The Cerulean Storm

by Denning, Troy

  “Common or not, childbirth’s no little thing,” Sadira scolded. “But you’re right. The pain isn’t what worried me—it was the trust. By having a child, I’d be giving myself to Agis forever and trusting him to do the same.”

  “And that would have meant leaving me.”

  “That’s what I told myself,” she said. “But the truth is, after Faenaeyon abandoned my mother, I’ve never really trusted love.”

  “Agis was no elf. He’d never have left you or his child.”

  “I’m not saying he would have. He was much too loyal,” Sadira said. “But people change, and so do their feelings. The love might have vanished, then we would’ve been stuck with each other.”

  “And it might not have. You can’t predict what happens in life, but that’s no reason to retreat from it.” The mul paused for a moment, then came closer and took her arm. “But children aren’t a concern for us. Even if you wanted one, I couldn’t give you a baby. Let’s just go on like before.”

  Sadira shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “For me—or for you.”

  Rikus frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t until after Agis died that I realized I needed him.”

  “And you don’t need me?” Rikus asked, looking hurt. Sadira smiled weakly. “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “But there are others who need you. And you need them, too.”

  “If you’re talking about Neeva—”

  “Not just about Neeva,” Sadira said.

  “This is useless,” Rikus said. He released her arm. “If you think we can decide for Neeva—”

  “I’m not deciding for Neeva,” Sadira interrupted. “But I know what she—and Rkard—will need.”

  Rikus looked away, uncomfortable. “What they need is for us to catch Tithian and get back to them,” he said, starting to trot. “If you’re up to running again, we’d better move on.”

  Sadira fell in behind the mul. By concentrating on where his feet landed, she found it easier to secure her own footing, and they crossed the plain at a steady pace. As they approached the cliff, it became clear that the precipice was not natural but a wall constructed of granite blocks as large as houses, with seams so tight a dagger blade could not have slipped between the stones. Crackling forks of lightning shot down from the ash storm overhead to lick at the rampart’s loftiest heights, and the summit itself was lost in the boiling red clouds.

  “I can’t believe Tithian would fly over this wall,” Sadira said. “Lens or no Lens, if one of those bolts hit him, he’d be scorched to cinders.”

  “I don’t think he went over.”

  The mul pointed down the way, where the black circle of a tunnel opened into the bottom of the wall. They veered toward the entrance. They soon saw that it was perfectly round, with smooth edges and a glasslike finish. It had been driven through the heart of a granite block and was so long that the light at the other end was only about as large as a thumb. Sadira followed Rikus into the passage.

  When they emerged on the other side, the sorceress saw that they had entered the corner of what had once been a forested preserve, though it no longer bore much semblance to a park. A fiery blast had ripped through the area, toppling the trees and leaving them limbless and smoking. Scattered among their blackened boles were hundreds of charred skeletons, along with the cracked obsidian points of incinerated spears.

  “Whoever they were, they weren’t much of a challenge for Tithian and the Lens,” Rikus observed.

  “It doesn’t look like they even slowed him down.” Sadira pointed into the distance, where the energy spout from the Dark Lens continued to rip through the storm overhead. The black pillar seemed only slightly less distant than it had when they started across the plain. “We’d better hurry.”

  They picked their way across the devastated park, emerging on a processional boulevard that ran straight toward the heart of the city. To the sorceress, it appeared incredibly long, passing through an endless series of arches and vaults that had no apparent purpose except ostentatious decoration. Hundreds and hundreds of monuments to stern-faced warriors and shrewd-looking bureaucrats lined the great avenue. Given the softness of the light descending from the golden moons, the edifices cast surprisingly harsh shadows across the street. Behind the statues rose the high towers and looming emporiums of a great and ancient city, though its sharp and blocky architecture seemed designed to belittle rather than impress its observers.

  The citizens of the city, or at least those Sadira could see, were rioting. Terrified nobles wearing suits of painted bone armor ran haphazardly through tile streets, swinging obsidian swords and axes at mobs of slaves dressed in nothing but hemp breechcloths and carrying pieces of wood for weapons. Here and there, small groups of warriors were trying to mount counterattacks against their rebelling subjects, but the oppressors were too badly outnumbered, and Sadira knew it would only be a matter of time before the slaves put them all to the blade.

