Lingering Haze (The Elusive Strain Book 1)

by James Berardinelli

  Before we set off, our course now headed in a northwesterly direction, I let everyone know that I expected an attack to come during the day. As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait.

  “It’s coming,” I said. Less than an hour after we started our day’s trek, the massive presence began moving to intercept us. Its speed was such that I knew we only had a few minutes to prepare. That was enough time to arrange ourselves in the defensive position we had practiced, with Gabriel and me, the two most vulnerable members of the party, in the center of a tight circle. Ramila, Willem, and Samell faced toward the swamp with Esme, Alyssa, and Stepan behind me. We waited in tense silence, our every sense focused on detecting our adversary.

  The soul-ripper did little to hide its approach. It appeared like a greenish mist drifting toward us across the bogs as if driven by a great wind, with dozens of will o’ the wisps twinkling inside. Its stink, that of rotting carcasses left out in the sun too long, was so overpowering that several of my companions lost their meager breakfasts. Compelled by necessity, I contrived a way to use magic to block my ability to smell. In a less stressful situation, I might have been full of self-congratulation for such an innovative trick. To my mind-sense, the creature was like a building tidal wave, its approach swift, ominous, and undeniable; the devastation it would unleash was certain. It could not be turned back or thrust aside. We would have to stand against it and hope we didn’t go under.

  It was not entirely amorphous and psychic, however. Weapons needed a target to strike at and the soul-ripper accommodated. Something massive and unrecognizable emerged from under the mud. Encased in the filth of the swamp, it was impossible to figure out precisely what its form might be, although it was slick and scaly and evidenced numerous tentacles. I suspected that, if sluiced clean of the mud and detritus, it might resemble a squid or octopus in form if not in size. With the will o’ the wisps dancing above it, it surged toward us and the battle was joined. The quiet of the befogged morning erupted into the cacophony of men struggling to survive. All the sounds were ours, however; the creature made no noise.

  Esme, Alyssa, and Stepan went to work with their bows, sending arrow after arrow on high parabolic courses that ensured none of us would inadvertently be struck. The target was large enough that precision wasn’t necessary. Whether the arrows penetrated the creature’s hide was impossible to tell; the fog was too thick for us to see. It seemed uninjured (or at least unaffected). Willem, Ramila, and Samell, each brandishing a blade of differing quality and engineering, engaged the soul-ripper in close combat, their weapons flashing as it lashed out them with an impossible number of tentacles. Ten, twenty, thirty…the air was thick with them snapping and flailing. I took a step back to avoid having my cheek ripped open by one’s lash.

  Ramila went down almost immediately, a tentacle wrapping around her calf and jerking her off her feet. She kept her grip on her katana and was able to use it to free her leg. Willem leapt to her aid, but no sooner had he chopped off one of the tentacles seeking to re-ensnare her than a half-dozen replaced it. Some were being used as whips, cracking as they attempted to deliver nasty blows while others sought to entangle arms, legs, weapons - pretty much anything that was exposed. There were so many of them that not all could be defended against. Some found purchase, often leaving behind ugly, slimy-coated welts as they withdrew. Ramila’s face was bleeding and Willem had an ugly gash on his bare left forearm.

  I assessed the situation as best I could but, with no background in combat tactics, I had to rely on common sense. I didn’t think any attack on the tentacles would represent the best use of my abilities. Even if I created a massive scythe to shear through dozens of them, that wouldn’t be enough and I suspected the ensuing headache would disable me. No, any attack I attempted had to be against the creature’s broad, partially buried body. A bolt of pure magical force, undiminished by a transformation into a more common form of energy, directed at the creature might be enough to drive it away. Killing it seemed unlikely; even an obliteration of its physical form wouldn’t accomplish that.

