by M. S. Dobing
‘You are leaving? I hope I haven’t offended you.’ The serpentine warrior said.
‘No, brother, of course not. I just do not share your faith. We have seen what the Weave can do to those without restraint.’
‘That situation has been dealt with,’ the serpentine warrior said, an air of sadness to its voice.
‘For how long? How long before he returns?’
‘It will be beyond our lifetimes. We will be in the Great River by then.’
‘I’m not sure I can leave it like that. I want to face him again. This time, he will not survive.’
The serpentine warrior smiled. ‘Little brother, what will you do? You cannot wait forever.’
The serpentine warrior rose and left the room, vanishing into a portal that lurked just out of sight.
‘Can I not?’ his voice said.
A sad feeling grew in his gut. He looked down, revealing an armour similar to the one who’d left, but this had different markings on it, with varying designs and inscriptions engrained onto the surface. He paused, a lingering look at the forge that blazed before him. The forge that blazed with the power of a million suns.
He walked towards an open archway, passing by a large mirror on his right. As if on instinct, he cast a glance towards it.
A serpentine warrior looked back. Eyes blue, like the ocean.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Seb screamed.
The bizarre vision of the strange chamber with the armoured serpents vanished abruptly. A coldness hit him, almost freezing his heart mid-beat. The pain followed quickly, bringing his previous encounter back to mind, erasing the bizarre vision he’d just experienced.
But that wasn’t why he screamed. The pain was bad, beyond bad, but it was of secondary importance compared to the sight below him.
The ground rushing up towards him. A patchwork of brown and green, growing in size with every passing second.
He was hundreds of feet in the air, and plummeting like a stone.
Icy air filled his lungs, silencing his screams. He tried to draw breath but he was falling too fast, the air too thin to draw in.
The panic came then, an unwanted passenger that restricted his chest and dulled his mind. His chest began to burn, the freezing wind prising his eyes from their sockets, the coldness piercing his skull.
For Danu’s sake, focus! He pulled on the Weave, but the wind buffeted him, bashing him back and forth as he tumbled to the earth. His concentration couldn’t hold, the library of patterns that could save him locked behind a door wedged shut by his own fear.
Come on, Seb! You can do this!
The ground was so close now. The patchwork quilt was fields of varying colours. On one side he saw trees, a vast sea of green extending over the horizon. Before that though was something else, something artificial. A ruin that pricked at the edge of his memory.
He shook himself alert, his mind seeking solace in the image, as if trying to ignore its own impending doom. If he could call just one Script for now, the one that would keep him alive for a moment longer.
Just the one.
Calm.
Focus.
The panic subsided a degree. The Script appeared. He called it, and immediately he could breathe again, a thin cushion of air protecting him from the elements.
Now he had a chance.
He could only have been a couple of thousand feet up now. It was too late to try anything powerful. The Weave was strong here, almost palpable, and the Consensus was weak, but he couldn’t channel anything complex. He could maybe get one more Script before the earth turned him to pulp.
He didn’t have time to think it through. He didn’t even know if this was possible. Did physics even work that way?
To hell with it. He had no choice. The trees were about to swallow him. He took the Script, channelled all he had, and blasted a funnel of air downwards.
At once he began to slow, his skin no longer being pinned back to his ears. But the trees were approaching too fast. He was going slower, much slower, but his pace was still too great. He had time to scrunch his eyes shut and cover his eyes before he ploughed into a world of branch and leaf and burning pain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sedaris watched as Ninth soldiers piled up the bodies of fallen magi. The mound was over man height now, a grotesque assortment of twisted arms, limbs and other body parts.
A victory in all sense of the word, but Sedaris was far from pleased.
It should’ve gone so much better. The archmagi and their elites had fallen. They had borne the full brunt as Ninth magi teleported in. Many had been burned, their cancerous infection of this world excised in one swift action.
But others had escaped. Acolytes mainly, if even that. But they had escaped, regardless. And whilst one mage lived then there was always a chance his plan could unravel.
And all because of one individual. The one who had warned them.
Him. The boy.
The message bearer.
He hadn’t remembered him. Not at first. Yet Sedaris, the real Sedaris, obviously did. How had he hidden that memory from him? He parked that thought for a later time. Regardless, the boy had recognised him for what he really was, and had alerted his kin.
And they had fought.
That was perhaps the most troubling thought. The boy was an acolyte, barely two years into his mage’s smocks. There was a power there yes, that much was obvious, a natural talent that begged to be nurtured. But it was the way they’d responded. The other magi. The shout, the warning he pulsed to his kin, they had responded without question. Responded to the panicked shout of a trainee.
But that wasn’t what troubled him the most. It was the fact that he remembered him. There was something about the boy, a familiarity he couldn’t explain. The boy had obviously felt it too, when their eyes had met across the auditorium. He’d seen through his disguise in a manner that much more powerful magi had failed to do.
Truesight.
That was it. The boy had truesight, or at least a version of it.
But how? The magi of this shard hadn’t developed such advanced forms of Sentio. Not yet, anyway.
