In a weak, trembling voice, she attempted to scream, "Bran!"
A horde of Parched Ones surrounded Bran and Pernik. The strange soldiers had backed her friends against the blazing warehouse, and wisps of smoke curled from their crimson-splashed tunics. A Parched One sliced a shallow gash across the blacksmith's chest, and, in that same instant, a blade plunged into Pernik's thigh.
The old officer dropped, yet he gripped his blade tighter, surer, and surged from his knees to drive it into his assailant's chest. He limped closer to the blacksmith, and they stood back-to-back, pivoting and defending against a horde of white, flaking attackers, like desperate men in the midst of a blizzard.
If only she could've reached them.
Crest smashed Ark into the wall, and the bricks trembled. The giant screamed in rage as more ribs cracked. Ark wheezed as his eyes rolled back.
Void take me.
She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. She tried to gather her legs beneath her, tried to stop the giant, but her muscles refused the command. Desperate, she screamed, "Stop! King's cock, stop!"
And the Parched Ones stopped. Those bizarre, crackling soldiers dropped their weapons. They hung their heads, swayed back and forth, and moaned.
Moaned.
Kipra's heart skipped, thudded, skipped. The warehouse fire continued to roar, and choking ash and dust swirled across the streets in miniature tornadoes. But Crest, the bastard who'd enjoyed her sister, who'd driven them to this gruesome place, didn't stop. He reared back, bunching his muscles, twisting Ark's neck tighter and tighter, preparing to slam him against the bricks one final time.
"Bran!" she wailed.
Maybe her voice would carry. Maybe he'd hear the desperation.
And sometimes, hopes weren't futile.
Bran burst through the Parched Ones like an enraged bull, flinging them aside like children. He gripped a long iron cudgel. One eye had swollen closed, and his armor was sliced wide to reveal the skin beneath. He spied Ark and Crest, and his round, friendly face hardened as he sprinted. He charged into Crest's side, tore Ark from the giant's grip, and spun all three to the ground.
Yes!
Kipra limped closer, but halted as Bran and Crest roared to their feet. Tears streamed from the blacksmith's eyes, and the force of his bellow hammered her. This man had suffered as much as she and Ark, perhaps more. He'd never burned his father. Instead, Crest's men had done it for him. The blacksmith hated himself for each and every man he killed, and yet, despite that hatred....
Bran became wrath.
He pounded his cudgel into Crest's arm, and the snap of bones crackled above the warehouse's roaring flames. Crest leapt back to flee, but the blacksmith stalked him, pounding cudgel into flesh again and again.
Parched Ones swayed and moaned, and Bran drove Kylen Crest through them, forcing the giant closer to the blazing warehouse. Closer, until flames seared hair and blistered skin.
Crest shrieked.
Bran released his cudgel and snatched Kylen Crest's wrists. He spun, faster and faster, and they appeared as two smoky phantoms, dancing against a silhouette of flame and smoke, singing with their cries. Bran heaved the giant into the warehouse. Flames kissed skin, singed and melted hair.
Shrieks.
Blessed, agonized shrieks.
Bran stumbled to her as she struggled to reach Ark. The blacksmith lifted her into his arms and carried her to their friend. Wordless, they collapsed beside him, hoping he'd somehow breathe, hoping he'd somehow awaken.
Parched Ones swayed and moaned.
Chapter Forty
A nightmare. A dream. A reality.
Irreor shook his head in a silver haze of timelessness. Weightless, he floated above Farren. Far below, like a distant star in the sky, the warehouse burned. His leg throbbed where a slab of flesh and leather hung from his shin, a reminder of the battle, of Kipra and Bran, of the people he'd watched slaughtered.
His stomach churned.
He attempted to ignore the pain, the disorientation, and instead peered down at the city's distant glow. So far away, yet the roar of the battle echoed up to him. His men shrieked as they died. Crest was somehow a mangled ball of melted flesh, twitching and charred on the cobblestones.
Irreor's leg throbbed, pounded, a cruel punishment.
He must've dreamt. Had the voice somehow brought him to this place? It's thread whisked along his shoulders, more furious than ever. This wasn't what it had planned.