  I hadn’t previously attempted this kind of brute-force attack where stamina was more important than skill. I knew I had to act fast. My three companions on the front line were hard pressed. Only Willem remained standing. Ramila and Samell were fighting from the ground - her in a sitting position and him on his back. Although Willem’s sword swipes were methodical, obviously the result of long hours of training and practice, Ramila and Samell were swinging desperately at everything and anything. Their blows were effective but clumsy and it was obvious that such spastic action would quickly sap their endurance. In their current vulnerable positions, it wouldn’t take much for a tentacle to deliver a fatal hit. Meanwhile, the three archers, having exhausted their supplies of arrows, had drawn daggers and were moving to help their comrades. Next to me Gabriel ground his teeth in frustration but there was little that he could do with one arm except make himself a target.

  Everything in front of me was a side-show, a distraction: Willem’s professional fighting, Ramila and Samell’s frantic attacks, and the largely ineffective efforts of the other three. They couldn’t win. They were overmatched. So it was time for me to see if I could once again provide a decisive edge. I knew that if I failed, we might all die. There was no middle ground here, no hope that some of us might escape. Fear clawed at my throat threatening to choke me. I forced it down as best I could. I knew it would soon be gone; the first emotion consumed by magic was always the one closest to the surface.

  I cleared my mind as best I could and let instinct take over. Using magic was more about feeling than thinking. The experience was visceral, not intellectual. As I opened myself up to the eldritch forces, I could feel emotions falling away like shorn wool from a sheep. The potency built quickly and, when it reached the point where I could no longer contain it, I let the dam holding it back burst. A blast of raw magical power arced from my outstretched palm to strike the mud-encrusted behemoth squarely in the center of its form. The energy, a white-blue color so bright that it seared afterimages into my retina, crackled like an electrical storm and dissipated the fog within yards of its passage. By all rights, it should have obliterated its target. The power unleashed exceeded by an order of magnitude anything I had previously attempted. It drained me physically and mentally and rearranged my entire emotional composition. There should have been nothing left of the soul-ripper. But it was seemingly unaffected. It absorbed the attack without difficulty and continued to press my companions. If anything, it became stronger. Then, perhaps sensing that I had done my worst, it came for me.

  Its assault wasn’t physical. It rode the magical onslaught back to its source, slamming into my mind like a sledgehammer, seeking a mass violation to sate its unbridled lust. It forged an instant psychic link, intending to use that to dominate me and feed on my thoughts. However, just as I hadn’t been prepared for its method of attack, it wasn’t prepared for what it encountered in that instant of vulnerability when it opened itself up to devour me.

  Pain! An agony to dwarf anything I had previously experienced, a consuming sensation that blotted out all reasoning. A headache as massive as the magical feat I had attempted. In these unique circumstances, it became a weapon. Instead of feeding on an open, unarmored mind, the soul-ripper was forced to absorb wave after wave of searing anguish. It was as defenseless as I was and far less prepared.

  My consciousness splintered into a million jagged pieces, pulling the soul-ripper along with it into an oblivion that was anything but peaceful.

  The next thing I knew, I was floating. My body, so small and fragile in its undeveloped form, was encased in a warm fluid that soothed every pore of my being. My senses were active, my nerves alive. For a while, the only thing I could hear was the thrumming of a heart - so close, so loud, so immediate. The tranquility was as profound as it was transitory.

  I knew little. My mind couldn’t grasp even the simplest of concepts. Then I felt everything around me sh
ifting. I was being forced. Something was pushing me. Pause…wait…wait…move. Over and over again - inch by inch, inexorable, unstoppable. It was painful, traumatic. It seemed to take forever. The heartbeat receded. Anguish burned in my chest - a sensation that was as unfamiliar as the panic that was settling over me.

  Then I heard the voices - startlingly loud and clear. The harshness of cold air, hands on my body. I couldn’t see - my eyes were clamped shut. I couldn’t process all the noise around me. I wanted to cry, to scream but the pain in my chest wouldn’t allow it. Not a word, not a sound, not a breath. I wanted back the warmth, the comfort of the heartbeat, the safety of where I had been. I craved what had been before now.

  “It’s a girl.” Words whose meaning I didn’t know at the time but would learn later. Then, after a moment’s pause: “She’s not breathing.” No concern. Hands on my chest, my butt being spanked. The burning in my chest was now more insistent.

