“Odin!” Shock stiffened his body. He reached behind Wren’s head to lift her and felt something protruding. He pulled it out and came away with a small metallic dart.
A raspy voice broke over the sound of the waves. “That is the last thing she shall ever remember.”
* * *
Avatars are one of the most interesting creations of magic that those of the pantheons have developed. They are incredibly useful tools that are probably responsible for more insanity than any other affliction experienced by immortals.
—From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
« ^ »
Bannor turned at the sound of the raspy voice. The moaning wind, rumbling waves, and the thunder of his heart all rang in his ears. Darkness swathed the beach, the cliff-side jutted into the ash-gray night like broken bones embedded in the sand. A movement caught his eye, a silhouette that coalesced out of the shadows.
He heard Sarai’s sword hiss from its sheath. Her breathing quickened and she stepped closer to him. In the distance, a cliff-bird keened, a grotesque laughing sound. He gripped the skinning knife on his belt and pulled it free. Their isolation, despite its conflicts, had been too good to last.
The avatars would never let him go. They would do anything including murder and kidnapping to get what they wanted. The more evidence of it he saw, the more he understood Wren’s total hatred of these creatures.
All he or Wren ever wanted was to be free; to live normal lives, to love and be loved. The avatars and their agents felt compelled to take what they did not already possess. Injecting chaos into otherwise placid lives simply to satisfy their greed.
Now, Wren lay at his feet, the beating of her heart still and silent as stone.
No more.
This creature, whatever it was—would feel his retribution.
The words burned in his throat. “Whatever you want, you won’t get it,” he snarled. “You people have taken enough from us.”
The figure stopped, its details still hidden by the cliff shadows. A male voice spoke, coarse and sibilant. “I did you a favor, savant. Kergatha has long been an obstacle to everyone.”
“Be gone, snake-man!” Sarai said in a commanding tone. “We like your kind even less than hers. If she’s dead, we’ll hunt you down.”
The figure moved nearer. A pair of slit gold eyes flashed in the wan moonlight. Bannor discerned the outline of a long rod that was probably the dart-pipe that was used to shoot Wren.
“No closer,” he warned, tightening his fist on the knife. He wanted to check Wren. Some drugs slowed the heart, but it could sometimes be restarted with a thump to the chest. In the worst case, he might be able to wish her healthy again. Wren’s explanation before she collapsed had made some things clear. He knew her pattern now as well as his own. From what she said, when you knew something’s pattern, it became malleable to your will.
The intruder stepped into the faint moonlight. He was a blade of a man with a hatchet face and long spidery fingers. A black shroud of what looked like cobwebs twitched in the wind around him. The other details of his face and clothing were lost in chalky illumination. Even at this distance, he smelled of death.
“Hethanon,” Sarai drew a breath.
“Arminwen,” The man’s voice dropped. “I could hardly credit Mazerak as speaking the truth. Surely, the princess of Malan has better things to be doing.”
“You know him?” Bannor growled.
“Of him,” Sarai said icily. “Father drove Hethanon and the cult of Set from Malan a century ago, but only after much blood.” She drew a breath. “He is an avatar of the jackal god.”
“Was an avatar of him. I am no longer Hethanon—I am Nystruul. Hecate is my mistress now. No thanks to that witch.” He spat in Wren’s direction.
Bannor took a step forward. “Avatar, this is your last warning. Get away from us. I’m tired of your filth. You stink of decay.”
“What will you do, savant Starfist? Shoo me away with words?” Nystruul reached out. His hand glowed and a crushing pressure clamped down on Bannor’s throat.
Bannor gagged. Something sucked the strength from his legs. He dropped in the sand.
“Bannor!” Sarai started toward the avatar.
“Bastard.” Bannor flipped the knife and threw.
The blade whirled home above Nystruul’s collarbone with a thud of tearing flesh. The avatar let out a gurgling sound and staggered back.
There was only one chance for Wren. He may have waited too long already. Bannor envisioned Wren’s tracery, the glowing pattern he saw in his mind seemingly summers ago outside the town of Blackwood. The feminine presence that saved his life. The phoenix. His and Sarai’s enemy and ally. The nemesis of the avatars.
I wish your mind and body undamaged, perfect and alive. He touched the tracery. For the first time, he felt the Nola surge in him. He sensed its unbridled aliveness.
Wild.
He grabbed Wren’s shoulder. Sparks spiraled down his arms and flooded into her body.
The savant didn’t stir.
A hard cold pressure squeezed down on his insides. He must have done something wrong or perhaps the Garmtur’Shak Nola did possess limits. He couldn’t restore life to something dead. Bannor straightened.
Sarai had taken only a few steps. She gazed at him casting a wary eye to the avatar. Nystruul would not be stopped by a single strike. Fear had made an ugly mask of Sarai’s damaged face. The wind blew through his mate’s silvery hair. She looked at Wren. He saw the question in her eye.
He shook his head.
Gone.
Bannor would die before surrendering to the avatars. He would go fighting. He reached down and pulled Wren’s magic blade. It made a peeling sound as it cleared the sheath. The sound made Nystruul’s noises stop.