-Why didn't I see it?-
Irreor gripped his forearms in frustration. His friends needed him. They'd die without him, but he was stuck up here—cool air against his cheek, clouds caressing his skin, and a voice that wouldn't be silent. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed thick, ashy saliva.
Send me back!
"I've planned it all."
Irreor tore his gaze from the city to a hunched, gray-haired man. He had his back turned and, like Irreor, he floated above the island, peering down at it. Skinny arms emerged from his blackish-gray, threadbare robe, and the ridges of his spine rolled like the Dull Crest Mountains.
In a low, raspy tone, the man muttered, "Now it begins."
The sound of that voice lashed Irreor like a whip. This man had murmured to him for a lifetime, almost tortured him. With a whisper, he'd guided Irreor's life, ordered him to maim, to kill, to become the leader—the general—he'd never truly wanted to be. It had followed him since his first memory. As a baby. A toddler. A child and a man. It was a part of him in a way, and, despite his reservations, he'd always listened.
But this went beyond a simple murmur.
The man turned to reveal a cracked, leathery face. A glimmer of intelligence—knowing, understanding, wisdom—lurked within his eyes. Yet insanity also frolicked within that gaze, and it snapped and snarled with a ferocity that forced Irreor to grope for the blade that was no longer at his hip.
Silence.
"Who are you?" Irreor shouted. "What are you?"
The man squinted at the faraway speck of Targ. "I'll be their Prophet. Now, it begins: my purpose in a world of solitude. So much silence. He'll need a reason to kill Abennak. I wish he didn't have to lose her, but he must."
Did the man—the Prophet—mean Kipra? That didn't make sense. Irreor already held a reason to kill Abennak. The Mad King planned for war and death. Just like the Prophet.
"No," Irreor whispered.
An invisible thread, the Prophet's thread, tickled the base of his neck, and Farren vanished. Like salt in water, blackness swallowed the starving city, the blazing warehouse, his beloved friends.
"No!"
Irreor plummeted toward Targ's barren streets.
One massive ship floated in the bay, Rippon's flag flapping above its deck. Dozens of ironclad soldiers leapt from four longboats sloshing against the beach and, within moments, the town withered beneath a curtain of smoke and flame.
So much fire and death.
For an instant, relief flowed across Irreor like a cool mountain stream. It washed away his frenzied thoughts and drew the pain from his leg. The Prophet hadn't meant Kipra; he intended for another man's love to die.
Why?
Something chained Irreor above the destruction, too high to hear the villagers' desperate pleas, but their piercing shrieks—so like the screams of his men—squirmed within him, and they repeated.
Repeated.
He'd visited this place twice in his travels with Gar Tsi. The people were friendly, and they'd purchased salts and peppers and flours from the merchant. Late in the afternoon, they'd built a large table in the village's center and heaped breads and fruits and meats atop it. A feast. They'd beat drums as twilight descended and played flutes as the moon rose.
A woman had given Irreor a cookie and asked him to dance.
That was three months ago, and her belly had been swollen with the first hints of pregnancy. Unfamiliar with the local customs, he'd politely declined. Perhaps she was like Teel, uncaring if
she lay with one or two or ten different men.
His shocked expression must've forced her to giggle like the trickle of a summer stream. She'd gripped his hand, pulled him close, and whispered into his ear. "It's only a dance, silly. My husband won't mind."
She'd directed his gaze to the side, where a man stood with his arms crossed. He nodded to Irreor, a sage, knowing bob of the head, and a wide grin shone from his face. He fluttered his hand as if to say, "Go on. Have fun."
So Irreor had. He'd danced amongst the drums and flutes, feet twisting and twirling across the dusty square, and his laughter had matched that of the crowd. Hours had passed, feeling more like a fleeting second.
At the end of it, the woman, Proysa, had introduced him to her husband.
"You dance well," the man had said, and he reached out to clasp his wife's waist. He pulled her closer, but not in a protective, hostile way. Torchlight glinted from his face as he laughed and said, "I'm all knees and elbows and stumbles, and I've never been able to give her a dance like she deserves."
Irreor had blushed at that.