  “Nothing, doctor.”

  “Cut the cord. Get me the respirator.”

  Everything fading away. Heaviness. The surcease I wanted, descending. Death, so soon after birth.

  When next awareness tickled me, I was lying somewhere. Cold, discarded. If I could have moved, I would have shivered and curled into a ball but my muscles were flaccid. There was no life in my body. How was it that this glimmer of consciousness remained?

  “You must live, little one.” The voice was grating and repulsive. “Your death is written but it isn’t today. The universe isn’t done with you yet. I’m not done with you yet.” Then, like a flash of lightning, life rushed into my body. Warmth flooded my limbs and a wail escaped my lips. Just like that - born not dead.

  “Doctor!” A shout of surprise and relief.

  Then the memory was over and I was falling back into the present, choking as something bitter was poured down my throat.

  “Thank the Four!” Samell’s voice vibrated with relief.

  “I thought for sure we’d lost her this time. Guess Death isn’t ready to invite her in just yet.” Gabriel’s words were flippant but his tone betrayed his concern, inadvertently echoing what the unknown man with the unpleasant voice had said.

  The way I felt at the moment, however, I wish Death had been a little more forthcoming with the invitation.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Stricken

  I was awake but I didn’t want anyone else to know it. There were times (and this was one of them) when I needed a few moments’ waking peace. As soon as I stirred, they would be all around me, buzzing like bees. Was I all right? How did I feel? Was I up to traveling?

  Good questions but I didn’t have the answers now. The headache was gone and that was a blessing. Even the residual throbbing had vacated my mind, leaving behind a numbness not unlike what I got the morning after taking a narcotic. My continued existence was evidence that we had survived the encounter with the soul-ripper, although I wouldn’t know the cost until I opened my eyes. My mind-sense was dead but that wasn’t a surprise. It would return (or not) in time. I felt two things: an unnatural calm and an entirely natural weariness. Both were byproducts of what I had done. How much emotion had I drained and how much of my stamina had I robbed? I was no longer whole and I wondered whether I could ever become so again. More than ever, I was acutely aware of my need for training and understanding. How close had I come to killing myself? Something Backus had said came back to me: “When it comes to using magic, it’s not the things you know that will destroy you; it’s the things you don’t know.” At the moment, it seemed like I didn’t know a lot.

  The people around me were talking quietly, almost whispering. I concentrated to identify the voices: Samell, Esme, Ramila, Gabriel. At least those four were alive and, because I could understand them, it meant that my magical ability to translate was intact.

  “We could carry her,” said Samell. He sounded as exhausted as I felt.

  “We need a litter,” said Ramila. “When Willem returns, he and I will search out the materials.”

  “What if she doesn’t wake up?” Alyssa’s voice spoke for the first time, pregnant with anxiety.

  No one spoke for a long moment and, when the silence had become uncomfortable, Samell filled it. “We continue the search for Bergeron. Janelle isn’t dead. Maybe he can find a way to bring her back from wherever she’s gone.”

  “If there’s anything left of her mind,” said Ramila. “None of you felt what happened the way I did. The concussion of it. She drove off the soul-ripper, but at what cost?”

  At what cost? That was something only wakefulness and activity would tell me. Time to end the suspense for them; continuing to play possum would be cruel. With infinite reluctance, I opened my eyes, squinting against what appeared to be a morning’s light, and struggled into a sitting position. The world swam as a wave of nausea washed over me.

  The moment they realized I had rejoined the world of consciousness, six of my companions (minus Willem who, as Ramila had indicated, was away from camp) rushed to my side. I was relieved to see that all of them had survived and none appeared to have suffered a major injury, although Ramila’s face was a mass of cuts and bruises.

  The expected questions came immediately.

  Samell: “Are you all right?”

  Esme: “How do you feel?”

  Gabriel: “Are you up to traveling?”

