Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1)

by G. P McKenna

  “Ilya won’t resist,” Pogue said with a smile.

  “You sound confident,” Pierous mused.

  “I don’t got no choice,” Pogue said, “I’ve gotta believe Ilya will want to come back to me.”

  Pierous eyes softened, and he smiled, “how silly of me. Of course you don’t. If it’s any small comfort, every soul I’ve ever revived has jumped at the chance to return.”

  “Out of interest, how many souls have you revived?” I asked.

  Pierous scratched his chin with a hum, “about three.”

  Oh goody.

  Pierous had warned that the ritual would take time, but he hadn’t warned how boring it would be. Four long hours had come and passed, and the most fascinating thing to happen was the occasional spark erupting from the old geezer’s hands, his body shaking violently as the muttered chants momentarily became clearer. Each time Pogue or I would jump up, asking if our time to assist had finally arrived, only to be shooed away by an echoing voice that was nothing if not inhuman. The Warlock’s hands would then spread over Ilya’s body once more as the hut resumed its suffocating silence. So much for assistance. We could’ve slept through the ritual and nothing would have changed, except perhaps the pain I felt upon inhaling through my nose for once the adrenaline had passed it was difficult to tell if shards of glass were being sucked up with each and every breath. But what difference did that make when even the roots of my hair hurt?

  Pogue’s head rested against my shoulder, and he absentmindedly played with the silver maturity ring in his left earlobe as I adjusted the bandage on my thigh. What a mess we both were, but at least he’d managed to wash some of the fishy toad goop off. Deities, I would’ve sold my firstborn for a scolding bath at that moment, then my second born for a goose feather stuffed mattress. Was that all there was to being a hero? Not once in the fairy tales was it purely luck with a touch of madness that won the fight. If that’s all it was Pogue was welcome to the title. I became so caught up in that reverie that I didn’t even sense the spike in energy until my ears popped.

  The scent of burnt flesh was definitely high in the air, and it was coming from Pierous. The Warlock was glowing like a candle, aflame in the night. In what felt like a choreographed movement, Pogue and I were on our feet and rushing the bench, mouths moving together until our words blurred into one: is Ilya here? How is he? Is he back?

  A growl tore from Pierous’ throat as the glow intensified, “Not…now…he’s…. struggling.”

  “What?” Pogue almost yelled, “why won’t he come back?”

  “That’s unimportant,” Pierous gasped as sweat dripped into his parted lips. The sparks intensified, flickering with brilliant crackles, “I… can’t bind him against his…will.”

  He was coming back whether he wanted to. I grabbed Pierous’ arm, ignoring the choked groan that slipped past his lips, and looked down at Ilya’s corpse, “tell him if he doesn’t come back I’ll blind my soul to his and we’ll have to share a body forever.”

  “What?” Pogue grabbed my arm in an attempt to yank it away from Pierous but yelped as energy sparked his hand, “you’re not killing yourself too. We’ll figure it out.”

  That was an unexpected response. Through that horrible, horrible moment I felt the slightest flutter in my stomach, for I would never have guessed he cared, but it was my soul to give away, and he wasn’t about to tell me what I could and couldn’t do with it. I tightened my grip on the Warlock’s wrist, causing him to whither slightly, and looked to the Shield, “what do you suggest then? It isn’t like there’s a merchant for spare souls at camp we can go to,” or was there? Praying to every Deity -and even a few fictional ones- that Ilya wasn’t a liar, I released Pierous’ arm and turned towards the door, taking two steps at a time, “wait here. Don’t let Pierous release him.”

  “Where are you going?” Pogue called after me.

  “To get a soul.”

  Pierous must’ve been artificially cooling that damned hut for the moment I stepped outside the dense afternoon air burnt my cheeks red, but that didn’t slow me for a second. Time was of the essence and nothing was getting in my way. Not the maze, not my aching body, not this time.

  Screams invaded my ears from every which direction, closing in and never ceasing as I rounded the final hedge. I clasped my ears tightly, refusing to have precious seconds stolen by the ghosts of the past until a familiar booming voice cut through the endless shrieks halting me dead in my tracks. That voice was real.