Most puzzling. He hadn’t seen that kind of power since-
‘Archmage Sedaris,’ a senior Ninth warrior, clad in the black Kevlar armour that allowed maximum protection from both blade and bullet, marched up to him and stood to attention.
‘Speak, Captain Federov.’ he replied. He held one hand to his head, a headache was coming. Recent exertions taking their toll.
‘It could’ve gone better. Dozens of the magi have fallen, but some escaped. They managed to teleport out. Or just fight their way out. Not many,’ he hastily added, ‘no more than a dozen.’
Sedaris nodded. ‘They shall be dealt with.’ He sent a sense out into the complex. Most of Domus was calm now, although pockets of fear and anger bounced back from some of the far away reaches. ‘Some still resist.’
Captain Federov nodded an affirmative. ‘No magi though. Just the hired help. They’ll be disposed of shortly.’
The air temperature physically dropped as another figure materialised next to the Captain. Kranor, the balsheol crammed into a hulking human form, glanced down at the human next to him, who, to his credit, managed to stand his ground.
‘Captain, gather your troops for the next stage of the plan,’ Sedaris said, giving Federov an easy getaway that the captain didn’t waste.
As the captain hurried away, Sedaris turned his attention to Kranor. The daemon took a step closer, his Weave aura blazing away like a furnace.
‘Kranor, it has been a long time.’
‘Time has no meaning in the Void, Lord Nazgath,’ Kranor growled, dipping his scarred head in mock submission.
‘It’s Sedaris here, Archmage Sedaris.’
‘As you wish, Archmage.’
‘You came here to tell me something?’
Even though his power surpassed those of his creation, Sedaris’ skin always crawled in their
presence. When he’d created Kranor and his kin he’d taken an essence born of pure evil, an almost undiluted hatred from a source long thought forgotten. The balsheol were the result, abominations of the sheol, filled with an alien Weave power that made them truly formidable opponents.
‘I encountered someone. Something.’
‘Don’t be cryptic, Kranor, I didn’t make you to speak in riddles.’
Kranor’s aura rippled. The daemon’s massive shoulders heaved and dropped. ‘I encountered an anomaly.’
Something about Kranor’s demeanour intrigued him. The daemon was afraid of nothing. Nothing in any of the known shards. Yet something troubled him, the usual arrogance had been replaced by an uncertainty that Sedaris hadn’t seen in centuries.
‘Tell me what you saw.’
‘I encountered a boy. A young acolyte, in the compound.’
Sedaris knew straight away who Kranor was talking about. He couldn’t read the daemon’s mind, no one could, but it didn’t matter. His own sense filled it in for him.
‘The message bearer.’
‘The who?’
‘The one who carried Marek’s little surprise.’
‘He lives? I thought the Magistry was destroyed.’
‘So did I. It would seem some survived.’
‘Even so, he was just a vessel. This was something more.’
‘What did he do, Kranor?’
‘He attacked me.’
Sedaris couldn’t stop the laugh that erupted from his mouth. ‘He attacked you? The fool. Then what is your concern. Surely he lies in ashes now?’
Kranor didn’t answer. Sedaris’ sense of intrigue increased.
‘He is dead, isn’t he?
‘The boy is badly injured, but he managed to teleport away.’
‘He struck you?’
Kranor looked down and opened up the long coat that covered his human form. Sedaris peered beyond the reality the Consensus created. His mouth fell open when he saw the hairline crack in the daemon’s armour, seeping a barely perceptible blue light. He reached out a finger and gently touched the wound before drawing it away.
‘He did this?’
‘I did not anticipate his strength. I made no effort to block.’
Sedaris looked up at the daemon. ‘He burned though, surely he burned?’
Kranor nodded. ‘He is strong, but he is not immune. His hand is no doubt ash by now. The rest of him will follow within hours, if he’s not dead already.’
Sedaris withdrew, his lips pursed. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘an anomaly like you say. Dead within hours.’
‘What shall I do now, Archmage Sedaris?’
‘Gather your forces. We must act quickly before the remaining magi have time to regroup.’
Kranor looked back at the lines of mage bodies. When he turned back his lips had curled into a vicious grin.
‘These?’ he said.
‘Yes. Will they suffice?’
Kranor nodded.
‘Very well.’
Sedaris faced the gathered rows of fallen magi. Those who’d been incinerated were of no use. Their bodies were just ashes and dust. But many, those who’d fallen to the bullets of the Ninth soldiers, could be salvaged.
He closed his eyes and raised his hands. The Weave came unwillingly, as if it sensed the corruption of natural law he was about to impose upon reality. He pulled, hard, combining his innate abilities with that of the host he inhabited. He drew in the power, calling Script after Script as he built the necessary effect.
The calls came back instantly. Inaudible to the Unaware, but something that sent ripples of fear down the backs of the Aware, even those that had no knowledge of what was transpiring.
The calls became howls. Sheol, those already on this shard, but cast far and wide since the death of Marek, heard the summons from their master. Those that were able, and were not too-far riddled with madness, abandoned their hosts, letting them drop where they stood. They soared at the speed of thought in the world hidden behind reality, drawn to Sedaris like moths to flames.
