by Remi Michaud
In his mind, his storm tossed mind, his twirling, tumultuous, addled mind, he knew it would always be like this. No matter what he tried, no matter how hard he would strive to suppress himself, there would always be distance between him and those he would love, always that underlying knowledge that he was different, he was other. He was violence and death.
He pictured a bright spot. He wished himself toward it, willed it, and slowly, the outside world receded as he felt the core of himself buffeted. His mind was treacherous; as he made his way to the pinprick of light far from the shining sun of his unreachable source, he was pulled sideways as though there were undercurrents, felt he might capsize as though there was too much wind in the sails, thought he might run aground against the devastatingly sharp reefs that populated the whirling eddies in the depths of his mind. But finally he saw the light brighten, from sparkle, to distant star, to moon. It expanded from moon to sun and then finally...
* * *
Gaven opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to clear the haze. His eyelids seemed glued together. Gingerly, he wiped a hand across his face; it came away coated in sticky, half-congealed blood. He lay there, slowly letting consciousness seep back, bringing memory with it.
Gaven had been one of the first to fall in the battle. Not to the priests's arcanum; thank the gods he and his platoon had been at the north end of the cavalry charge. Shortly after beginning the call to retreat, the trees had erupted with enemy forces and his men had been overrun from behind. He had taken a sword to the head, but his helm had mostly protected him, leaving only a small gash, and knocking him unconscious. And a lingering headache. He groaned, rolled over, put a hand to his head, tried not to vomit.
When he raised his eyes, he froze. He was near the trees still, where he had fallen. On the caravan route, he saw that the battle was all but over. The Soldiers of God were in the final motions of mopping up. He saw movement closer to the trees, a hundred paces ahead of him. A lone rider, wheeled his mount and galloped for safety. He knew that rider, of course. He considered that rider a dear friend.
What are you doing, Jurel? Where are you going?
He scuttled toward the spot his friend had recently left, knowing he would not be bothered for a few minutes. The Soldiers were as sharks scenting blood. Their vision was a narrow tunnel of violence ahead of them.
Something glinted. Metal. Gaven approached carefully, keeping low in the tall grass; the army may have been preoccupied, but there was no sense being foolish. The glint was Jurel's sword stuck point down in the ground like a grave marker. He quailed. He had found the answer to his first question.
Now he had to answer the second.
He pulled the sword from the ground and bolted then, running into the forest behind his friend. A short time ago, these trees had provided welcome shelter. Now, as he stumbled amongst the groves and the undergrowth, calling Jurel's name, Gaven found himself thinking that this forest provided ample concealment for enemy troops.
He burst into a clearing, cursing at the stinging line of blood that flowed down his cheek, calling Jurel's name again. Jurel was on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth. He raced to his friend's side and reached down. As he stretched out a hand, just as he expected to feel contact with Jurel's shoulder, his friend vanished, and Gaven stumbled back, shocked, staring at the empty ground and at the still saddled mount a few paces away that cropped quietly, obliviously at the coarse grass.
* * *
He smelled flowers, millions of them filling the air with their heady perfumes. His eyes were closed but he knew delicate beads of dew sparkled like jewels on their petals. He knew that somewhere to his left, only a dozen paces from where he stood, there was a lilac tree whose boughs dripped to the ground like soap suds, and under that was a fancifully sculpted bench made of ivory.
He had never actually tried to do it by himself, had never tried to reach his place on his own. As he lay there, getting himself under control, fighting to slow the boiling cauldron in his skull, he found a glimmer of surprise that he had actually done it, but it was a fleeting thought caught in a veil of sick tears. He lay there, smelling the flowers through the lingering stench of blood and death, shielding his eyes from the light of the sun that sometimes was there but mostly was not. It seemed accusatory, glaring at him, pointing a golden finger: You are guilty. You did it.
