The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  Biore’s words carried with them a clarity that pulled him back into himself. Wrexley is dead. He was broken on the rack by a madman, by the human servant of this dark power that stands before you. What remains in his place is your memory of him, of the secrets your minds shared, of the traits he helped instil within you. Nothing else—not anger, not loneliness, not helpless rage at an uncaring universe, none of it can do anything but serve this enemy. You have to let it all go.

  The serpent continued to twist lower, its mouth opening ever wider, closing over him as he stood before it.

  Embrace the torrent. Let it free your mind from all constraint. Let it flow through you and beyond. Open yourself to me.

  The words no longer filled Petron’s mind. They echoed through him, but they no longer blasted all other thoughts clear. He kept his eyes locked on the spark as it sunk toward him, still spinning on its invisible currents of air. The serpent blurred into the background as he reached for it. Petron could feel himself pulling free of the dark mind that threatened to consume him, the connection to the howling depths shrinking into nothingness.

  No! I will not allow you to escape. You will remain here! You will become my new vessel!

  As his fingers closed around the spark, Petron felt the connection. Biore. Delco. Rawick. Higgs. Daemi. Heather. Frankle. All of them. All who had been touched by Wilt’s power, binding them together, interweaving their lives. Linking them within the welds, entwining them in a single rope of consciousness. This was a new form of power, one never wielded before. It was what could finally save them.

  You will not escape me. If you cannot serve me, then you will face only the emptiness of death.

  The great serpent reared back to strike, and some part of Petron was aware of the heat and stench of the breath that steamed out of its jaws, but his mind was elsewhere now. Within the weld, joined with the others, part of the light that burned the shadows away. He closed his eyes as the jaws closed over him.

  Come with me, Petron. Come with us, away from this aberration.

  A sharp slap on his cheek shocked him out of the dream, and Petron opened his eyes to see Nurtle’s worried gaze staring down at him.

  ‘Petron?’

  Another smack sent sparks dancing across his vision, but these faded quickly, they weren’t like the—

  Like what? What had he been thinking? Where had he—

  ‘Is he—’ Jared asked from somewhere behind her.

  ‘He’s coming back.’

  She raised her hand for another slap and Petron shook his head.

  ‘Enough.’ He coughed and raised himself up on one elbow, staring blankly around the empty stone chamber. ‘You’ll give me a concussion.’

  Nurtle’s concerned face melted into a smile and she sat back, pulling Petron up into a sitting position. ‘You’re back.’

  Petron nodded slowly, dizzy from more than just Nurtle’s over-eager ministrations.

  A movement behind them took their attention away, and they turned to see Cortis’s remains crumple from the throne, its withered limbs collapsing into a fine dust.

  Petron pushed himself to his feet and brushed himself down, watching the dust blow into nothingness as another gust of wind whipped through the chamber. ‘Yes. I’m back.’

  He watched the last of the dust disappear, then turned his back on it and walked purposefully from the room. ‘Come. It is done. There’s nothing for us here.’

  29

  The first change Wilt noticed was the sound and vibrations from the wagon’s wheels on cobbled stone. After days of soft forest trails and packed dirt roads the hard, bumpy surface sent rattling shocks through the frame of the wagon, and the clip-clopping of horseshoes drowned out all other noise.

  You hear that? I was wondering if we’d ever see real civilisation again. Real stone.

  Wilt gathered his belongings, strapping the weld blade onto his hip and throwing the forest cloak around his shoulders. He sat patiently in his moving prison, trying to ignore the noise and discomfort, knowing that this particular journey was nearing its end.

  Sure enough, only an hour or so later he heard rough voices call out a challenge and answer, and a new noise joined the chorus. Wilt closed his eyes and imagined the scene painted by the sounds, great high wooden gates creaking as they swung slowly open to allow the column access into the capital. Sontair. They had finally made it.

  Only minutes later Captain Mont threw back the flap of the wagon, and early afternoon sunlight leaked in as he pulled himself up into the cart.

  ‘So. Our journey is at an end. Thank you for not making it any harder than it had to be.’

  Wilt smiled and nodded in reply. ‘Thanks for a most comfortable journey. Much easier than walking.’

  The captain grunted and swung the gate open. ‘Well, the time for relaxation is over. Come.’ He waved Wilt out. ‘My superiors won’t tolerate further delays.’

  Wilt stepped out of the wagon, and into chaos.

  They were in a large courtyard, a drilling area by the look of the packed dirt and timber training structures scattered about. Most of the column seemed to be here, villagers and guards packed together in the too-small space, pushing and arguing with each other as they tried to organise themselves. Guards bustled back and forth, taking apart wagons, gathering belongings, and loudly farewelling those they had shared the journey with but were no longer part of the same command. Alongside them, young servants and stable boys ducked in and out, scurrying about trying to wrangle horses into some sort of formation, and passing food and drink among the travel-stained troop.

  Wilt let the noise and rush wash over him.

  Feels like home.

  Higgs was right; it was just like Greystone on a busy market day.

  ‘Here. I’m sorry about this.’

  Wilt turned to see the captain reaching out to him with heavy iron shackles.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Wilt offered his wrists. ‘You know these are pointless, right?’