The first few arrived within seconds of the summons. They circled Sedaris, a tornado of impenetrable black energy that swirled around him. With his eyes still closed, he directed them downwards.
Towards their new hosts.
The remaining soldiers of the Ninth exchanged uneasy glances. They raised their weapons, not aiming at anything in particular, but aware that something wrong was happening.
Then one of the dead magi moved. Just a leg. It jerked, kicking high, before falling limp. The nearest soldier leapt back with a cry, aiming his weapon at the mage.
‘Stand down, soldier,’ Sedaris said, opening his eyes. ‘All of you stand down if you wish to keep your souls.’
A ripple of movement washed through the gathered bodies. Limbs that were lying broken and at unnatural angles suddenly unfurled and straightened. Bones reknitted. Arteries sealed and organs healed. Then, almost as one, the magi climbed to their feet. Ninth soldiers and magi alike stared, open-mouthed, as the possessed magi turned their attention to Sedaris.
‘Sheol-magi,’ Kranor growled.
‘These, Kranor, are at your disposal. Do they suffice?’
‘They will, my lord.’
‘Then proceed at pace. The warriors of the Ninth will need your leadership. The remaining magi will not fall easily.’
Kranor vanished into nothing. The sheol-magi shuffled out of the auditorium, following their leader by more conventional means. They were not as strong as their hosts were, especially as the soul had already departed, but there was still residual memory there. They would be able to use the Weave, at least to some degree.
The last of the sheol-magi left the auditorium, leaving Sedaris staring at the charred remains of those that had fallen to Ninth magic. A cloying stench of burned flesh filled the air, and Sedaris drank it in, hoping to calm the strange feeling of unease that had crawled into his gut.
The boy was dead. He was nothing, just an anomaly like Kranor had said. Yet, he had carried the message, he had survived the assault on the Magistry when other, mightier magi had fallen. And now he was here, and had survived yet again. He’d even damaged a daemon that was meant to be immune to the kind of magic the magi of this shard used.
How? How was that even possible?
Not knowing was not an experience Sedaris was familiar with, and it did not sit well.
It was fortunate really the boy was dead. His meddling would be over within hours, if it wasn’t already.
If the boy was dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Seb opened his eyes, his mind returning to the land of the living. A cocktail of cold, pain, damp and fatigue hit him all at once.
He wished he’d remained unconscious.
Above him the broken branches marked the path he’d crashed through the canopy as he fell from the sky.
Yet, unbelievably, he lived.
How? How the hell had he survived that? His mind was a blur, his last memory being that thing, the sheol with immense power that broke his body. No - that wasn’t his last memory. There was something else. A meeting. A room. Those lizard warrior things again. The images were murky, the conversation fragments of sounds that he could not recall.
Perhaps if he used Sentio?
He tried. Failed. No bloody chance. The Weave was there, but his body was so battered it was like trying to herd cats. He couldn’t connect, not for anything meaningful anyway. Avatari was there, working away in the background, but its effect was weak, barely keeping the pain at bay and working hard to piece together the damage he’d done to his insides.
Thankfully, his mind was intact. Otherwise the rest would just give up the ghost.
So where the hell was he? Teleport. That was the Script he’d called. He’d never used it before, but had seen it in the Novo library in his mind. It needed a destination, he remembered that much. He’d thrown something at it, an image, a memory, and it had accepted it greedily. And it had worked.
&
nbsp; Give or take several hundred feet.
So the question remained. Where had he arrived? A forest. Trees. There was something familiar about them. About their size, their shape. The way they acted like a wall, blotting out the world to any prying eyes.
He turned his head, the movement lesser in pain now - a good sign. There was a path nearby made of white stone. Weeds were trying to claim it but it clung on defiantly. Through the trees to his right he could make something else out too. A structure. Stone.
Large.
A gargoyle.
A shiver ran through him as he recognised his location.
Skelwith. Home of the Magistry. The former home of the Magistry.
How far? No way. No bloody way. He’d seen teleports, but they were only for the immediate area. A mage had to have been to a location for it to work, but it still only worked over metres.
Not several miles.
How had he done that?
An explosion of sensations rattled inside his brain. His body now repaired to a level that his sense had reactivated. Echoes came back. Wildlife and vegetation for miles around. No humans at all. There…
Shit.
Sheol. Ferals. Not good.
Most had gone, God knows where. They’d vanished into whatever cracks Marek had pulled them through. But those that were totally beyond control resisted the call. They remained, loitering around areas strong in the Weave, like Haven.
Like Skelwith.
Their images came clearer now. A dozen of them, scattered throughout the forest. The sheol had frozen in place, their own innate sense detecting Seb’s presence before his shield had hidden him from view.
His stomach knotted. They were coming. All of them.
He tried to stand, but a jab of hot fire lanced through his ankle and he collapsed to the ground. Sweat sprouted from every pore as the fire receded.
He looked down at the leg. It looked normal, but as he peered beyond he saw it then, and collapsed back into the dirt.
A broken bone. He’d broken his bloody ankle.