  The next half-hour was spent with me reassuring the others that I was able-bodied and of sound mind (although I wobbled a little the first time I stood and had to return to a sitting position until the dizziness retreated) while they filled me in on what had happened during the day-plus I had been unconscious. Willem returned mid-way through this conversation, having completed scouting the immediate environs.

  I learned that, at the moment I fell, the soul-ripper had fled. No one was certain whether it had died or not but the tentacles and body had vanished under the muck, the greenish mist had dissipated as if torn apart by a strong wind, and the will o’ the wisps had winked out. Gabriel and Samell believed the creature had perished but Willem and Ramila weren’t sure. Regardless, after its attempt to feed on my tortured mind, it hadn’t returned to harass the party. After caring for their injuries, which had been mostly minor, their only issue had been what do with me.

  Nothing they had tried had provoked a reaction from me. In the end, they had force-fed me a warm liquid infused with herbs gathered from the swamp that Ramila claimed had healing properties. Then Willem had slung me over his shoulder and carried me like a sack of potatoes until we were far enough from the swamp that everyone felt safe. And there they had remained for most of yesterday and all of today, dithering over how they should proceed: continue the search for Bergeron with me in an insensate state or turn back and see whether the healers in West Fork could tend to me.

  “I don’t have my mind-sense, so we’ll have to search without it.” I wasn’t sure how much it would have helped anyway. If a Summoner wanted to be unseen by a mind-sense probe, magic could accommodate. It was just another form of invisibility, probably not much different from the trick Backus had taught me of blending with the background to foil detection.

  We didn’t set out immediately. Willem said he was going to do a little more scouting and the rest of the group decided to wait for his return. It was a feint to give me additional time to recover and I was grateful for it. Although I felt fine when sitting, my legs turned to jelly when I stood up and I wasn’t sure how far I could walk in my current condition. I also felt dissociated from everyone around me, almost as if I was watching through someone else’s eyes. It was…strange. I didn’t know whether this was the result of channeling so much magic or an aftereffect of being mentally attacked.

  Then there was the memory I had experienced while unconscious, apparently of my birth, something no person should be able to recall. So why had I been able to? And had that memory been there before, when my past had been a whole tapestry in my mind, before I had come to this world? Or was it a new “addition”? Perhaps the most
salient question was whether it was real, a fabrication of my tormented mind, or something else.

  By the time Willem returned from his “reconnaissance”, I was able to stand on my own and move slowly. Samell hovered nearby, a worried expression creasing his features, ready to swoop in and steady me if I appeared ready to collapse. I gave him a wan smile of thanks but never needed his gallant aid. After we had been walking for the better part of an hour, my gait was more stable. I no longer felt like my legs might give way with each step.

  We were traveling off to the northwest of the swamp. Looking over my shoulder, I could see a distant mist hanging near the horizon. If that fog concealed the soul-ripper, there was no way to know at the moment. We were back on the plains, although the vegetation here wasn’t as savage as it was to the east. The nastiest of the plants, like the razor grass, was less vicious and it didn’t take nearly as long to hack our way through them. To the west, I could see the rises of The Southern Peaks reaching skyward. That’s where we were headed although what we were going to do once we got there was anyone’s guess.

  The closer we came to the mountains, the more impressed I was by their size. As an East Coast girl, I didn’t have experience with this kind of range. Oh, there were “mountains” in the East but nothing like the Rockies, which I had seen a few times during trips. And the Rockies, as majestic as I remembered them to be, were dwarfed by The Southern Peaks. I wondered if this is what the Himalayas looked like. Even at this distance, I could tell that the tops were snow covered.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to do any climbing,” said Samell, his eyes following my gaze. “I’ve heard once you go up a ways, it’s difficult to breathe.”

  Gabriel harrumphed. “He’s not supposed to be in the mountains. Even a Summoner would have problems building a house up there and I doubt he’s holed up in a cave. No, he’s likely in the foothills. But there are a lot of foothills and unless your powers” - he wiggled his fingers in what I assume was intended to be a pantomime of a magical gesture - “give us a clue where to look then we may be looking for a very long time.”