When he felt calmer, more himself—a desiccated, empty version of himself—he sat up and let his gaze sweep the field, his place, noticing that it did not glow as it often did. It seemed darker, certainly darker than it should have been with a sun glaring like a molten coin above him. Some logical part of him shrugged. It made sense. After all, Metana had said this was a reflection of his mind, and he was feeling pretty dark.
He stood, turned in a circle, saw the distant line of trees that surrounded his place, and for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he ventured beyond them. Could he? Was there anything there?
Another time maybe. Another day.
He shored in his sight, gazed at the lilac tree, and he felt nothing when he looked at it as though he gazed upon a void. He had been so proud of that tree; he had created it, and secretly, he thought of it as his own little masterpiece. It was beautiful and somehow it had seemed to sum up everything there was to say about Metana. That was why he had imagined it as he did. She had been his inspiration. And now she was one of the thousand that he had condemned with his foolish pride.
What have I done? What have I done!
Thinking of her drew his gaze down into the flowers, and specifically to a place where the flowers were crushed. Where their bodies had entwined, merged, in their love-making. He stared at the spot, swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. He trembled. His fists clenched so tightly his fingernails were driven into his palm and red drops landed on the tulips at his feet. In his mind, he saw them again, gently kissing. He pushed the thought away, but it came back, more insistent, mocking. His trembling turned into shudders as something rose from the broken void inside him. Something red, hot, and entirely primordial. Something so powerful, he could not name it, and he certainly could not control it.
He lifted his head, drew in his breath, saw her laughing with him. The image was overlapped by one of her laying crumpled and bloody
What have I done?
in a ditch beside the road. The thing burst from the void and threatened to blow his flesh apart. He shut his eyes tightly, saw her with her head against his shoulder.
Oh, gods, what have I DONE?
He opened his mouth and he screamed.
And the thing from the void screamed with him.
The ground trembled, bucked and surged. His mouth opened further and further, impossibly wide, his teeth growing until they were the teeth of wolves, or lions. His eyes glittered like sapphires and lightning. Around him, flickering in and out of existence, barely visible but surely there, a suit of armor so black that the sun seemed to be sucked into it, with golden whorls and swirls that caused eyes to water.
He lifted his arms slowly, fists clenched and his roar continued, impossibly long, impossibly loud. When his arms were horizontal to the ground, he opened his fingers. At his feet the world warped, humped as though seen through a magnifying glass. The warp spread outward in an ever expanding circle, humming low and harsh like wasps. Where the circle of distortion passed, the flowers blew apart, shredded like parchment, then disintegrated, evaporating into nothingness like boiled water. When the circle hit the lilac tree, it simply disappeared in a hail of splinters. The perimeter of devastation continued to expand, increasing in speed until it spread faster than the eye could follow, all the way out, all the way to the far trees.
And beyond?
Jurel's place was changed. Where there had been flowers, and sweet perfume, serenity and a sense of peace, there was now a blasted wasteland, a flat landscape of mud, dried and crusted, cracked like a monotone mosaic created by a murderous madman. Arid breath-sucking heat, and sharp grit blown b
y winds that scoured flesh bare was what remained of Jurel's place.
As he stood, eyes blazing, saliva dripping from his too-long teeth to the crust where it sizzled and evaporated, he found it entirely appropriate.
Chapter 21
Smoke choked Kurin as he stumbled. Unnatural lights blinded him. The screams of the dying deafened him. Yet a magma hot river of arcanum continued to pour from him. Lightning and fire roared to life at his thought and where he pointed, nothing but melted steel and burnt meat remained. The earth shook and pits opened to swallow platoons whole.
He felt a battering at his defenses; the priests of Gaorla had regrouped and were attacking anew. Gritting his teeth against the new onslaught, he shored up his defenses. Above him, his ethereal shield hummed and glowed as attack after attack broke like a downpour on a rooftop. He wiped his sweaty hands on his robe. They came away filthy with ash, mud, and blood.
