regard him. He felt the air in his lungs freeze. With glacial slowness, the assassin slid out from behind her table and made her way to him. She gathered a waterskin to her as she went. Menace swirled around her so solidly he could feel it. He couldn’t help shrinking a little as the hooded and masked figure came to stand over him. Dark eyes in olive skin were cold with calculation, as if she were wondering whether to waste the water. The stopper left the neck with a plop. Water splattered his face. He opened his mouth to drink. Coughed. Sputtered wetly. Drank some more.
“Thank you.”
The water continued to fall.
“Thank you!”
He weathered the deluge, shaking his head to scatter droplets as the waterskin ran dry. He lay in a pool of mud, hair plaste
red to his face.
Turning deliberately, the assassin made her way back to the table, a flick of her wrist sent the limp skin off into the darkness.
“I’m going to have to use the privy soon,” he pressed before his nerve gave out.
A dull thunk in the wood beside him announced the arrival of a throwing star. The part of him that wasn’t scared stiff thought, Well, there’s an edge to cut my bonds on…
Even as he stared at the shivering weapon, a pair of gloved fingers plucked it from the wall. He found himself hoisted by his collar, the star foremost in his vision. His neck strained with the effort of keeping its wicked point from his eye. Grunting for breath, he looked past it to meet the assassin’s gaze. So cold before, they were now cavernous with heat. He did his best to meet that gaze but faltered.
She threw him back down into the slush and turned her back on him.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he called after her, his fear spiking irrationally toward anger, “she was trying to kill me too!”
The shrouded figure paused, cocking a hooded head over its shoulder.
“Why?” the voice was strong, melodic and had an accent he couldn’t place. “Why was she trying to kill you?”
He’d tried to avoid recalling the princess’s last words to him. Agonizing over them would make them real, would make her betrayal real. But he considered them now…
“I think,” he allowed wearily, “I think she means to start a war.”
“And killing you would accomplish this?” the assassin scoffed.
He met her gaze with a level one of his own.
“Killing my master would accomplish it,” he promised. “Framing me for her attempted murder would accomplish it.”
She regarded him in silence for a long moment.
“Who are you?” she said eventually.