Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  The ground shook, and the floor beneath Qara tilted dramatically. The west tower was beginning to fall. She felt a strange ache in her chest, like a heavy sky about to break.

  She’d never had the chance—

  No. She’d had many chances to say things, do things, but she’d never acted. The things she’d meant to tell her father had been spoken at his grave. All the harsh and childish things she’d said to Valamon, she’d never bothered to retract. And then he was gone. She’d convinced herself that, if you did your job, if you kept your eyes ahead, you could pretend that nothing else existed. Not what you wanted, not what you regretted, not what you felt. You could hide it from everyone, and you could hide it from yourself, until that moment when you looked back at it all and wondered if things might have been different if only you’d said something.

  Qara drew the single arrow from her quiver, staring across a chasm that had never seemed so wide.

  And as the tower fell, she whispered something.

  Damn, she was fast. And strong. And although he hated to admit it, possibly just a little taller than him.

  Falon and Haska wove and spun across the roof, swords crashing and sparking in rapid, discordant notes. Haska parried a blow and twisted her blade towards his neck. Falon caught the blade on his cross-guard and pushed upwards, their swords locking for a moment. Sweat spattered onto the flagstones, and the distant crackle of fire rose around them.

  “You’re not as imposing in person,” said Falon.

  “Your brother has better hair.”

  They both shoved backwards at the same time, their swords crashing moments later. Haska spun around, her sword arcing in a full revolution, almost sending Falon’s flying from his grip. He staggered back, raising his blade to parry the next blow as he slid to regain his footing. He deflected another powerful swing, skidding backwards on the slick stone. It took only a moment for him to realise that his heel was on the edge of the roof, but that moment was enough for him to know that he’d better make his next, final movement count.

  Falon saw the blade swinging towards him, but he didn’t parry. With both hands he thrust his sword towards her exposed throat—Haska’s arm was too wide for her to block it. Although his head would be halfway to the yard by the time his sword hit its mark, he was certain there was enough momentum to do some damage.

  Last thoughts were usually an unholy mess of regrets, yearning for loved ones, and frantic bargaining with deities one didn’t believe in yesterday. However, for many people facing an abrupt and somewhat unexpected death, the final thought was just a panicked flicker of awareness, the briefest surreal sense that oh, gods, this was it.

  Falon tried to think of nothing at all, concentrating all his energy on executing this one last manoeuvre. Even so, he was unable to suppress a brief pang of grief that Qara might blame herself for his death, just as she blamed herself for Valamon’s abduction and, to an extent, her own father’s passing. For some reason, she felt she had to protect everyone, as though it were her sole responsibility to defend them against harm. She’d hobble in with her leg broken in three places and call it a flesh wound.

  For years now, Falon had been so busy relying on her that he hadn’t taken the time to sit down and make her talk to him. She was terrible with the whole “talking” about “feelings” thing, and Falon’s skills in the area were somewhere below those of a decomposing sloth. But he should have made the time. He should have made the effort. It occurred to him now, with ironic clarity, that you couldn’t truly give your heart to your people while withholding it from yourself.

  Blasted deathbed revelations.

  A jolt ran through Falon, and the world spun into silver silence. There was no sudden dark, no rushing light, no boatman emerging from the silent fog. In fact, Falon didn’t feel particularly dead at all. A second passed, and he realised he was standing perfectly still, his muscles straining, his hands still gripping his sword. Falon’s gaze crawled up the blade and over an armoured hand, wrapped tightly around the steel like a reptilian claw. The point was held perfectly steady, almost touching Haska’s throat. Falon’s gaze swept quickly down Haska’s other arm, and saw her sword stopped dead in mid-arc, the glinting edge just touching his neck.

  Falon tried not to swallow, his back foot treading open air. Haska’s eyes glinted with a strange fire.

  “Now, which part was less imposing than you expected?” said Haska.

  Falon felt cold steel pressing against his skin and a burning line of pain, then—

  A buzz.

  A thud.

  Haska staggered back with a cry, a grey-fletched arrow embedded deep in her shoulder. Falon yanked his sword free and lunged, his training taking over as the adrenaline surged. He let all distractions fade into irrelevance—this wasn’t a battle upon which his life depended, it wasn’t a battle upon which the fate of his empire hung, it was just another battle he could win. A battle he would win, because he’d won it a thousand times before in a thousand different ways, since the first day he’d hefted a blade.

  A step, a swing, a splash of scarlet, and Haska’s sword clattered to the floor, the point of Falon’s blade at her throat. She straightened up slowly, one hand clamped over the gash on her arm. Her eyes were calm, but they blazed like a sea of stars.

  “I may fall, but so does your empire,” said Haska. “I’m but one soldier, and where my road ends, countless others continue in my place.”

  “Then they all fall,” said Falon.

  He tightened his grip and braced his feet against the stone. The door to the roof suddenly slammed open and a breathless figure lurched from the darkness.

  “Wait!” cried the figure.

  Falon’s eyes narrowed with hostility as he flicked a glance towards the door.

  “Valamon,” said Falon disdainfully.

  “Valamon,” said Haska, equally displeased.