He spared a glance to his right where Metana was riding her own storm. Her hands high over her head, fingers spread like talons, her eyes blazed with power. Wind buffeted her; her hair flowed like shadows in the smoky gloom. He could not help but spare a thought that she was, at that moment, savagely, violently beautiful: a diving eagle; a leaping, screaming tiger; a wolf homing in for the kill. For a brief instant he envied Jurel, knew that Jurel was the only being alive capable of taming her wild energy. To his left, Mikal and a few of his swordmasters waited in a tight knot, bristling with swords dripping gore. Behind him, the last, ragged remains of the army, mustering for one final push.
And spreading before him, an endless wall of white cloaks.
Jurel's army was lost. Even as he released a vicious spell that sliced like a thousand razor blades into the front ranks of Soldiers, he felt a pang thinking it. Jurel's army was lost. The loss of so many men was a terrible tragedy. But Kurin knew that was only the tip of the iceberg. Jurel's confidence had been shaky at best. He had needed this victory. This resounding defeat would deeply affect the young man. Kurin wondered if he would ever recover from it, wondered if he would ever lead men to battle again. He wondered if the God of War would die before he was properly born.
A sledgehammer of raw arcanum slammed into his shield. He grunted, felt his shield crack, felt streams of bone crushing power fly as Metana retaliated. He had to act. He gestured to Mikal.
“You've got to go,” he said. A shiver climbed his spine as he heard the exhaustion in his voice. “Take Metana. Get out of here.”
Mikal was shaking his head even before Kurin finished his command. His eyes were shadowed slits. “You know I can't do that.”
He grunted again as more power slammed into him. Desperately, he held his defenses in place but he could feel them slipping like sand through his fingers. The line of Soldiers stepped forward and braced as Jurel's ragged army charged.
“There's no time to argue, Mikal. You need to get out of here. This battle is done. Find Jurel-”
“No, damn you.” Mikal raised a clenched fist. “We go together or we die together. It's how we've always done things.”
Kurin shook his head sadly. “Not this time, my friend. You know what's at stake. You know-”
Another blast nearly drove him to his knees. He gasped as pain ripped through his skull.
“You know,” he croaked, “what you have to do. We've searched too long and been through too much to let it end like this. Forget me. Go. Jurel needs you.”
“We don't even know if he's still alive.”
“He is. He must be. Damn it, GO!”
He turned his attention back to the battle, raking the front lines of Soldiers with fire to give the remaining Salosians any advantage.
When he glanced back, he was grateful that Mikal had listened and obeyed. He was grateful that he alone stood there. There was a crash of metal on metal and fresh screams as the Salosians engaged in their last futile attempt.
Power battered him, staggering him. He threw all his last dregs of strength into his spells. But it was no use. The Gaorlans continued their relentless assault and for every spell he unleashed at them, three smashed into his weakened, wavering shield.
Desperately he fought as he watched the last of the Salosian force cut down. Until the inevitable blast broke through his shield. His head rang like a bell and hellfire lights danced before his eyes. He felt wetness leak from his nose and ears. When his vision cleared a little, he found himself on his hands and knees. Fighting his burning lungs, he dragged in one ragged breath after another as he continued to hurl arcanum at the enemy.
His head rang again. Every nerve in his body lit up as though he had been thrown into a lake of fire and he screamed in agony. He lost all feeling in his arms, faintly felt himself topple, tasted mud mingled with blood.
His last thought before the welcome blanket of darkness took him was a prayer that Mikal find Jurel safe and alive. And not broken.
Chapter 22
He sat cross-legged on the hard crusted ground as windborne sand scoured his flesh though the blown grit never found his eyes. His shirt, which had not too long ago been white, was a dirty brown tatter, blasted to shreds by the howling winds and the grit. His elbows rested on his knees and his bared sword, an exact replica of the one Daved had given him except for the razor sharp thorns—his own personal touch—that protruded from the hilt lay across his forearms. Above, the sun was a raging, molten ball that shimmered fluidly, hazed by the shrieking storm. When the wind slowed, when the abrasive clouds thinned like mist under the hellish sun, heat waves shimmered in the distance, reflected the fiery glare from above, rising from the ground, warping the air so that it was like an alien water-world, a world of myth, of fireside stories where great sharks and sea monsters lie in waiting for hapless passers-by, waiting to drag unfortunate victims down to the mysterious depths, never to be seen again.
