by Marc Turner
No!
Driven back by the heat, Parolla could only watch as the tiktar wrapped its arms round the struggling old man. She started to gather her power, but a volley of death-magic would simply hasten Mottle’s passing. “To me!” she screamed at the elderling, but it paid her no mind. Lowering its head, it sank its teeth into the archmagus’s neck.
Mottle’s screams continued as he clawed at the creature’s face.
Then he gestured.
And the whirlwind came roaring in.
* * *
Ebon shivered at the touch of Galea’s sorcery. He had lost sensation in his arms and feet again, and the numbness was beginning to travel along his limbs. The goddess’s pinpoint strike cleaved through Mayot’s power like the tip of a spear through flesh, dissolving the shadows about the dais until the blackness contracted to a dark core round Mayot. Her assault faltered, though, as it reached the old man’s innermost shields, the Book’s death-magic devouring the sorcery that assailed it, stealing its momentum.
The tide started to turn.
Then the scarred stranger standing next to Ebon reentered the fray. His attack on Mayot landed like a drum beat, throwing the old man from his feet and sending him skidding across the dais toward his toppled throne. His head cracked against an armrest, and he grunted. Somehow, though, he managed to retain his grip on the Book. And while the combined powers of Ebon and the stranger continued to rage about him, his defenses held.
Mayot pushed himself to his feet.
Ebon could now see the old man clearly through the shadows that surrounded him. His wispy white hair and unkempt beard were flecked with blood, and more blood trickled from one side of his mouth. Tilting his head, he spat red phlegm onto the floor. When he counterattacked, the warring sorceries of the two sides momentarily canceled each other out.
Then Ebon felt the mage draw further on his reserves. The flesh of Mayot’s hand where it clutched the Book started to blister, and sores formed on his skin, darkening through purple to black. The old man’s agonized shriek rode the burgeoning waves of death-magic.
As the balance of power tipped in the mage’s favor, Galea tried to increase the sorcery flowing through Ebon, but he had nothing more to give. She shifted her attack, searching for some point of weakness in Mayot’s onslaught.
Without success.
For while there was no more focus to the old man’s assault now than there had been before, the sheer weight of his magic was irresistible.
Ebon was driven back a step.
* * *
Luker muttered an oath. He’d nearly had the bastard!
Baldy’s power had driven a fissure through Mayot’s wall of death-magic, and Luker had released his Will all at once against the old man’s inner defenses, expecting to see them come crashing down. Instead Mayot’s wards had held, and the chance had passed. To make matters worse the mage evidently possessed powers he hadn’t yet called on, for the waves of death-magic surging from him had increased in intensity, annihilating the sorcery that opposed them.
Mayot’s rally, though, came at a price. The mage was aging before Luker’s eyes, the flesh of his face becoming sallow, the gray in his beard fading to white. The blackness claiming his left hand had reached his wrist and was now spreading up his arm where it disappeared beneath the cuff of his robe. Another quarter-bell, Luker judged, and the mage would likely be on the other end of one of those threads of death-magic.
A quarter of a bell, though, was time the Guardian did not have. Handspan by handspan Mayot’s sorcery drew closer. The magic was weakening still further the barrier separating the world from Shroud’s realm, for the shadowy spirits residing there now burst into flames where they came into contact with the old man’s power. The stone floor in front of Luker had melted, and a section of the steps leading up to the dais had become a stream of molten rock. He blinked sweat from his eyes. The effort of keeping Mayot at bay was taking its toll. His head felt as if a score of demons were trying to claw their way out, and his concentration was slipping away. In an effort to rediscover his focus he tried recalling the moments leading up to Kanon’s death, but the pain was beginning to eclipse all else.
It was clear to Luker that, even with Baldy’s help, he could not match Mayot. Nor could he hope to retreat with so many undead assembled behind him—the frenzied clash of swords still rang loud in his ears. And with Shroud’s blade now in the Endorian’s hands, that just left …
His eyes widened.
