Reality's Plaything

by Will Greenway

  Bannor relaxed and exerted a minimum of control. Wren’s hand shifted to an unfamiliar position. The sword felt as though it became an extension of his arm, light and ready for action.

  The two armored warriors emerged from the reeds. He let the danger fuel this body’s reflexes. Relying on her instincts rather than on his own, he tried not to think but simply react. He felt that aliveness in Wren’s body swell and mingle with him.

  The first creature charged. Its blade whistled in the damp air. His arms and legs moved as if possessing minds of their own. He guarded the attack away with a flick of the wrist. His gaze locked on the eye-slit of the other warrior as it closed. Reptilian eyes glared hate at him. He snatched a dagger from his belt.

  Wren’s power surged, something in the body focused. For an instant, that narrow opening expanded in his vision. He threw. The blade whistled home, sprouting from minion’s faceplate with a fleshy thud. The creature dropped, putrid smelling gas billowing from its armor.

  As he grew accustomed to this duality, Bannor’s awareness expanded. He felt the air pushed ahead of the other warrior’s weapon and knew where the strike would go. He sidestepped.

  The minion missed. It snarled and reversed. He leaped. The blade passed beneath him. He felt an overwhelming desire to taunt the creature. He continued to evade without countering, dodging the attacks as if the creature were moving through molasses.

  His body froze. He couldn’t move. The minion swung for his head.

  Fear shot through him. What’s happening…!?

  His hand suddenly thrust into the path of the blade. He felt a tingling in his guts. The razor sharp steel slammed home—and stopped.

  A jolt of pleasure traveled down his arm. A ball of warmth grew in his chest. He yanked on the sword. The minion snatched for the weapon too late and the blade whirled away and stuck in the ground.

  The creature punched. He blocked instinctively. Bannor knew from fighting these things that they possessed hideous strength. He felt no impact, only the pleasurable tingling.

  A savant of forces. Bannor remembered Grahm’s words. Her power is under control. The Kel’varan Nola must allow Wren to take the energy from each blow and store it—as she did in the forest with Irodee’s arrows.

  Each of the minion’s attacks made the warmth increase. The creature pounded away until it realized it couldn’t win. Regaining some control, he dispatched it with a single thrust to the heart.

  Withdrawing the blade, Bannor strengthened his hold over the body. Wren’s Nola resisted. She staggered. He concentrated harder, trying again to submerge that primal essence. Wren relented and Bannor sensed his control return.

  He felt a chill. Why did she surrender so fast? Some instinct told him the battle for mastery would get worse. Wren’s power acted like a complete consciousness. It possessed no voice, but it understood he did not belong. She would try again to take over.

  Ironic that he must fight the woman he wanted to help. What happened if she overcame him? Would he be kicked out? Trapped?

  He put the worry from his mind. Sarai needed him.

  Bannor wiped off Wren’s blade and reclaimed the dagger. He stared at the shells of the two minions, and then glanced at Wren’s delicate hands. She hadn’t even perspired. That lack of stiffness that first alarmed him was the feel of a body limber as a silken veil and whiplash fast. He’d never understood the scope of Wren’s abilities. He could detect the tiniest particles drifting by in the river, single out any one and know it in terms of its energy, course and mass. That perception apparently assisted her aim, making the most difficult shot a simple matter. No wonder Mazerak wanted her disabled. He didn’t want her for an enemy either.

  He looked northwest in the direction Mazerak’s group had been going. He kicked the plate armor. If Wren were bigger, he’d use the mail for a disguise. Mazerak would expect a report from these two.

  Damn.

  He looked around the clearing. He couldn’t leave everyone so vulnerable. A broadpaw or griffon could come along and eat them. He glanced at the river. The only bad water was days downstream. They’d be safer adrift than lying here waiting to become a meal.

  Wren was limber, not strong. Her muscles ached by the time Irodee, Laramis, and Dac and their equipment had been dragged aboard the barge.

  He scrawled a note on a piece of parchment and shoved it in Irodee’s tunic. The message explained that Mazerak was bound for Albrech with Wren and Sarai as prisoners. He untied the barge and shoved it out into the middle of the stream.