  “Hello…” said Valamon, looking at the tableau with some distress. He suddenly paused. “What happened to your face?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Haska irritably.

  “But it was—”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it.” End. Of. Conversation.

  Valamon hesitated, and then strode smoothly across the rooftop towards the pair.

  “Get out of here,” growled Falon.

  “Put down your sword, Falon,” said Valamon calmly.

  “Look at the city. Her sword seeks the blood of the king and you still think we can all just sit down and talk about it?”

  “Violence breeds violence,” said Valamon. “Our father knew that, and the tide of blood has finally reached our door. Lord Haska will not kill the king. You will not kill Lord Haska. And yes, we will all sit down and talk about it.”

  Valamon stepped firmly between Falon’s sword and Haska, the point of the blade touching his neck.

  “You betrayed our empire. You betrayed our people. And you betrayed me,” said Falon. “Why wouldn’t I kill you?”

  “Because I’m your brother,” said Valamon. “And I love you.”

  There was a hard silence, thick with things long unspoken and barely remembered, yet somehow still deeply felt.

  “You’re an idiot,” said Falon, his eyes cold.

  “Then isn’t it lucky I have you?” said Valamon gently.

  Falon’s sword wavered, and suddenly, he knew the name of the diagram depicting himself and his father, separated by a yawning chasm.

  Heart of Stone.

  Falon lowered his sword, aware that sprawling generations of Talgaran kings were probably groaning in their graves, hankering for a time when brothers had decent blood feuds, with proper eye-gouging and everything.

  “This is far from being resolved or forgiven,” said Falon.

  Valamon nodded in sombre agreement, his expression turning to puzzlement as he looked past Falon’s shoulder into the distance.

  “Is that Qara?” he said.

  Falon turned and saw a lone figure on the roof of t
he west tower. He couldn’t, however, get a good look at the figure since the west tower seemed to be toppling slowly into a cloud of debris in the unforgiving claws of gravity.

  “Don’t be ridicul—” began Falon.

  He stared as the figure gave a terribly familiar salute.

  “Gods,” breathed Falon. “What the devil—She’s supposed to be—How the hell—”

  Falon tore across the roof towards the keep, his urgent footsteps disappearing quickly into the depths of the tower.

  “When Albaran gets back, I’m going to send him to the outpost at the Uzbelize Underworld…”

  Falon’s muttering finally faded into the distant crackle of fire and the rumble of restless earth. Haska stood grimly by the edge of the roof, one hand gripping the wound on her arm. Valamon waited, but Haska continued to stare firmly at the horizon, as though he’d go away if she ignored him long enough. Fortunately, Valamon had the patience of a seed waiting to become a tree, which would then turn into coal, and eventually emerge a diamond.

  “I beat you bloody when you couldn’t defend yourself,” said Haska finally.

  “So did my brother,” said Valamon softly. “But I still love him.”

  White ash drifted through the air like snow, and a blush of rose tinged the horizon.

  “Don’t you find that unhealthy?”

  “Only if they don’t love you back. At least some of the time.”

  Haska’s hand tightened on her arm, blood oozing through the leather.

  “And they have to stop doing it once they get older,” said Valamon.

  Haska turned her gaze towards Valamon, her eyes clouded with a lifetime of convictions and vendettas being slowly released.

  Valamon carefully scooped up Haska’s sword and gracefully offered his free hand.

  “Haska del Fey,” said Valamon. “I’d like you to meet my parents.”

  She clung to the roof for as long as she could. Fifteen degrees. Forty-five degrees. Ninety. Qara’s fingers scrabbled at the wet, crumbling stone before she finally went into free fall, the west tower sliding away in huge, ragged chunks.

  As the night air rushed past, Qara decided that it didn’t feel like flying. It definitely felt like falling. And it’d probably feel very much like dying when she finally hit the ground. She could see the rubble-strewn yard rushing towards her at a fatal velocity, and she noted that there was a huge, gaping chasm right beneath her. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t even be able to retrieve her body, although at least this would save them the trouble of a burial.

  She barely heard the hoofbeats, only just saw the streak of shadow flying below. There was a flash of red, a rustling cloak, and a feeling like being knocked over by a scrum of drunken soldiers.

  Qara gasped tentatively as the world spun giddily around her, vaguely aware that she wasn’t quite dead, but not completely convinced that she was still alive. She seemed to be lying in a pair of well-muscled arms, and her gaze locked onto a familiar face.

  “Your Highness?” said Qara dizzily.

  “What the devil are you doing in Algaris?” said Falon.

  Qara suddenly noticed the glossy black horse beneath them, trotting slowly to a halt in the devastated yard. She could’ve sworn it glanced at her with a trace of grudging approval.

  “Did you just leap your horse over a chasm and catch me from a one-hundred-fifty-foot fall?” said Qara, thinking she would’ve loved to have seen it from a less interactive perspective.

  “Actually, the horse seemed to do most of it,” admitted Falon. “I just held out my arms. Amazing mare, just wandering the courtyard like she was waiting for something.”

  Qara stared at the horse.

  “I think she wants us to get off now,” said Qara.

  The mare blinked slowly at Falon.

