Borne Rising

by Matthew Callahan

  With or without his Shade, Will had always known how to move quietly in the darkness. He was on the unsuspecting lookout in an instant. Will grabbed the man from behind and cupped a hand over his mouth. In the same moment, he sliced the blood fang’s edge across the lookout’s yielding throat. Holding the terrified, dying man firm in his grip, Will backpedaled quickly. Again and again he plunged the fang into the man’s chest as the sentry scrambled for footing, clawing at Will’s face. The man struggled wildly in his death throes, but Will did not allow him to make a sound. When he finally grew still, silence remained. No alarm had been raised.

  Even after the attack, their sentries are useless.

  Power surged back into the fangs. Will fought against the nausea, against the smell of blood. He quickly buried the still figure in snow, never looking at the blood-soaked face. He forced himself to take measured breaths in and out, stilling his rapid heart. Then he moved on.

  He killed two more lookouts in the same fashion, each time feeling himself sinking farther away from a conscious mental state. He existed in a calm detachment, a world of necessity. This was no battle. Doubtless, they would have done the same to him, had the roles been reversed. Doubtless, they would have raised the alarm and tried to kill him on sight if they’d seen him. Doubtless, they would have tortured him if he’d been captured. Yet knowing that didn’t make the cruel job any easier.

  When he’d disposed of the third body, Will paused. His hands were shaking. From the cold. Just the cold. It felt like hours had passed, but the whole ordeal took no more than a quarter of one. Still, from the Seeker’s intel, he knew he’d created enough of a gap in the enemy’s line to approach the camp unseen. The thought didn’t bring him any comfort; Shyldd’s story of the Lightborne’s defeat was fresh in his mind. Will approached the lip of the ridge and, steeling himself, peered over.

  He’d expected a formal camp, something to be found within a military manual, but what he saw was more akin to a mining operation than anything else. A large mining operation, he thought, eyes darting about. Scaffolding stretched up the mountainside. There were signs of massive excavation and construction but no evidence that the Lightborne had ever launched their suicidal assault. All signs of the battle had been cleared.

  The rickety walkways and hanging scaffolding made it look like the Necrothanians were carving the mountain itself into a work of art. There were people swarming everywhere, bearing tools and stone as they entered and exited a single cave within the carved rock. That’s it. That’s the shaft.

  Amongst the cultists he spied the true Necrothanians, the terrifying amalgamations of dead flesh and bone he’d faced within the Ways. Reapers. Dozens of them.

  Every instinct told him to run, to turn tail and rush back to Morella’s arms and the forgetful bliss of Burning Embers. Death was coming. But not for me and mine, he thought blindly. We’ll make it. We’ve got to.

  Gods I hope this works.

  31

  Shock and Awe

  Will rose and pulled himself over the ledge. He crouched low and scanned the camp, picking his targets. Having decided, he began making his way along the inner lip of the ridge, watchful for the slightest hint that he had been spotted. He moved slowly toward a nearby path through the camp, disturbing as little snow as possible. The wind died but the fog lingered, though that wouldn’t last long. His pulse quickened. The brightening sky threatened to give him away at any moment. Time was running short.

  No point in waiting. He held his breath and closed the distance to the first row of structures that ran parallel to the main path. It looked ready to collapse, barely held together. Closer inspection revealed the remnants of blackening on the support beams, carefully carved away. The Lightborne’s flames had caught, but they hadn’t caught long enough.

  Creeping between structures, Will maneuvered through the outskirts of the camp, heading in the direction of the shaft. Very few Necrothanians came close to seeing him; they were all concentrated on the main path. Trusting their sentries, no doubt. You’d think they’d have learned after the last time.

  Still, he knew they’d miss them soon enough. He needed to move faster.

  He approached a large, central rampart and veered inside, drawing his hood back and scanning the spartan structure. Roughly hewed timber was held together with fibrous cordage that supported the mass above. The snowy ground had been covered by thick planks. Will crouched and placed a bare hand against the cordage. It was dry. He smiled.