  Rikus and Sadira started down the bustling avenue, the mul using the shaft of his axe to part the crowd while the sorceress kept her eye on the black energy spout. Although Tithian, and presumably the sorcerer-kings, were too far ahead to see, she did not worry they would be difficult to find. The rift in the clouds was directly over the great boulevard, and it pointed like an arrow straight ahead.

  “Something about this doesn’t make sense,” said Sadira. She was sticking close to the mul’s back. “It should take longer than this for the city to come unraveled. How can the slaves already know that the Dragon is dead? And even if they do, how did they overthrow their masters so quickly?”

  The mul shrugged. “The sorcerer-kings seemed upset about Tithian bringing the Lens into the city. Maybe it has something to do with that,” he said. “But who cares, as long as slaves are winning their freedom?”

  Sadira shook her head. “The rebellion’s just a symptom. If the revolt bothered the sorcerer-kings, there wouldn’t be a slave left alive on this avenue.”

  As the pair advanced down the boulevard, they were occasionally accosted by riot-frenzied slaves or panicked nobles. When they were attacked by slaves, Rikus simply disarmed the aggressors and sent them on their way. When nobles assaulted them, Sadira and the mul did not hesitate to kill, happy to assist in the city’s liberation.

  Soon, they came upon three strange beings leading a dozen slaves after a portly templar. The creatures resembled the ancient halflings of the Blue Age, save that they were part shadow and part person. The leader had a material head and a shadowy body, while another had solid limbs but nothing else. The third was split down the center, half silhouette and half physical.

  When the leader of the half-shadows saw Rikus and Sadira, he called out in the strange language of the city. Though she did not understand the words, the sorceress recognized the voice speaking them.

  “Khidar!”

  The halfling led his two fellows and the slaves toward her. “You would have been wiser to have left after you killed Borys,” he said. “Rajaat is not fond of half-breeds like you and your husband.”

  The slaves spread out, preparing to come at Rikus and Sadira from all sides. Most were armed with wooden sticks, but three had obsidian axes, and one carried a steel sword.

  “Get out of here!” Rikus motioned the slaves back with his axe. “I’d hate to have to hurt you.”

  The slaves began jabbering at each other, no more capable of understanding the mul than he was of understanding them.

  “Call them off, Khidar,” Sadira ordered, slipping one hand into her pocket and using the other to summon the energy for a spell. “They’ll only get killed.”

  Khidar hissed something at the slaves in their own language, and they launched themselves forward. Eight went for the mul, while the other four, all armed with sticks, circled around to come at Sadira. The sorceress saw Rikus swing his borrowed axe, smashing the flat of the blade into the swordsman’s skull. As the unconscious slave dropped to the ground, th
e mul continued his swing, severing the heads of two obsidian axes with his steel blade. At the same time, he sent the third axe-man tumbling away with a stomp-kick to the chest, then the club wielders were on him.

  Having slipped past Rikus, the other four slaves charged Sadira. She pulled a handful of sand from her pocket and flung it in a wide arc before three of them, uttering her incantation. A mesmerizing golden light glimmered over the grains, capturing the gazes of the three men. Their heads slowly tilted forward as they watched the sand drop. When it hit the ground, their eyes closed, and they fell on their faces, fast asleep.

  Screaming some Draxan curse that Sadira did not understand, the fourth halfling brought his club down in a vicious overhand strike. The sorceress twisted her body to the side and slipped inside the attack, blocking at the wrist, just as Rikus had made her practice a thousand times. She looped her hand over the warrior’s arm, guiding the elbow down toward her own knee, which she was bringing up beneath the joint.

  The elbow snapped with a sharp crack, and the slave’s hand opened. Sadira caught his club as it fell, then drove the point of her elbow into the screaming halfling’s throat. He stumbled away, gasping for breath, and the sorceress stepped toward her husband.