Luker turned to Baldy. The stranger’s eyebrows were crusted with ice, and his labored breaths misted the air in front of him. Luker leaned close. “Hold him,” he shouted. “I’ve got an idea.”
Without waiting for a response, he withdrew his power from the sorcerous shield holding back Mayot’s assault. Baldy stood firm for an instant, then sank to his knees.
A few moments. Just give me a few Shroud-cursed moments.
Luker prepared to hurl his Will at an altogether different target.
* * *
Hold him.
Ebon barely had time to register the scarred stranger’s words, never mind protest, before the full crushing force of Mayot’s sorcery settled on him.
Galea’s response was to channel yet more power into him, until Ebon thought his blood would freeze. He struggled against the flood for a heartbeat, then stopped himself. What was the point in resisting? What was he saving himself for? The goddess’s words from their first meeting came back to him. “You must surrender yourself to me,” she had said. Was that the answer? Let go, and allow Galea to use him as she would?
Ebon felt his heart lurch. The numbness was spreading beyond his arms and legs, and he was battling against a rising tide of blackness. His awareness of the goddess’s contest with Mayot receded. Instead his thoughts turned inward, and he saw again Lamella’s face in the moments before they had parted for the final time; the hordes of Vamilians sweeping through the breach in Majack’s walls; Grimes’s swaying back as he rode into the haze that shrouded the plains outside the city. As Ebon’s breathing became more ragged, he clung to the memories, painful though they were. All the better for that. Because the pain meant he was still alive, still fighting.
Then, as waves of darkness started to break over him, he ground his teeth together and struggled to hold on for a few moments more. One faltering breath at a time. Not because he expected it to make a difference, but because there was nothing else he could do.
His chin struck his chest.
Oblivion reached for him.
* * *
Parolla stood alone at the eye of the storm, staring up into the gloom. There was no sign of the tiktar or the archmagus. Could the old man still be alive? It was no accident, surely, that the vortex had come rolling in moments earlier. Mottle had wanted the whirlwind to claim him, and the gale would have carried him up into the center of the maelstrom, the very heart of his power. Could the storm sustain him? Restore him, even?
Parolla snorted. Who was she kidding? Another companion lost to her. And, as with Tumbal, she had done nothing to help. When the tiktar had sped toward them she’d thought only of protecting herself. It was no excuse that the elderling had ignored the archmagus until that point. Twice already Mottle’s interventions had saved Parolla, so of course the tiktar was going to turn on him eventually. Why did enlightenment always come to her too late? Why was Parolla always the one to survive while those around her fell? Because my blood is cursed. Because death is drawn to me like a lodestone.
The wind was dying away now, the walls of cloud thinning until Parolla could once again see the shadows of trees beyond. Mottle’s power was fading, she realized—a clear sign the old man was dead. Dark shapes fell from the sky as if spat out by the storm. With a crunch the body of a horse hit the ground. Beside it, a Vamilian woman was using a spear as a crutch as she struggled to rise on broken legs. She managed a single step before collapsing again. Not all of the undead were similarly incapacitated, though. Parolla could see ghostly figures
gathering beyond the vortex. When the breeze dropped further, they would come for her.
As for the tiktar …
Parolla turned slowly round, wondering from which direction the elderling would attack. Last time she had not seen it until it was almost upon her. Would she have a chance to react before it struck? Parolla barked a laugh. What did it matter? Even with Mottle beside her she had been no match for the elderling. Now she would have the Vamilians to contend with, too. There would be no holding back their combined threat.
It ends here.
Parolla felt a surge of bitterness, and the darkness in her blood came boiling up in response. She had the strength to defeat the tiktar if she would just embrace it. What did it matter if she had to draw on powers she’d never dared to wield before? Both Tumbal and Mottle would be safe now if she’d had the courage to take the charge upon herself sooner.
But at what cost?
A memory came to Parolla of the time she had fled the Lord of the Hunt’s temple after her mother passed away. Dozens of innocents had died in her confrontation with the temple’s keepers, for even after the priests were dead she’d gone on killing anyone unfortunate enough to step into her path. When the slaughter was done it had taken her weeks to … rediscover … herself. And she was more powerful now than she had been then. What if this time there was no coming back?