  Will reached into the small satchel that Cephora had supplied and withdrew the largest of the small balls. He eyed Cephora’s handiwork and smiled appreciatively—the Seeker had come through fantastically, especially given such short notice. He pried at the center of the ball, his mouth turning down in frustration as the tinder and pitch stuck to his fingers. He carved out a small cradle and, after looking at the cords binding the wood, made a small depression in the bottom of the ball. Carefully wedging the hollow bundle into the thick of the cords, he smiled again. This is going to work.

  Working quickly, he took the discarded bits of ball and rolled them in his palms, trying to capture as much of the pitch and debris as he could. He compressed it into a small, dense cylinder with a narrow tip. He tested it within the hollow, making sure it left enough room for air to circulate. Satisfied, he removed it and, holding it upside down by the narrow tip, Flared. Biting his lip, he concentrated on the tip. A small coal appeared and then flames began climbing up the cylinder. Deftly, Will righted the small tinder and placed it back within the hollow. Wisps of smoke began to move lazily upward.

  Glancing about to make sure no one had seen, Will moved to the opposite support beam of the rampart. He repeated the procedure while constantly glancing back at the first tinderbox. It was burning slow, but it was burning. He fit the second ball onto the cordage and lit it. Glancing between the two, he nodded to himself. They’ll catch.

  It was nearly daylight when he exited from the rampart. The lingering fog would hide the smoke, but only for a time. He had enough of Cephora’s incendiaries to deal with three total structures. One more was on this side of the main path and, if he had gauged his distance well, it was close.

  Will walked cautiously, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and avoiding the glow of firelight. He took one wrong turn, costing him precious seconds, but otherwise found the structure without incident. It, too, was empty. Will placed the devices more quickly this time and moved on as soon as they were lit.

  Not long until the flames show. He pulled the bundle closer to his body and shrugged deeper within his cloak. This is taking too long.

  He approached the main throughway of the camp and scanned for activity. The majority of the cultists were still concentrated on the tunnel’s entrance. The rest must be sleeping or deep within the mountain. That told him two things: his fires had not yet been spotted, and time was still on his side.

  Steeling himself, he walked with as much casual ease as he could across the main path. Do nothing that attracts attention. Walk neither fast nor slow. Do not think. Move and act. No one even glanced in his direction.

  This is almost too easy, he mused, ducking into the next structure after a quick glance over his shoulder. Before he could bring his head back around, he walked straight into a small, robed man.

  “Watch where you’re going, you blithering fool,” the man snarled as he shoved Will. “I ought to”—he broke off as he took in Will’s startled face—“You’re not—”

  Will didn’t give him a chance to finish. Quick as lightning, he lashed out with a fang. The blade took the man across the throat, silencing him instantly. The startled man scrambled backward, hands clawing at his neck. Will darted forward and threw his arms around the man, the left holding him tight and pulling him to the ground while the right plunged the fang again and again into the man’s back. Within moments, the man’s struggles stopped, the wet, gasping gurgles falling away.

  Will stumbled back from the body, not trusting himse
lf near it. Jinxed it, he thought numbly. He stood and looked at the body. Goddam jinxed it. His hands were shaking, a tremor that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. I lost time, he thought as he quickly began to set Cephora’s nests around the structure. Not much, but seconds count.

  The pack now emptied, Will threw it to the ground—one less thing to carry. He lit the fuses within the nests and watched them catch fire much faster than the previous nests had. He smiled unsteadily. Cephora certainly had a way with making things happen. The smile faded. That means I’ve only got about five minutes until the first building is in full flame.

  Glancing one final time at the bloody body on the floor, Will took a deep breath and exited. He pulled himself up onto a raised ledge outside and looked back toward the first building. Smoke, nearly hidden in the morning’s misty dawn, was visibly rising from it now. The same for the second building. Which means this one isn’t far behind. He leapt down and, abandoning stealth, ran for the fourth and final structure.