Proysa, however, had nuzzled her husband's chest. "You're an oaf, but I love you."
"I'm Helt," the man said, and he'd thrust out a hand for Irreor to shake. His grip was strong, sure, confident. "You're welcome to our village any time. Next time we'll double the size of the feast, with singing and dancing to keep you awake far into the night."
After the death of his father, it had been one of the first nights Irreor truly enjoyed.
Now the square was burning.
-If only those moments could've remained eternal.-
You bloody bastard!
Instinct demanded he cleave the life from Rippon's soldiers, but the invisible chains clenched tighter, refusing to allow him to rescue those below.
"She'll assist her mother with the herbs," the Prophet murmured. "They'll work in the village center, and the imagined sight of their slaughtered bodies will energize my instrument as he rushes to the village. Ah, my instrument."
Helt, wearing a simple villager's tunic of brown and gray, raced down the southern hill. Sawdust speckled his blonde hair, and his eyes were wide with worry and anger. He hit the first soldier like a bolt of lightning, smashed the smaller man from his feet, and wrestled away the sword.
"He'll fail to save her," the Prophet said.
Irreor thrashed against the invisible chains. The Prophet must've meant Proysa, who'd pulled him into dance after dance, her golden laughter ringing into the night. Irreor thrashed again, whipping his head from side to side, yet the invisible chains held firm.
He was forced to watch.
He couldn't turn away.
He couldn't—
Helt exploded into the next invader. An arm hit the ground with a dull, wet thud. The soldier screamed as he toppled, and Helt drilled on toward the village square. He ducked beneath another wild swing, spun to his attackers back, and tore his blade against the other man's throat.
He marched onward.
The Prophet's voice rose in excitement. "He'll be panicked, frenzied."
Soldiers formed a rough circle, and Helt stomped to its center. His eyes were a pale, dead hue, his face the color of the drifting ash. He was nothing like Irreor remembered, nothing like the man who had been so full of life and mirth. The stolen sword hung limp in Helt's hand, its point buried in baked, reddened clay.
He rotated to view Rippon's soldiers, then spoke in a hushed, growled tone. "Give me Proysa."
"If only it were so simple," the Prophet said.
The soldiers near the harbor parted, and a slender, hooded figure—a woman or a man, or a vile thing—emerged. It gestured to a knot of men at its back, and, from between them, they produced Proysa.
Soot filled her once blonde hair. Her dress was ripped at the seam, flowing over her pregnancy, and her stomach bulged beneath the fabric. She spread both hands over it, protecting.
Helt stepped closer.
"This is the only choice he's given you, isn't it?" the thing said, and it glanced down at the bloodied dirt. "It's the only choice he's given me, too. I understand you. I...." She squared her shoulders. "Step forward. Fight for what you love."
"Give her to me," Helt demanded, but his voice wavered as he continued. "Please. She's all I've ever had. Void take me, she's pregnant!"
Proysa whimpered.
And Irreor... he could only watch.
"I can't," the thing said. "But I promise we'll remember you."
"It begins," the Prophet said.
Another thread—wild and thick and angry, very different from the Prophet's—burrowed within Irreor, and he lurched even as those below lurched. Similar to what had restrained him in Abennak's tournament, the thread lanced his mind like an arrow into its target.
It forced him to his knees.
Void bloody void, Helt can do what Abennak can—
"His power will surpass Abennak's." The Prophet rubbed his hands together. "It'll be the only way."
Clouds blotted out the sun. Sheets of rain washed charred, simmering buildings, and flames sputtered as water splashed them. Grime and dust settled beneath the torrent, and embers dimmed then blackened.
The thread vanished.
Helt sank to one knee, clothes and hair pasted to clammy skin, panting as if his lungs threatened to tear from his chest. He plunged his sword into the muddy ground, bunched his shoulders, and struggled to his feet.
The thing hissed in surprise. "Did he give you all his power? No, you wouldn't know. Oh, how he's twisted us. How he's used us. I'm sorry, Helt."
Proysa whimpered.