  Sadira could hardly see Rikus beneath the flailing clubs, yet the mul still seemed intent on defeating his attackers without killing them. Three of the eight lay on the ground, unconscious but showing no sign of an axe wound. She saw one of the warriors double over and stumble away, then the hilt of her husband’s axe flashed up beneath his chin, knocking him off his feet. The slave shook his head and started to rise again.

  “You don’t have to be so careful!” Sadira yelled.

  She smashed the butt end of her club into the man’s temple. His eyes rolled back in his head, then the sorceress waded into the fray with her husband. Though she did not deliberately try to kill anyone, neither did she take pains to safeguard them. She knocked one slave unconscious by smashing her stick across the back of his head, snapping the club off at the midpoint, then drove the jagged end deep into the small of another man’s back. He dropped to his knees instantly, in too much pain to scream.

  A wave of bone-numbing cold shot through the sorceress’s wrist. She looked down and saw a black shadow creeping up the arm, then heard Khidar’s voice.

  “I can still take you to the Black,” he said. “Come along.”

  Sadira spun toward the half-shadow and raked her fingers across his eyes. Her nails bit deep, and Khidar screamed, but he remained attached to her. The dark stain of his cold touch slipped up over her elbow, and it was no longer possible to tell where his hand ended and her arm began.

  The sorceress drew back to strike again and felt another icy hand grip her shoulder. She looked back to see another halfling, the one who was split down the center, grasping her by the collar. A terrible numbness began to creep through her torso.

  “Rikus!” she yelled.

  Her husband had problems of his own. Although he had knocked the last two slaves unconscious, the third half-shadow had thrown himself on the mul’s back. Rikus was whirling around madly, trying to hurl his attacker off. The halfling’s arms and legs were flailing wildly, but he and the mul remained joined at the torso.

  Then she remembered Rikus’s description of his fight with Umbra. Even with the Scourge, the mul had been unable to defeat the shadow giant until he had dropped his torch. The weakness of Khidar’s people, she realized, was that without light there could not be shadow.

  Sadira turned her palm toward the ground, preparing to cast a darkness spell. She felt the energy flowing up her arm—then the familiar tingle abruptly vanished when it reached the black stain on her shoulder. The half-shadow gripping her by the collar screamed in pain, then suddenly released his grip and fell away. He looked as though a bolt of lightning had blasted away part of his body, with wisps of black smoke streaming off the empty place where there had once been the silhouette of a shoulder.

  At first, Sadira did not understand, but then she realized what had happened. Shadow people had no life force of their own; they existed only as silhouettes marking the absence of energy—usually in the form of light. So direct contact with a mystic power—one of the most potent forms of energy—annihilated them.

  Sadira turned her palm toward the ground again. Already Rikus’s entire back had turned black, with the stain rapidly spreading around his ribs and down over his hips.

  “Let go, Khidar!” the sorceress hissed, pulling more magical energy into her body.

  “Why? So you can save Rikus?” he sneered. “You might escape, but your husband comes with us.”

  “No!” Sadira threw herself forward.

  She thrust her hand into the stain on Rikus’s back. The half-shadow did not even scream. His body simply exploded into black vapor, casting his arms and legs, still material, in all directions. The blast hurled Sadira through the air, then she heard a loud crack as the back of her skull slammed into the cobblestone street. Her vision started to dim, and a terrible ringing filled her ears. The sorceress pushed herself upright, fighting back the curtain of oblivion that threatened to descend over her.

  “Fine,” said Khidar. He reached across Sadira’s body and grabbed her free hand. “We’ll take you instead of Rikus.”

  Sadira turned her palm toward the ground. Already her hand was swaddled in shadow up to her wrist. She began to pull, trying to summon more magic. Sadira succeeded in drawing nothing but a bone-numbing chill into her body.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Khidar hissed, his blue eyes locking onto hers. “You’ll grow accustomed to the cold.”

  “Not likely,” said Rikus, stepping up behind the halfling.

  The mul brought his hands down on either side of Khidar’s head, driving his palm-heels into the ears. The halfling’s eyes bulged out, then his skull collapsed with a loud crack. The Black ceased to spread from beneath his shadowy hands.