  He heard the first shouts of alarm just as he drew up to it. Pulling his scarf up over his mouth, Will stepped inside and glanced about. Far from being empty storage, as the previous ramparts had been, this structure was filled with stacked crates. They were all overflowing with some kind of mineral, dark and grey. Mining residue? Will didn’t know a damn thing about mining operations. Scooping a handful of the stuff into his gloved hand, he held it up for closer inspection. He paled.

  It’s impossible. Will had never seen gunpowder magazines in anything but movies, but he was nearly certain that the cache before him was filled with the stuff. His grandfather had never said anything about gunpowder. Hell, in all the time he’d spent in Aeril, nothing he’d seen had ever suggested that they knew anything about it. But judging from what lay before his eyes, Valmont, at the very least, had figured it out.

  Loud cries could be heard from outside. If they know what this place is, they’re going to be here any second. He grabbed the smallest of the crates and began pouring the powder on the ground while backpedaling out of the building. His feet crunched into the snow of the camp and Will froze. Was gunpowder affected by snow? He cursed himself for his lack of knowledge. Those old pirate flicks, they always worried about wet powder . . . He glanced at the snow, then at the crate in his hands. Not going to risk it.

  Will dropped the crate, turned on his heel, and ran. Flames were licking at the sky in the distance from the three structures he had sabotaged and the camp was in full alarm. They’ll be here any second. A crack of thunder echoed across the sky and he heard an alarm. It’s begun.

  He whirled, not having any idea how far away he’d need to be from the blast but knowing that he was still too close. Gritting his teeth, Will Flared. White, fiery lightning erupted from his outstretched hand toward the powder-filled crate. Not even looking to see if the bolt connected, Will spun again and sprinted as hard as he could.

  Ten seconds later, a deafening boom filled the sky. Spinning debris collided into Will’s back, knocking the wind out of him and sending him flying through the air. He crashed into a snowbank, debris raining around him. His ears rang. The air was filled with ash and dust and snow. Gasping for breath, he struggled to orient himself. Pushing himself to hands and knees, his right hamstring screamed out in pain.

  Will fell back to the ground and rolled onto his back. He reached a hand down and felt the large wooden shrapnel that protruded from his leg. The slightest pressure on it sent his head swimming and stomach lurching. He lay there for a moment, face buried in the folds of his cloak, adrenaline sweat covering his body.

  There’s no goddam time. They need you.

  Will felt like he was watching himself from a great distance. He saw himself reach back. Saw his fingers wrap around the splintered wood. Felt the sickening agony even through the numb detachment of shock. No time.

  Will yanked. It was only after he finished retching onto the ground that he realized he had actually pulled the shrapnel from his leg. Suddenly feeling very cold, he guided the power of the fangs over himself, staunching the known wound and any others he was unaware of. The restorative balm quickly brought some piece of him back to himself. Got to keep moving.

  He tested the leg. Pain free. He checked the fangs. Nearly empty. Four whole lives to heal a leg and restore his vigor; it hardly seemed fair. Something was always lost in the exchange, he knew. And how much of that is my humanity?

  Will shook his head. He rose to his feet and surveyed the chaotic scene. The blast had knocked out both of the nearby towers and much of the surrounding area, while the other two structures were hopelessly lost to the flames. The fire had spread and was slowly engulfing the camp. If din’Dael has any sense at all, he’s on the move. Which means I need to be in position.

  Trusting his leg to support him, Will raced back toward the main path and the mine shaft beyond. He passed cultist after cultist, ducking his head anytime he neared a reaper. He could hardly believe the effectiveness of the blaze. He cringed when he saw people flinging themselves onto the lesser blazes and smothering them with their bodies. A seemingly endless stream of cultists was pouring from the cave’s mouth. Everyone was too distracted to notice him. Gods, this is going to work.

  Someone off to his left started shouting. Will’s breath caught in his throat. Don’t turn, it might not be directed at you.

  He kept moving. The shouting intensified. Over the roar of commotion, he heard hurried footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. The shaft entrance was growing nearer. Just a little farther.