  “Good journey,” he mumbled, watching the barge drift off. Hearing a feminine voice made a ripple of disquiet surge through him.

  What if I get stuck inside this body?

  Bannor pushed the feeling down.

  Shouldering Wren’s knapsack, he cinched the straps, locked down her sword and faced northwest. He took a breath and glanced at the barge now almost out of sight. Everything will be all right. It has to be.

  I’m on my way, Little Star.

  It wasn’t difficult to follow the tracks of the heavily laden wagons. Bannor found he couldn’t go rapidly without loosening his hold over Wren. It made him uneasy, but he did it, letting her essence take partial control; first a jog, then a run. He hardly breathed. The night moisture clung to their flesh like a cool second skin. Wren ran effortlessly. The trees, brush, and rocks loomed in the darkness and vanished in the distance behind him.

  She moved like the high springing blackhorn, feet never seeming to touch the ground. Her Nola absorbed the impact of every footfall, deadening the sound and rejuvenating the energy expended to run.

  This is how she kept up with Irodee. She can sprint for hours like this!

  The city of Albrech lay on the Corwin side of the border. Leagues of rough territory and hills separated Mazerak’s group from the nearest road. Even with their two bell lead, he could catch them before they traveled far. Could he reach the caravan by daybreak though? Once the dawn light struck the hills, freeing Wren and himself became far more difficult.

  He pushed into a sprint. Wren’s heart pumped harder and the feeling of warmth in her chest pulsed in syncopation to the staccato rhythm of her boots against the dirt.

  As he dodged through bracken and sorrel, Bannor started adjusting to Wren’s altered perception of smells. He recognized the sappy pungency of scalebark and the sharp bite of needleleaf. Though he would never feel comfortable in this duality, it was reassuring that they could work in concert.

  A few thousand trees, three briar patches and a stream crossing later he heard the jangling of wagons. Tinges of orange and azure were now creeping into the dark indigo of the eastern horizon. The caravan had traveled faster than he anticipated. He guessed they must have fresh horses nearby to drive them this hard.

  He stopped. Perspiration stung his eyes and his face felt hot. He’d covered a league in little over a quarter bell.

  He needed a plan. It seemed simplest to begin by getting Wren back in her body. He need only reach into the cage and Wren’s astral form could rejoin with her flesh.

  That wouldn’t free Sarai.

  No doubt, the only way to do that was to kill Mazerak. With all the Lord’s guardians and Sarai, Bannor would need Wren’s help to succeed. The coming light gave him little time for careful plotting.

  He would have to rely on Wren to get him loose.

  Bannor studied the land descending toward the southern spur of the Westros Mountains. Like cairns of fragmented rock, the headlands thrust up from the lower plateau until their peaks mingled with the clouds. A carpet of mist poured downhill into the bramble-studded watersheds that wound a serpentine course toward Corwin’s eastern river valley. Once at the river, Mazerak’s group would follow it north to Albrech.

  The hill shadows would give him a fraction more nighttime. The wagons had already disappeared into a thick grove of shimmerleaf, further shutting out the dawn light.

  He had to try now; there wouldn’t be a better opportunity.

 
; Jogging toward the trees, he cut around the grove. He’d find a hiding spot ahead of them that would allow him to assess Mazerak’s force.

  As he moved through the trees, Bannor felt more in his element—the hunter rather than the hunted. Wren’s chest grew tight as he sensed the nearness of his quarry. Her heart beat faster as she saw the trailing wagon and the cage containing Wren’s phoenix form.

  Bannor felt a jolt, then an urgent desire to plunge toward the faintly glowing shape. She charged toward the caravan. Bannor clamped down his will. Wren stumbled as he fought to reassert control.

  Damn it. Not now!

  She dropped to her knees as he focused on driving Wren’s essence back. Even this little part of the savant was powerful. It felt like she was trying to shove him aside and assume complete command. Calling upon every bit of his strength, he managed to the batter the force back and assume mastery again.

  Trembling, he lay in the wet grass, heart hammering and breaths coming in gasps. If they fought again for ascendancy, Wren would win. The nearness to her astral form must be making the host essence stronger.