  On the opposite side of the hedge, Commander Ramsey was shouting, but all I managed to catch was the words dead, tent and missing. I gulped as the words replayed in my mind. We were in deep shit, but that was a problem for later. Right then only one thing mattered, and so I quickened my pace, only for a group of four guards to charge at me the moment my foot crossed the threshold. Parched and winded, there was no way I could outrun the elite Royal guard, but Ilya needed me. I needed Ilya. I held up my hands as they approached, “Look, I’m-”

  They ran straight past me as if I wasn’t even there, as if I was invisible. Had Pierous…? No, no way. He was still focused on Ilya when I had left, he didn’t have the time or energy to cloak me from view like that. But why then would the…the question died on conception as I looked to my right.

  The nobs were in chaos.

  Finely dressed women shrieked wildly as a mob of children darted past in a blur, screaming and crying as their parents frantically tried to rein them in. One man managed to grab hold of a little girl before releasing the child wasn’t his and releasing her back into the wild, only for a red-faced lady to approach seconds later to slap his cheek.

  Being so abnormally small had its advantages in such a chaotic scene as nobody appeared to notice as I slid across the back of the command tent. Hours had passed since I’d been there last, and I fully expected the hole to have been stitched, or at the very least heavily guarded, so I was half-relieved and half-offended on Ilya’s behalf to find swaying in the breeze. Nobody. Not a soul, not a whisper. It was if nobody cared but me.

  At least if nobody had discovered the body was missing there would be some relief from the heat inside. Silver linings in the small things, that was my motto. Only as I crawled inside the tent the same stale air hit my face. Everything was still. Quiet. Where had the loud yelling from earlier gone? More importantly, where were the rushing servants and guards who served that section of the command tent? I shook my head and stood up. There wasn’t time to worry about that. I was there for one reason, and one reason only, and it was sitting to my left.

  The Erebus sword hadn’t been moved at all. The patterned hilt, the bronze accents, the absurdly shiny and sharp blade… it was every bit a magical sword, the type you’d imagine from the stories. I stepped forward, unable to take my eyes off the blade. I had felt it before, but only then did I recognize the feeling. I needed that sword. It belonged in my hands. I hesitated before touching it, afraid of what might happen if I made any sudden movements. With nobody around to bear witness, would it react somehow? Lash out? Leap into my grip?

  It did nothing, and I exhaled in disappointment. Maybe it didn’t know that I knew, so feeling slightly foolish I withdrew the blade from its sheath and brought it close to my face, “I’m sorry, Erebus,” I whispered, “but Ilya needs your help.” Nothing. Sighing, I slung the straps over my shoulder, but was sure to keep one eye on open as I gathered the rest of Ilya’s weapons.

  Just in case.

  A deafening boom rocked the ground as I tightened the dagger belt, and the screaming stopped momentarily as fresh smell lingered in the air. There was no denying what it was. I knew that smell. I hated that smell. Adjusting the swords one final time, I scurried out through the hole as the screaming increased. That couldn’t be my problem right then. The scent of burning flesh would have to wait.

  Twenty Six

  Ekikiphobia

  Fear of explosions

  By the time I returned, the hut was bathed in a blinding blue lig
ht that was visible even from outside. It was impossible to see where Pierous stood with any precision, but I jumped down the stairs in a single leap, and blindly moved towards the overwhelming hum of energy. He was there, drenched in sweat that stuck matted black hair to a face that wrinkled before my eyes. Pierous looked up with a pained smile as I landed by his side, only for his expression to turn sour.

  “You were supposed to bring a soul,” he screamed over the increasing energetic drone.

  “I did,” I unbuckled the swords from my back. Kazia fell to the floor as I thrust Erebus towards the Warlock, “the soul of an Ilvarjo is tethered to this.”

  Pierous groaned as he ripped his shaking left hand from above Ilya’s vibrantly glowing corpse to snatch the blade. He held it up before unnaturally bright blue eyes, and scoffed, “is this a joke? This isn’t even a quarter of a soul,” he pushed the blade beneath his nose and inhaled deeply, “but what is here is purely umbrageous. That could be an advantage. You see, I believe I’ve identified the problem. Your friend appears to be located halfway between Ascot and the Umbra.”