Parolla’s fingernails bit into her palms. What choice do I have? The chance she had been seeking for years was within her grasp. With the Book of Lost Souls in her hands she could strike at Shroud himself. Make him pay for the pain he had caused her. Had she come all this way for no reason? Would she simply surrender herself to Mayot and the Book’s control?
Would she do nothing?
A burst of flames from the corner of her eye. She spun to her left, death-magic erupting from her hands.
A wave of blackness hit the tiktar as it flashed across the hilltop. The elderling held its form for several heartbeats before melting away, flames leaping to the trunk of a fallen tree.
Parolla crossed to stand over it, sorcery pouring from her fingers. Death-magic incinerated the trunk to ash that was then seized by the wind and carried away. The tiktar, though, remained caught in the grip of Parolla’s power, thrashing helplessly as the sorcery devoured it. Parolla laughed. Blood pounded in her temples, filling her ears with its roar. As the elderling howled its torment, a part of her looked on in horror at what she had unleashed.
Then that horror, too, was burned away by the darkness.
* * *
Luker had no real understanding of what made up the veil that separated this world from Shroud’s realm, nor why Mayot’s death-magic was eating away at it. Was the Book’s sorcery somehow weakening the reality of this world or strengthening that of the next? Did the distinction matter, and if so, how did that help him? In order to concentrate his Will, after all, he needed to know what he was trying to accomplish.
Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it quickly, for he could hear the clash of blades close behind, see the raging storm of Mayot’s sorcery creeping ever nearer. Reaching out with his senses, he focused on the maelstrom of death-magic pounding against Baldy’s defenses. The power at the heart of the conflagration was too intense for Luker to make out what effect the sorceries were having, but around the edges …
His eyes narrowed. Aye, I see it now. The energies feeding the Book came from the dying forest, but the act of shaping those energies drew on the forces of Shroud’s realm. It appeared the sorcery required to animate Mayot’s undead army had forged an enduring link between the two worlds, bringing them closer together. To weaken the barrier still further would, the Guardian suspected, increase the power of the Book. Much good that would do Mayot, though. The old man wouldn’t be getting a chance to use it.
Assuming Luker’s hunch was correct, of course.
He rolled his shoulders. With or without his aid, the veil would come down soon. Might as well be around to see it when it did.
It was time for the final roll of the dice.
In order to bring the full weight of his Will to bear, Luker needed to block out the world round him using an exercise he had learned many years ago as Kanon’s apprentice. First, he shut his eyes. Next, he started to screen off the perceptions of his other senses: the crackle of Mayot’s sorcery, the heat of the air on his face, the shouts of the fighters behind—even now a man’s death cry sounded above the tumult. Not my problem. The tightness of Luker’s burned skin, the ache at the back of his throat, the throb of his headache: all began to fade away as if his mind had fled the ravages of his body. Then, as his focus sharpened, awareness of his thoughts diminished too: his doubts concerning his future, his grief and guilt at Kanon’s loss, his worries over Jenna’s fate. One by one they left him, until all that remained was his Will.
He felt a moment of euphoria, of intoxicating power, as if all things were now possible if he had but the breadth of vision to imagine them. He had experienced the sensation often enough, though, to recognize it for the dangerous illusion it was. While the likes of Chamery and Mayot might succumb to their delusions of omnipotence, Luker had eyes only for the task at hand.
Steeling himself, he hurled his power against the veil.
It happened gradually at first—layers of existence peeling back, a skewing of reality, one world melting away as another took shape. The barrier was already so gossamer-thin that it seemed a mere breath of wind would rip it apart, and once again the Guardian found himself wondering whether Mayot had deliberately tried to tear down the mantle. For if the mage, like Luker now, had wanted to fashion a way through to Shroud’s realm it meant one of them had made a big misjudgment. Then again, perhaps Mayot had intended to repair the damage at a later time. Perhaps the Book gave him the power to do so.