  He rose and stood on shaking legs. He had to do this before she attacked again. Wren’s body tingled as though she’d been struck by lightning. Bannor took slow breaths, calming her body.

  Go.

  Ducking through underbrush and around trees and rocks Bannor paralleled the caravan, soon overtaking the lead wagon. He cut around a hillock choked with trees. The far side would be the place to lay in wait.

  He bounded over a creek and ducked through an overgrown tangle of deadfalls. The wagon sounds dwindled to the North.

  Down the backside of the knoll, he spied a cluster of trees perfect for his needs. The wagons should pass by only fifty paces away.

  He made his way to the spot and hid. Her heart thundered. A broadwing hooted in the branches above. The breeze hummed through the boughs. A horse whinnied in the distance.

  Bannor pulled Wren’s sword.

  The wagon sounds grew. He thought he glimpsed Mazerak’s white stallion at the head of the procession. Closer. He saw four armored warriors on black mounts following the Lord.

  As the first wagon trundled out of the darkness, his stomach tightened. Where’s Sarai? He saw the cage with his body limp at the bottom but no sign of his betrothed.

  Bannor located four outriders on both sides of the caravan. As the second wagon became visible, he felt a chill. Sarai wasn’t on it, either.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. He couldn’t let that distract him. He must go for Wren. The beat of her heart counted off the instants. The smell of dry leaves and vegetation filled her nostrils. He formulated a plan; as soon as the gap widened, a quick sprint, take out the rear guard and the drivers.

  Her palms felt sweaty. He dried them on his tunic, self-conscious of the touch on sensitive breasts. Wren’s whole body felt charged with tension. It seemed to know reunion with self was coming.

  Now!

  He lunged out of the cover and bolted through the trees. The silhouette of a minion grew. It turned as he struck. Metal shrieked. The creature’s helmet flipped through the air, another insect-like husk dropped. Stinking vapor plumed upward.

  The other minion was too far away to be a hindrance. He rushed the wagon, threw a dagger that flashed home in a warrior’s neck knocking it against the other guard.

  The sword flicked out, slashing the reins as he leaped onto the cart. Two swipes brought the other guard down.

  Wren.

  Wren’s phoenix form blazed, its diamond eyes wide in amazement. Guards closed in on two sides.

  He reached out.

  A rumble filled the air. The cart capsized, throwing the cage to the ground. Stunned for only an instant, he scrambled toward the red glowing form.

  The ground rippled and before Bannor could twist away the rock thrust him into the air. The stone took the form of a huge hand, its giant fingers wrapped around Wren’s entire body, pinning her arms and legs.

  He glanced around wildly. A minion, smaller than the others stared at him with glowing lavender eyes. It held a hand outstretched, fingers partially closed.

  “Sarai!” Wren’s voice sounded hoarse.

  The elf clenched her fist.

  The pressure around Wren grew, the huge fingers crushed down…

  * * *

  Willforce or what is more commonly known as magic is an endless source of entertainment for me. Lack confidence and you can’t make a spark.

  Get over-confident and you destroy yourself and a large chunk of the immediate landscape.

  For some reason, I’ve always found that amusing…

  —From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  « ^ »

  Dots danced in his vision, blurring his view of the forest, the caged phoenix and the armored minions. A huge hand formed of rock gripped Wren’s body, pinning her arms and legs. Sarai had smashed dozens of demons in this same fashion only days ago.

  Have to break free! Instants stretched into infinity. The blood pounding in her temples crescendoed to a thunder. Bannor’s awareness expanded. Every particle of the loamy amalgam surrounding her body became sharp and distinct. The pressure applied by the stone under Sarai’s elemental control increased. Static crackled and rock groaned. The body didn’t compress. A crackling nimbus of blue light had formed around her.

  Bannor glimpsed Sarai dressed in black plate armor. Sparks danced around her clenched fists. The lavender glow of her eyes had turned blood red.

  Minions hissed and guttural voices screamed for a halt to the caravan.

  He felt Wren’s Nola swelling, jamming into every limb, tapping the constricting force Sarai was applying. The pulsation in her chest turned from a pleasurable warmth to a searing throb.