He sat in his personal furnace, sucking air that battled him at every breath, that seemed to resent every inhalation and exploded from him like horses escaping a burning barn at every exhalation, fought with it as harshly as he fought with himself. His mind was as violent as his place. Images whirled and tumbled over each other, scouring his inside as efficiently as sand blasted his outside. He sat on Gram's shoulders, watching in awe as bursts of light—red, green, yellow—sparkled overhead, squealed with delightful, delicious fear as the booms, like thunder, came moments later. He cowered as he watched Gram's life seep through a hole in his belly. He snuggled, warm and safe, as his mother told him his favorite bedtime story, the one about the boy who went to war and came back with a goat for a wife. He stared as she was tossed lifeless into a corner, her eyes glazed, and a line of blood dripping from one ear. He felt the torment of years of abuse by Valik, felt Daved clap a hand on his shoulder, saw him smile before he watched, again and again, a Soldier impale him. He was in the dungeon, that rotten, dank pit of darkness that had driven him mad for a time, and he was on the farm, or on the road with Kurin. Killing Soldiers, or killing bandits who were no more than farmers fallen on hard times. He heard that shriek again, the one in the middle of the worst snowstorm he had ever witnessed, the one that cut off abruptly as Galbin struck the unforgiving ground.
Through all of it, through all the memories of his life, good and bad, good inevitably turning bad, were images of Metana, twining and climbing like growing ivy. Metana smiling at him, or glaring at him, her eyes the color of the sea, or the sky, a jay's wing or newly forged steel depending on her mood. Metana rolling her eyes, as gray as a stormy sky—“you big oaf”—as she scolded him for not listening to her lessons or for forgetting something or for...being a man in general. Metana caressing his cheek, her eyes soft as cotton. Metana raising herself up, pressing her lips against his...
He shook his head as though he could rattle loose those images, let them drain out his ear or something, send them away, exile them, banish them from his mind forever. But of course things are never that easy; memories are tenacious things, things that sometimes seem as comforting as a soft blank
et on a cold day while at others, were the ice of the cold days themselves, leeching life like warmth from veins, ultimately killing as effectively as any sword, and they never, never let go.
God of War? Nonsense. More like God of Sorrow.
He sat cross-legged on the hard crusted ground and the sands scoured his flesh, and the memories blasted his mind.
* * *
Shafts of rainbow light played on the liquid floor, dancing and whirling like swarms of butterflies. The walls moved as though they were waterfalls. Below them and above, pinprick stars twinkled in the depthless darkness. The four of them stood in a tight group, three of them facing the fourth like petitioners facing a king. In the middle of them, a bowl spun out of air and made of filigreed gold, and in the bowl an image of a windswept wasteland shimmered.
They spoke, their voices clearly audible, yet their lips did not move.
“I fear for our brother,” Shomra rasped in his dusty voice. His cowl was pulled tight over his head as it always was; even his siblings were unnerved by his bare countenance.
“Do not fear, Shomra,” Maora said. His voice was crisp and clear, scholarly. “He is made of sterner stuff than even he realizes.”
“You may be right, Maora. And yet there he is on his plane, blasted and alone. I would say the boy is quite desolate.”
“I too, fear for him,” Valsa said quietly, her voice wilting like a parched flower. “He seemed such a nice boy when we first met. To so drastically change so quickly cannot be a good thing.”
“He grieves,” Gaorla said. “He begins to understand. He has known for some time, but he only now begins to understand.”
“He must have realized what would happen. He's no fool,” Valsa cried.
“He is no fool but he is young. The young do foolish things,” Gaorla commented. “Besides, it presents certain possibilities.”