  “Will it work?” Pogue’s disembodied voice called from within the migraine inducing light.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Pierous shrugged, “the only way to find out is through trial and error.”

  A strong wind tore through the hut, messing up both my hair and equilibrium as a century of dirt and bugs fell from the thatched roof. With more ease than should’ve been possible with a single hand, Pierous unsheathed Erebus and threw the blade into the air. It didn’t crash back down, instead sat there suspended in the wind by some unseen force, until the mossy steal began to glow grey. Pierous held his hand back out, and Erebus fell into it as gently as a feather. The Warlock closed his eyes and started to mumble. Suddenly there appeared to be at least a dozen people crammed into that tiny hut, all screaming and shouting over the wind, but not a soul speaking a tangible word. Pierous opened his eyes, and everything stopped. Pogue was standing beside me, barely appearing to breathe as Pierous opened his mouth and spoke.

  “The spirit agrees, though it too has doubts in its ability to restrain your friend for long.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means there is a high probability of failure,” Pierous stated calmly, “if that occurs there won’t be a body left to bury. And as for the both of you…well, the choice is yours.”

  Pogue looked at me with the entire ocean in his eyes. My own narrowed. There was only once choice, there always had been. He nodded, and looked to Pierous, “trial and error, right?”

  A grimace darkened Pierous’ face, but he nodded back and adjusted his hold on the sword, “as you desire,” grey sparks of lightning shot up and down the mossy blade, and Pierous cleared his throat, “it’s now or never, Erebus.”

  He plunged the blade into Ilya’s chest, and the entire world was grey once again.

  I am Kilco.

  A piercing buzzing was the first sensation I recognized as my body fought to fold in on itself when each muscle twitched in in synchronized spasm. With shaky arms, I forced myself to sit. The movement has been slow and deliberate, a necessity as my jaw clenched from the pressure of aches and pains, the likes of which I had never experienced before.

  I am Kilco, and this pain is for Ilya.

  At least I could remember. It made me feel a little better, knowing the reason I endured. The air smelled stale and faintly of cotton. Ah yes, what was his name? It didn’t matter. He was a scrotebag, and that’s what I would call him until I figured it out. Remaining stationary and blind probably wasn’t the smartest idea, so I dared to crack a lid open to observe the damage.

  There was no flesh or blood, only shards of shattered moss scattered all around. It was likely more magical intervention than luck that we hadn’t each been sliced to ribbons in the blade’s wake. Groaning, I forced myself to stand. The scrotebag and the other one were still lifeless on the ground. And Ilya. I turned to the bench with bated breath. He was holeless too. Fluids and organs exactly where they ought to be and as lifeless as ever.

  The scrotebag was the first move. Moaning, he lifted his head and blinked at me twice before glaring with pure contempt. He fell backwards into a sprawled eagle position, kicking the other one—Pogue?— on his way down.

  The other woke with a yelp and sat up, rubbing his hands together as his eyes roamed the room before settling on Ilya.

  He was up in seconds.

  Pogue rested two fingers against the side of Ilya’s neck, the deep frown darkening his face unchanging. Wanting to feel what he felt, I stumbled to the opposite side and pushed him aside. Nothing. Stillness.

  Pogue’s eyes flashed, his breath coming out in rasps as he spun to the scrotebag and growled, “it didn’t work, Pierous.”

  “You sure?” The scrotebag who was indeed named Pierous asked before limply holding up his arm, “Kilco, won’t you be a dear and help an old man to his feet?”

  No. Nope. No way. But with more effort than should’ve been necessary, I did. Pierous stumbled over to the bench. Breathing and sweating like a pig in heat, he pushed Pogue aside and reached for his grimoire, flipping through a few pages before placing two fingers against Ilya’s wrist with a sharp tsk, “you liars. There is a slight pulse.”