  Rikus stepped back, pulling Khidar’s head away. The Black came with it, peeling off Sadira’s body like wet silk. The mul tossed Khidar’s lifeless head aside.

  “At least we know we’re not too late,” Rikus said.

  Sadira rubbed the lump that had appeared where the back of her skull had hit the cobblestones. “And why’s that?”

  “They wouldn’t have attacked unless they thought we could stop Tithian,” the mul answered. He pulled her to her feet and started down the street. “All we have to do is figure out why they were so worried.”

  A searing wave of pain hissed through Tithian’s serpentine body. He contracted into a tangled knot of coils. His scales rose on end and quivered, bending back against their natural pattern to point toward his head. Fighting to keep his tail wrapped around the Dark Lens, the king clenched his teeth and waited for the spasm to pass.

  He was in the Dragon’s sanctum, a beautiful grove of a thousand exotic trees. There were tall conifers with red needles as long as daggers; stubby palms, each topped by a spray of barbed fronds; and majestic hardwoods with crowns as white and billowy as clouds. A carpet of blue moss covered the forest floor, decorated at odd intervals by a blossoming bush or a curving hedge of brightly colored leaves. An eerie calm hung over the place, for there was no wind, and the king had not heard the cry of a single bird, insect, or creature of any kind.

  “Don’t stop now!” Sacha’s screech shattered the ghostly silence. “We’re almost there.”

  A short distance ahead, two more paths emerged from the silent forest and joined this one to form a circle of polished jet. In the middle of this plaza, a dull, black sphere hovered in the center of a sable-sheened basin. The orb was pulsing madly and spinning in all directions at once. Torrents of dark energy poured from it into the hollow below, then came billowing out to gush toward the Dark Lens in a roiling stream.

  “Crawl, worm!” commanded Sacha. “Use the Way.”

  Tithian closed his eyes and visualized himself uncoiling, slowly stretching forward. He felt no surge of energy from th
e Dark Lens, but his body slowly stretched out, utilizing the energy already pouring through it. Once he had pushed his head forward, the king allowed his muscles to contract, dragging himself closer to the black sphere.

  Progress came slowly, for Tithian had to call upon the Way each time he stretched out. His belly scales would not lie flat, and they began to break off as he dragged himself forward. The pain searing through his body grew steadily worse as he neared Rajaat’s prison, and he felt sure he would burst into flame.

  When he reached the edge of the plaza, the Dark Lens turned crimson. The black spout stopped rising from its glassy surface. Dark fumes began to swirl off the king’s scales, streaming into the pit ahead. The heat of boiling blood filled Tithian’s body, and he screamed.

  “Crawl,” urged Sacha. “The Dark Lens has drawn away the magic of the caging spell. Touch the Black, and Rajaat will be free!”

  Tithian pulled himself forward and reached across the pit. He lowered his hand, and his fingers brushed the numbing cold of the Black. A crimson glow flashed from the king’s flesh, and his body erupted into fiery pain. His teeth clenched so tightly that several of them cracked, and his muscles clamped down on his bones so hard that he feared they would break.

  The black sphere burst open, spraying wisps of cold gloom in every direction. A seething cloud of blue steam boiled up into Tithian’s face.

  From beneath the protective shadows of an ornamental tunnel vault, Sadira peered over Rikus’s shoulder. Fifty yards ahead, a granite wall blocked the way, though it seemed incorrect to say that the boulevard ended there. The cobblestone pavement ran clear to the base of the rampart, passing beneath an imbedded arch as though the street continued on the other side of the wall.

  Before the arch stood four of the sorcerer-kings, their gazes fixed on the stone blocks in their path. As Sadira and Rikus watched, Andropinis floated down from the top of the wall. He shook his head and said something they could not hear, though Sadira guessed that he was telling the others they could not fly over the wall. This seemed to anger Hamanu, who cast a ray of golden light against the stones beneath the arch. The beam sprayed back over the monarchs, showering the street with flickering yellow sparks that ate through the cobblestones as though they were cloth.