  ‘I assumed as much. Must keep up appearances though.’

  The shackles locked over Wilt’s wrists and the captain wrapped the lead chain around his fist. ‘Stay close. Those things can really bite if I have to use this.’

  He jerked the chain softly and the heavy iron scraped against Wilt’s skin. He nodded and dropped his hands over his cloak.

  I don’t suppose you want me to help remove those?

  Not yet. Just play along. Besides, I thought stone was more your thing.

  I’ll try my hand at anything.

  The heat ring on Wilt’s finger blazed in answer, sending fire up his arm.

  ‘Come then, we need not go far.’

  Captain Mont marched off across the courtyard, Wilt trotting along behind him. The crowd seemed to part magically for them, every few steps another soldier snapping into a salute. The captain waved each man back at ease wearily as they passed.

  ‘Your men respect you,’ Wilt offered.

  Captain Mont grunted in reply. ‘Most of them need to spend a few more summers training here before they come under my command. Sending these boys out on patrol makes no one’s job any easier.’

  Wilt paid more attention to the guards they passed. At least half the soldiers were very young, their heavy armour threatening to consume them.

  ‘But this is the price we pay for our current command,’ the captain continued. ‘You’ll no doubt see what I mean soon enough. Perhaps you can help convince them of the reality of the threat we face. Perhaps then they’ll give me more than just boys to work with.’

  They picked their way across to the far side of the courtyard where a row of low stone buildings squatted in the dirt, huddled together as if for warmth.

  No gaudy towers here, Wilt. These buildings were built for one purpose only.

  And yet from what the captain tells us those in charge still fail to recognise any threat.

  Biore said Sontair hasn’t seen any real action in decades, maybe longer. All the trouble has been far to the
north.

  Are those in power so quick to forget?

  Sure they are. You saw that yourself in Redmondis. And what about Greystone? Don’t tell me those guards we used to fling rotten fruit at could stand up to what we’ve seen.

  Let’s hope they won’t have to.

  Their thoughts were interrupted by the captain leading them through the first of the low buildings, into another smaller courtyard and toward a large doorway guarded on both sides by formal looking red-cloaked guards. Wilt caught his breath as he saw them, at first glance they looked identical to the Sentinels he’d faced in Redmondis.

  They’re just men.

  Sure enough, it was clear the two guards were just that. Only men, wearing hooded red cloaks and holding long, evil-looking pikes by their sides.

  Captain Mont stopped in front of the guards and saluted. ‘Presenting the prisoner as the commander ordered.’

  The two guards snapped their pikes into a cross formation in front of the door, and the captain stepped back automatically.

  After another moment he spoke again, this time his voice a low growl of anger. ‘I take it I am to be denied access?’

  ‘Now, now, Captain. No need to get your hackles up.’

  A high, giggling voice trickled across to them, followed by a small, hunched old man, his stained and worn red cloak falling loosely about his shoulders and trailing in the dirt behind him.

  Guard yourself. This one has power.

  Wilt sensed it immediately. An electricity crackling in the air, something he hadn’t felt so blatantly since he’d left the safety of Redmondis.

  He turned to study the old man shuffling toward them, his hands wringing in supplication, his eyes glowing gold in the fading afternoon light. The sight of those eyes sent a warning thrill of panic up Wilt’s spine—they looked so like Cortis’s, so like the wolf soldiers he had bent to his command in Redmondis. The scratching presence of a weld skated across the surface of his mind, scanning for a weak point. He held it at bay with ease, watching the strange old man.

  Captain Mont seemed displeased with what he saw. ‘Vargul,’ he grunted. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of the queen’s counsel?’

  This was rewarded with another high, almost feminine giggle. ‘Oh, Captain. You have so much to learn about keeping your feelings hidden. No wonder you’re always being sent out to the colonies. You’d never last a day in court.’

  ‘I do not wish to spend five minutes in your court, Vargul. I want to report to the commander as I have been ordered.’

  The old man finally reached the doorway and raised his face, giving Wilt his first good look at him. He was mostly swallowed up in the dirty red cloak, the hood pulled tight around a face seemingly entirely composed of wrinkles, as though he were wearing a skin four sizes too large for his body. The dominant feature was his eyes, sneering out at the world and glowing with a power Wilt recognised and no longer feared.

  He looks like Cortis, but different. Weaker. Sicker, perhaps.

  The scratching of the weld slunk away as those golden eyes burned into him before they turned back to the captain.

  ‘Your orders have changed, Captain. Your queen has received word of the prisoner. Our guest, I should say. She has requested the pleasure of his company immediately.’

  ‘But the commander—’

  ‘The commander of the guard knows his place!’ Vargul’s high whine was suddenly a bark of command. ‘You would do well to follow in his footsteps.’

  Vargul’s voice dropped back to a thick whisper but his eyes blazed, waiting for any further sign of defiance.

  Captain Mont bowed his head briefly and held out the lead chain to Wilt’s shackles. ‘Very well. I will ensure the commander is informed of this.’