  “What?” I pushed both men out of my way, unwilling to believe the ancient jerk knew better than me. Clasping my fingers around Ilya’s wrist, I paused. Nothing. Leaning in closer, I glared at the Warlock. How dare he call us liars when…cold air tickled my ear. I jumped back, heart racing as I moved my fingers closer to Ilya’s nose. There it was again, “he’s breathing!”

  “Really?” Pogue laughed and flung his arms around the Warlock’s neck while repeating over and over “thank you. Thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure, Shield,” Pierous said gently, “I could see how much the boy means to you. Not to mention, I’m benefiting too. Right Kilco?”

  Pierous opened his spare arm to me. I cocked a brow. Group hugs were awkward in the best of times, but one with the Shield of Ascot and an enemy Warlock to celebrate breaking the laws of nature? Now that would be torture. I shook my head, “No thanks, I don’t need a hug.”

  Pogue’s cerulean eyes filled with tears, “yeah, you do.”

  Damn it, that cheater knew I couldn’t say no to those big puppy dog eyes of his, and with my face screwed, I allowed myself to be gobbled up by their arms. It would be lying if I said it wasn’t a little bit comforting. Just a bit. Warm tears wet my neck. Pierous pulled away, a deep frown on his lips, “There isn’t any need for tears, Shield.”

  “There is,” Pogue said without wiping his face dry, “you just saved the most important thing in my life. I don’t know how to repay you, but I will. I promise.”

  “Ah,” Pierous glanced at me and his jaw tightened. He shook his head, “none of that. There will be no promises or debts, just ensure your end of our agreement is honoured, and we will be considered even.”

  Mm. At least he had enough shame not to milk it. That was something, at least. Wiggling out of Pogue’s grip, I moved to the bench and placed my finger on Ilya’s pulse. Still too soft, his skin too cold, “when will he wake up?”

  “Impossible to say,” Pierous tucked his grimoire into the back of his shirt, but to where exactly I had no desire to know, “by design, death is a highly traumatic experience. His body needs time to readjust to the most basic of functions. Even breathing and circulation is concurrently an effort. It could be minutes; it could be months. It’s all dependent upon how stubborn he is.”

  “Then he might never wake,” I said.

  “He’ll wake,” Pogue brushed his fingers through Ilya’s hair, “he won’t let something like death stop him.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Pierous said through a yawn as he grabbed a large chunk of the Erebus sword, “but one thing’s for sure: this blade has gone bye-bye, and I’m going night-night.” He moved over to the window and flopped down into his spread-eagle position,
“if you’ve any concerns kick me awake, but until then…”

  Unbelievable.

  Pogue whispered sweet nothings into Ilya’s ear as throaty snores filled the hut. I brought my fingers to my mouth but paused at the grime blackening the nails. So familiar, yet so unwanted. I snatched my bag and pulled out Ilya’s clothes, digging into those instead as I thrust the material into Pogue’s arms, “dress him.”

  Pogue blinked as he struggled to juggle the sudden onslaught of cloth, “you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I dunno, you just seem-”

  “I’m tired is all,” I cut him off and sat down on the bottom step, “dress him.”

  Pogue wasn’t trained as I was and what would’ve taken me minutes to do took him an eternity. I drummed my fingers against my lips as the tight leather pants became stuck over Ilya’s hips. Something was off. Ilya was alive, and I’d done that, yet I wanted nothing more than to throw myself on the ground like a toddler and scream until my throat was raw. But I was happy. I was. Ilya was looking more alive with each passing second, colour returning to his skin and sweat slightly dampening his hairline.

  As Pogue finished buckling Ilya’s belt, I withdrew my dagger and marched over to grab Ilya’s arm. Pogue pushed me away, growling slightly, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said and attempted to take Ilya’s arm again, “he’s had his face covered all his life. He won’t appreciate waking up with it on full display. Let’s cover it.”

  “Amicia has his mask,” Pogue said.

  “Hence why I have this,” I indicated to my dagger. Pogue’s eyes remained narrowed, but he stepped aside and watched closely as I rested the blade against the silk of Ilya’s shirt. It sliced through like butter, and the fire inside dimmed when I ripped the sleeve off whole, “sit him up.”