The thing unwound like a coiled spring to whip a dagger across Proysa's throat. A crimson tide burst from the wound, and she unleashed a silent shriek. Like a delicate flower whose time had ended, she drooped to her knees.
Helt screamed, but it had happened too fast.
No one could stop it.
Proysa toppled, her stomach striking the ground to act as a warped fulcrum, and the side of her face splattered into mud and filth. She stared at her husband, drew one last pain-wracked breath, and reached out as if to caress him.
She lay still.
"Proysa. Ghilean!"
"No more laughter," the Prophet said. "No more joy. Only silence, a cruel and remorseless master, will remain to pummel him into oblivion. Stillness will choke his life. Ah, but he'll save them all because of it."
Irreor matched Helt's scream. He flailed against the invisible chains, but they tightened until he couldn't speak, couldn't croak. They dug into his arms until his fingers tingled, and yet still he struggled to thrash and flail and wail.
He'd danced with Proysa.
He'd spent his night laughing with her, listening as she spoke of her husband, of the love he'd showered upon her. Helt had made it a habit to give his wife everything, and news of their child had only strengthened his devotion. How could she... what should he... what could he....
It could've been Kipra.
Irreor choked back a sob.
"My instrument grows and learns, examining his fury," the Prophet said, and he rubbed his hands together. "Then he'll release it. Ah, and then he'll build an army. Coldness, so frigid and delightful, will let him match my king's madness. Soon, yes soon, he'll meet my general. Together they'll conquer the island and forge an empire."
Helt shot forward, lifting his stolen sword with a wordless, garbled cry, and swung the blade down to rip the life from the thing who'd murdered his wife.
But the thing leapt to the side and plunged a dagger into his ribs. Blood and spit and bile burst from his mouth. The thing leaned closer, released the dagger's hilt for an instant, and slammed it deeper.
Helt crumpled like a sheet of discarded parchment.
"No..." the Prophet stuttered. "That's not what I meant to happ— No!"
Something shivered in that moment. At first, it was nothing more than a grain of sand in the courtyard, but that grain became two, then three, and the entire villa
ge rocked. Stones quivered in their bases, flowers trembled on the distant hills, and the prophet wailed.
"No! I only wanted to claw free from the basement. I wanted to love them, and I wanted them to love me. Oh, how I wanted them to love me. But they never did. Never did. Mother, mother, mother!"
Irreor gripped his head and matched the Prophet's cry, for it pierced both ear and mind, burrowing deeper as each stone quivered, as each flower trembled. Slowly, with each drop of blood that leaked from Helt's side, silence returned.
"We'll remember you, Helt. I promise." The thing—a woman—gazed up to the sky. In a shaking voice she said, "You'd just do it again, Father. Again. Until there's nothing left of our island. Your creatures would bury us beneath something horrible. I can't let it happen. Show yourself!"
"No!" the Prophet shouted, though his words reached only Irreor. The people below ignored them, or simply didn't hear. "Villeen, no! This isn't what I'd planned! This isn't what.... No!"
The woman knelt amongst the villagers' corpses, and sobs shook her. Tattoos covered her face, stark whites and blacks against her skin. Tears pattered against dirt, mingled with the blood of a husband, his wife, and their unborn child.
"Ghilean," Irreor mumbled, remembering Helt's last word.
Soldiers broke away from the grim circle to resume their slaughter. They again darted amongst the buildings, relit their fires with tar and torch. A few people tried to stop it, but Abennak's men cut them down.
What could stop it? An army? A hug or a kiss?
No.
The Prophet had done this. Somehow, the voice had planned it, built it up, and set it in motion. It had something to do with the thread. A power. It was unknown, violent and terrible, but both Abennak and the Prophet used it to lay a blanket of chaos over the island.
Irreor needed to find a way to counter it.
"So many possibilities," the Prophet mumbled. "So many. I must remember them all. How will my daughter, my sweetest daughter, manipulate my world?"
Irreor's disgust rose like bile. "Not the way you wanted."
Targ dissolved—soldiers, people, corpses, dwellings, dirt. The blackness rejected comprehension, as images, memories and dreams blinked across a blank space, taunting Irreor with the uncertain fate of his island.
Eulogy Page 27