  Vargul giggled again as he took the chain. ‘Rest assured, Captain, your valiant efforts will be recognised. So many village folk saved. So many more refugees escorted through Sontair’s gates to join its already crowded streets. Whatever would we do without soldiers such as yourself?’

  Captain Mont seemed about to snap back, but held himself in check and grunted, spinning on his heel and marching away.

  Vargul watched him leave, a strangely distant, pondering expression on his face.

  Oh, I don’t like the look of this one at all.

  As soon as the captain had disappeared around the corner, Vargul dropped the chain in the dirt and turned away. ‘They tell me you have power.’ He threw the words over his shoulder. ‘Free yourself from that feeble prison and follow me. We have already dallied too long. Patience is not an affliction my lady suffers from.’

  Wilt watched him skitter away into the shadows and held his shackles up in front of his face.

  We could just pick the lock.

  His hands faded into mist before his eyes, his body taking on its wraith form for a moment before snapping back into solidity as the shackles fell to the ground.

  Or we could just do that, I suppose. Little lacking in subtlety, don’t you think?

  Something tells me this is not the place for subtlety.

  Wilt hurried to catch up to Vargul, who was heading toward a small door on the far side of the small courtyard. As he reached the door, Vargul turned to ensure Wilt was following, then pulled it open and ducked inside.

  We could just leave. The guards can’t stop us.

  You saw Vagul’s eyes. He has felt the touch of the same power Cortis served, the same power we came here to seek out. Let’s see where he can lead us.

  Wilt had to bend down to fit through the undersized doorway, and found himself in what looked like a secret passage, cold stone walls closing in on either side of him, and the dim glow of a torch flickering further ahead. A moment later Vargul appeared in the circle of light and waved Wilt on impatiently.

  Just don’t blame me when you find yourself in trouble again.

  Ourselves, Higgs. Ourselves.

  30

  The city walls had been growing taller as Heather, Frankle, and Daemi approached them, tramping through sodden fields, then joining the steady stream of travellers moving along the first wide road they came to; seemingly every villager from the surrounding areas was headed for the shelter of the city.

  They had landed further from Sontair than Heather thought; the sheer size of the walls had tricked her sense of distance. It had taken two full days to get this far, and the sun was just touching the western horizon when they made out the shape of the enormous gates standing open, allowing the thickening flow of travellers in and out of the walled city.

  Daemi had been trying to hurry the other two along, but they didn’t share her history of long marches and physical activity, and though they struggled gamely both Heather and Frankle were close to collapse. She felt for them, but the dimming skies urged her onward. If the whispers she had heard from the various travellers they shared the road with were true, then the city gates would close at sundown, and she didn’t fancy trying to find a spot to camp among this crowd of farmers and merchants, each looking more desperate than the last. There wouldn’t be much chance for rest if they had to spend the night out here.

  ‘Speed up. We have to make the gates before sunset.’

  Frankle recognised the tension in her tone and tried to forget his burning feet and aching shoulders. He took Heather’s hand and pulled her onward, trying to lift their pace.

  Heather was suffering. Unlike the others her childhood had been one of relative privilege, and she’d never truly had to push her physical limits before. At an early age her parents had recognised her blossoming crafter skills and hired the best tutors money could buy to help her along. Heather’s childhood days before Redmondis had been filled with comfort and learning. The result was a young woman who, though not exactly spoiled, had spent too long in a soft life to be expected to suddenly match a hardened soldier in a day’s march across muddy fields and hard-packed dirt roads.

  Frankle’s early life hadn’t been so easy, but he too was struggling to keep up with Daemi’s de
mands. His problem was more one of age and size than experience. He had only recently hit puberty, and his muscles had yet to take on the wiry strength required to help him through days like this. He was determined not to show it though, refusing to complain, and most of all rejecting entirely the possibility of failing in the Heather’s presence.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered to Heather as he pulled her along. ‘We can make it. Can’t be much further.’

  Frankle’s eyes gave his words the lie, the shape of the massive gates only just becoming clear as the three pushed through the crowds, but he ignored that thought and marched on.

  Daemi was aware of how much her two younger charges were suffering, but there was nothing for it. They had to make the walls before nightfall. As they pushed their way through the milling crowds, she felt eyes travelling over them, judging them, weighing up risk versus reward. Every second glance was one of greed and cunning, and she knew there would be trouble if they were forced to spend the night outside. Her long cloak marked her as a guard captain of Redmondis, but judging from the mutterings she heard, such trimmings no longer drew the respect and fear they once had.

  ‘One last push.’

  Daemi’s urgent tone gave her companions a final surge of energy. She led from the front, shoving travellers out of their path now, ignoring the cries of anger and bluster, carving a wedge of space through the crowd that only thickened as they got closer to the city gates. Heather and Frankle tumbled along in her wake, trying most of all not to trip themselves up with their tired legs.

  Finally they were within shouting distance, just as the sky turned from dusty blue to steel grey. The guards that lined the upper barricades shuffled into movement, and Daemi knew what was coming next. The gates were about to close.

  ‘Hold!’ She gave the shout every ounce of command and authority she had. It echoed over the general hubbub of the crowd, but the guards on the walls didn’t pause in their step.