  “I think I saw two horses by the guard house.” Falon slid quickly from the saddle and helped Qara to the ground. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Horizon’s Gate?”

  “I… The… Your Highness.” Qara couldn’t really think of an elegant way to defend insubordination. “I thought you might need me,” she said. “For example, if you decided to go for a romantic moonlit duel with Lord Haska.”

  Falon gave a slight sigh.

  “Qara.”

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  Falon turned to Qara.

  “Qara…”

  “Yes, Falon?”

  The sound of clashing steel and spirited yelling drifted through the deserted courtyard, rising from beyond the walls.

  “Shall we?” grinned Falon.

  A crooked smile curved Qara’s mouth.

  “Always.”

  Drawing their swords, they sprinted across the yard and into the seething city.

  He landed.

  Not with a roll and a flourish. Not with a crouch and a menacing stare. He just landed, like a jellyfish falling from the sky. It took Seris a moment to realise that he wasn’t still falling, although the floor was rocking dramatically.

  Seris slammed into several walls before reaching the stairwell, clambering up on all fours as the stairs rippled beneath him like planks on a swell. He squeezed past a twisted portcullis and trod carefully around a section of floor that had fallen away into the night. This was the final approach, ascending the peak of the tower at the heart of the Talgaran Empire.

  Seris prayed he’d get there in time. He prayed he could stop Elhan. He prayed, knowing that Eliantora could control none of those things, but it was enough that she heard him. As Seris forced his feet across the cracked stone, he could feel the swell of energy from ahead like a wave of heat, almost physically pushing him back.

  The stairwell curved up to one final doorway, a heavy arched door of walnut wood ornately bound in iron. The door hung crookedly from its hinges, and Seris hoped it had been knocked loose by the earthquake. The finger-shaped dents crushed into the wood told a less reassuring story.

  He pushed aside the sagging door and squeezed through the gap into the sunroom at the top of Algaris Keep.

  If it was a heart, it was a heart of glass and stone, held aloft like a captured fragment of the heavens. The sun rose and set within this room, from horizon to horizon, and at night, the ceiling was awash with constellations. No earthly shadow fell upon this room, ensconced in stone and glass. A sleeping flower, far above the crawling world below.

  Elhan stood by the far wall, gazing out across the burning world. Shadows slithered within her flesh, and a noiseless hum muffled the distant sound of screaming. Through the glass, great flaming sores trailed across the skin of the earth, flaring skyward in lashes of molten fire.

  “I don’t understand,” said Elhan, her voice like a strange susurrus of echoes.

  Seris thought this was a more promising start than “Tremble before me, petty mortal!”

  “Elhan…”

  “I’m here. It’s already done. When does it start getting better?”

  She turned to face Seris, and he could see her eyes were pools of ink from corner to corner, swirling liquid surfaces absorbing the light.

  And then he saw the bodies.

  A wide bed stood beneath a canopy of silk, draped with gauzy layers of white and gold. Lying side by side, they could have been sleeping, although Queen Nalan’s cheeks were slightly hollow, her face smudged with tired shadows. King Delmar lay beside her, one arm across his chest, one hand entwined with hers.

  An empty goblet stood on the ivory side table.

  “No, no…” Seris rushed to the bed, feeling the king’s hands, the queen’s neck.

  Already cold.

  “No, please—”

  Seris drew the goblet to his face, gagging at the bitter odour. He rolled up his blood-soaked sleeves.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty…”

  No pulse. No breath. No heartbeat.

  Seris gripped the queen’s hands and closed his eyes, forcing himself to reach out, reach in—

  They’d been dead for hours.

  Seris could feel
sobs forcing their way up his throat. He was so tired, so incredibly tired. But he’d come this far, and it couldn’t have been for nothing, not when he’d tried so damned hard.

  “Your people need you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Your family needs you.”

  Seris reached further, feeling the threads of power begin to fray.

  “Come back, damn it—”

  Seris tightened his grip around each wrist, plunging deeper into the cold, coagulated veins. He felt a rivulet of blood trickling from his nose. He wiped it against his shoulder, but it continued to flow.

  “You can’t just give up,” said Seris, his breathing ragged.

  Elhan watched Seris with eyes like solid orbs of night.

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because it matters,” said Seris, his voice rattling in his throat. “Because everyone means something.”

  Elhan looked out across the hazing world—she could already see the shape of what she could create. She could feel all the fragile lives that trembled in this existence, tiny specks being extinguished like cinders gasping for the light before crumbling into ash. And he cared about them all.

  “You can’t bring back the dead, Seris,” said Elhan. “But you can still save the living.”

  Seris’s hands dropped limply to his sides, his head pounding from the streams of energy swirling around the room.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  “Delmar’s death didn’t break the curse. But I think mine will.”

  Seris looked at Elhan as she walked towards him.

  “Elhan, I—”

  Elhan drew Delmar’s sword from the scabbard at his side—a glorious length of ancient steel. She pushed it into Seris’s arms and took a step back.

  “I thought bad things happened to people who tried to stab you,” said Seris uncertainly.

  “I think you’re the only one who can do it,” said Elhan quietly. She looked out at the hem of fading stars. “I think you’re the heart.”