  A rough hand dropped onto his shoulder and yanked Will backward.

  Dammit.

  Will whirled, drawing the blood fangs as he did so. He slashed and caught the startled cultist across the chest, the blood fang slicing easily through fabric and flesh. Blending the strikes, Will immediately followed with a rising cut. The fang opened the man from stomach to sternum. Gore splashed Will, the warmth of it on his face shocking him into inaction.

  There was the briefest pause within the camp as the stream of surrounding cultists stared in shock. Will recovered and kicked, sending the dying man sprawling. Lightning covered Will’s skin and his Flare roared to life. Power coursed back into his fangs. His key sprang to life with a fiery fury.

  Steeling himself, Will unleashed hell.

  Lightning spun outward from him, spiraling and catching the cultists immobilized in surprise. Their screams leapt into the morning sky and carried on the still air.

  Shock and awe. Keep them off balance.

  The camp’s brief hesitation faded almost instantly. A horn sounded nearby. Guttural roars overtook the roaring fire as focus turned to the invader. Will was painfully aware of the absence of his Shade, of the casual defense he had once relied on so heavily. Nothing for it now.

  The Necrothanians came at him.

  Will turned and ran.

  Dammit, din’Dael, where the hell are you? His muscles tensed and seemed to pulse in time with his key. He darted amongst the tents, setting them alight while he ran for the shaft. He lashed out at anything that moved, trying to keep distance between himself and the horde bearing down at his back. Keep them off balance. Keep them focused on me.

  He hurled himself into a burning tent and threw himself to the ground. He wriggled beneath a flap and rolled out into snow-soaked mud. There were boots on the ground next to him. Will lashed out with a fang and parried an incoming strike. He Flared and a crackling blast of white fire seared the flesh from the cultist’s face. Will rose and ran, the horrible croaking cries of the cultist filling his ears.

  Deal with the horror later.

  Will scrambled for another structure, setting the base alight and beginning to climb. The tunnel was so close. Gauging his distance, Will sprinted and leapt for the neighboring building. A line of them seemed close enough to each other that he could use them to reach the mountain. Gritting his teeth, Will ran for the next one. Launching himself into the air, Will realized his error. He slammed hard into a be
am and tumbled to the ground.

  A reaper appeared before him. Will scrambled away from it while the creature roared its terrifying, guttural battle cry. The shaft’s entrance was just beyond the monster. The reaper and fifty cultists stood between him and his goal.

  Only one thing left. Will sheathed the blood fangs and reached for his cutlass. With his free hand, Will drew Flint. Raising the broken blade before him, he reached for the flows of energy emanating from it.

  Instantly, a manic euphoria burst into his mind. Power flowed through him, overwhelming his senses. His key sang in a maddening fit of fire and lightning. Will felt renewed. Invigorated.

  Reckless.

  He squared off against the reaper. With a roar, it came at him. In a single motion, Will stepped aside and drew his cutlass upward. The aerilite blade crackled electric blue with power and the rising cut took off the creature’s arm. Whirling, the blade came across the reaper’s neck in a lateral thrust before Will compassed himself back. Now behind his target, he brought the blade straight down, opening the creature at the collarbone and effortlessly sliding down to its hip.

  Laughing with wild abandon, Will spun and threw himself into the Necrothanians.

  He danced among the cultists, Flint’s power surging through him as he carved through their bodies. A white shield of flame, trickling with blue lightning, spun continuously around him, charring flesh before the force of the gale ripped bodies asunder. His cutlass entered and exited bodies with hardly any resistance. When Will parried the few blows that managed to break through his shield, Flint’s guard shattered the weapons. Flint was the master, the one in control. Will was but its instrument.

  As din’Dael had been within the hordes of the Shale, Will was untouchable.

  A boom from somewhere far off sent the ground shaking. The tremors subsided just as a large cloud of dirt and dust ejected itself from the mouth of the tunnel. There was a momentary lull in the fighting, a brief interlude where all attention turned to the burgeoning cloud. Cries sounded from within the cave.