Pushing such thoughts aside, Luker hammered over and over at the barrier. It started to weaken, but slowly, slowly. Even through his sensory detachment, the Guardian could feel Mayot’s wall of death-magic edging closer. It appeared Baldy’s resistance was fading, but then if Luker was right the power of the Book, and hence the forces assailing the shaven-headed stranger, would be increasing as the veil weakened.
He readied himself for one final assault.
Even as he did so there was a ripping sound, and the barrier’s dissolution took on a momentum of its own. Flinching, Luker pulled back lest he be drawn fully into the realm that was taking shape beyond the rent he had created.
A new wind blew through the dome, cold like the breath of the dead. He heard whispering voices all about, hushed at first, then growing louder. When he opened his eyes he saw the spirits of the underworld were no longer black blurs, but rather people with features as clear and empty as those of the Vamilians among whom they stood. Mayot was still visible at the top of the steps. Beyond him, though, other images were forming: a range of hills silhouetted against a cloudless gray sky; a circle of standing stones ahead and to Luker’s left; shadows moving across the landscape, silent and swift.
He had done it. The dome was now as much a part of the underworld as it was the mortal realm.
Luker released his hold on his Will.
Pain lanced his skull, hot and white, and he groaned. Never before had he drawn so intensely on his power. A wave of dizziness swept over him. His stomach spasmed, and acid burned the back of his throat. Raising his hands to his temples, he sank to his knees and retched. When he took a breath, he found the air tasted of ash and smoke, and he vomited again.
He did not know how much time passed before he was able to look up. At some point Mayot’s attack had stopped, and the old man now stood at the edge of the dais, clutching the Book to his chest as he gazed about in wonder. The corruption to his left hand must have spread along the full length of his arm, for the skin round the neckline of his robe was black and withered too. He turned to Luker and gave a dry laugh.
“You fool!” he crowed. “Do you know what you’ve done? An entire world delivered into my hands! C
ountless more souls to serve me!”
Luker scanned the barren landscape. Nothing stirred, and for a moment he thought he had made a mistake. Then, from the direction of the hills, a darkness came rushing toward the dais.
The Guardian smiled. “You forget, old man. These souls already have a master. And you’re now standing on his patch.”
What little color remained in Mayot’s cheeks drained away. He made to turn to face the oncoming blackness, but before he could do so a huge claw punched through his chest, emerging in a spray of gore. Wide-eyed, the mage looked down at the claw, disbelieving. Then his back arched and he screamed. Blood fountained from his mouth as he was lifted into the air.
The dais was enveloped by swirling shadows, a great wall of them so dense the light from the fires in the dome could not penetrate them. Black tendrils snaked from the darkness toward Mayot, wrapping themselves round his thrashing body. Where they came to settle, the mage’s skin blistered and split with a hissing noise like water tossed in boiling oil. He screamed again. Shadows poured into his mouth, smothering the sound.
A good thing, too. All that screeching wasn’t doing anything for Luker’s headache.
Mayot hung above the dais, tearing at the claw as if he thought he might pull himself free. Then he was drawn back. As he reached the wall of shadows, the Book of Lost Souls slipped from his fingers. A taloned hand shot out from the gloom, snatched for it, but succeeded only in knocking it farther away.
A growl of frustration set the air quivering. The hand withdrew.
The Book skidded across the dais and slid partway down the steps to the right of the molten river of rock. It came to rest a dozen paces from Luker, its pages open, facing down.
Stillness descended on the dome. Even the wind seemed to have died. Mayot had disappeared into the blackness on the dais, but another figure was beginning to take shape there. Luker’s headache burgeoned as the newcomer’s power washed over him.
Shroud, for it had to be the god, stepped into view. Standing half again as tall as Luker, his form was as smoky and insubstantial as the darkness that cloaked him. Black tendrils clung to his form as if unwilling to release him to the light. The impression of a face was visible within the gloom, but the shifting shadows made it impossible to discern any features save for the eyes that glittered like twin chips of obsidian.