  “Sarai, stop!”

  The crushing force grew. The blue light became blinding. The burning of the Nola became excruciating. A voice shrieked in his mind.

  The field around Wren’s body was slick. He pulled his left arm free with a heave and struck at the rocky prison. The massed Nola in his fist detonated, sending glowing fragments hissing off into the trees.

  The pressure lessened. The burning of the Nola slackened.

  Sarai snarled. The stone reformed. The heat renewed.

  Bannor hammered at the rock. The Nola jolted each time and released the contained energy. The barrage drove all the minions back, shredded the nearby wagon and battered the iron cage containing Wren’s Phoenix form. Sarai moved forward. The fragments bounced off her slender armored form as though made of sponge.

  The voice in his mind became a thunder. Bannor! She’ll kill us both! Not the rock! The cage!

  He reached toward the iron enclosure around Wren’s astral form. Too far away.

  The pain grew. Bannor slammed the rock to release the energy, sensing that if he didn’t keep venting the power both he and Wren would die in a single searing blast.

  Sarai crept closer, each step wooden and slow.

  Wren’s mental voice grew more desperate. Throw the power! Focus!

  A wave of confusion swept through him. Throw power? Focus? How? He smashed the rock again to release the Nola. Molten chunks of granite and fused soil shot out and bounced across the ground like char and embers kicked from a fire.

  Throw.

  Focus.

  He ripped a hunk of rock loose from his prison. Throwing it at Wren’s cage, he focused all of his pent-up energy as he released.

  The stone became sizzling mass, tendrils of energy rasping around it as it hurtled to target.

  Wren’s Phoenix form flattened itself against one end of the cage. The missile impacted with a roar.

  The shock numbed Bannor’s ears. A searing wave of air knocked Sarai down only a few steps away.

  When the dots cleared from his vision, he saw the blazing Phoenix diving for him. Bannor braced himself as Wren’s claws clamped down on his arm—

  and slid off.

  The astral essence
didn’t transfer.

  No! Wren screamed.

  Bannor’s heart hammered and his stomach became an aching hole in his torso. Wren’s Nola was shielding her body—from everything. Including its real mistress. If he turned the Nola off, the stone would crush Wren’s body before the savant regained control.

  Sarai righted herself by stages like a puppet pulled to a stand by strings. Her livid eyes glowed.

  Wren dove at Sarai, wings slashing and beating in frenzy. The elf toppled. As Sarai’s concentration wavered, the pressure around him lessened. He smashed away the rock and freed his other arm.

  He saw Mazerak and his four guards galloping toward their fight. “Wren!”

  The Phoenix whipped around and out of Sarai’s reach. Her diamond eyes widened—then narrowed. The voice in his mind dropped to a deadly whisper. Bannor, your cage—open it!

  The other wagon had stopped fifty paces away. The minions surrounded it, ready to fight. “It’s too far away, I can’t throw!”

  Forget distance! Focus!

  Sarai’s renewed concentration gave him a burst of new energy as the rock tried again to smash Wren’s body.

  Distance had nothing to do with it. Throw the Nola; his first lesson in controlling magic. Trial by fire. Live or die. He imagined a stone in his hand and dumped the Nola into it as he had before.

  He threw.

  A sphere of energy flew from his hand. Mazerak dove off his horse to evade the bolt. The other horses reared as the hissing globe of energy detonated against the top of the cage that held his body. He prayed to Odin he didn’t kill himself with the shock.

  The flash whited out his sight. Minions and horses screamed.

  Dots still spinning in his vision, Bannor heard Mazerak scream. Cloth and flesh tore. Lightning jagged down out of the sky and rasped into the ground nearby. Bannor felt the roar of thunder like fiery teeth against his skin.

  The storm savant’s Nola. Mazerak cursed. Bannor smelled the stink of dying minions.

  What happened to Wren? Sarai’s stone prison blocked most of his view. The bright flashes made a blur of what remained visible. He felt sure if the Lord had managed to kill Wren he would have sensed something. Why did she want him to open the cage? He hadn’t questioned, knowing that she never did anything without a reason.