With a heave, the avatar wrenched out the knife and flung it in the dirt. His blood looked blacker than the night. “You’ll suffer for that, savant.” His gold eyes tracked warily to the glowing weapon in Bannor’s hand.
Obviously, he’d seen it before and knew to respect the weapon’s edge. Even urged by a woman’s strength it cleaved armor as if it were made of paper.
“Go. Next time your head will leave your shoulders.” The sword made a trail of gold light as he made chopping motions.
The sky flickered white, illuminating the avatar’s dusky skin and jag-toothed grimace. Thunder rolled over the beach several heartbeats later.
The storm still lay a ways out to sea.
Nystruul’s gaze shifted from him to Sarai. This fiend, Mazerak, the demon, even the ruffians, they all wanted to strike at him through the only thing precious in his life. It made heat rush through him. He would not allow another of these creatures to hurt Sarai.
Bannor let out a yell and charged. Anger knotting his muscles and revenge hardening his mind, he brought the gleaming sword around to split Nystruul.
Apparently stunned, the avatar backpedaled. He gestured and crimson lightning blazed from his hand. The bolt jagged into Bannor’s chest. Wet leather, skin, and hair sizzled.
The shock drilled into him. Pain screamed through his body. He kept focused on that single strike. Though his muscles felt as if they’d become clay, he took one more step and swung.
Nystruul blocked with the metallic rod. The whistling sword severed metal, then flesh. The blade tore deep into the man’s torso above the second rib. Blood spouted. The droplets struck Bannor’s face and clung like boiling oil.
Reeling, the avatar howled. The sound shook the rocks.
Bannor dropped, no longer able to stand. He wiped at the noxious fluid searing his skin.
Sarai rushed in. Her elven blade scored two blows before the echoes of Nystruul’s yell faded. She dodged twice, ruby bolts lancing into the night sky. She slashed Nystruul’s instep.
The avatar shrieked and tumbled face first in the sand.
“Jiha Malan!” She plunged the sword into his back.
Nys
truul’s next outcry made Bannor’s bones vibrate. His vision grayed. The sound drove Sarai away. She fell at his side clutching her ears. Bannor pulled her to him. They’d made their statement.
The avatar clawed at the gleaming mithril jutting from his back. Black gore welled around the blade. Vapor curled out. The air filled with odor of disintegrating metal.
Lightning cracked the sky. “Fools!” Nystruul’s bellow drowned out the thunder. “I am immortal. I cannot die!”
Bannor put his arm around Sarai’s shoulder. Her face had turned the color of ash. She trembled. No more fight left in her.
Have to try something else. So weak. It felt as if demon gnawed on his chest. Hard to breathe. He took rapid, shallow breaths. Pain crashed through him in waves. Auras ringed everything in sight. The rolling thunderheads caught his attention, in them, the rings bent and swirled.
A pattern.
His vision blurred. In the swirling shapes, multicolored lines pulsed and intertwined. Lightning flashed, twining down into the ocean. In the brilliance, he saw the corkscrewed simplicity of its essence.
In the clouds, he’d seen their tracery, saw how they gave up part of their essence to form the bolt that streaked cloud-to-cloud or at the ground.
Nystruul rose, still transfixed by Sarai’s blade.
Every muscle twitching, Bannor forced himself to his feet with Sarai’s help.
“Let’s test your immortality,” Bannor rasped. He reached toward the sky, forming the thunderhead’s tracery in his mind. He felt the storm’s pulse throbbing at the edge of his touch.
He twisted the weave and pointed at the charge’s target: the shaft of metal jutting from his enemy’s body.
He grabbed Sarai and dove away. Night turned to day as dozens of streaks of energy ripped downward.
The detonations of thunder blended into a single roar too loud to be heard. Scalding air gusted over them. The storm unleashed its full fury on Nystruul, mauling and tossing him like a piece of raw meat attacked by wolves.
Sarai clutched Bannor around the neck and buried her face in his chest.
His stomach twisted and he looked away.
Silence.
He felt a furious humming in his head and moisture trickled down his neck from his ears. The winds had slackened. A stomach-churning stench filled the air. It seemed as if the thunderstorm had spent all its power in that single assault. Even the waves looked smaller.
Bannor collapsed; his weight pulled him and Sarai to the sand. Summoning the lightning had torn away all his remaining strength.
“I hope he’s dead,” Bannor groaned. “I couldn’t do that again if I wanted to.”
“He has to be,” Sarai said in a voice that sounded tiny and distant. Bannor saw that she’d spoken with as much volume as she could muster. It might be hours or days before either of them could hear normally again.
The glow of Sarai’s eyes looked faint. “Nothing could live through that.”
Assisting each other they moved away a short distance.
They’d killed the Nystruul. Wren was dead. It still left them trapped in this alien place. Bannor didn’t know how the avatar found them or if more of his kind would come.
Raindrops pattered on the sand, a mist rather than driving downpour. The cool liquid soothed his burned skin.
“We did it, Bannor,” Sarai said. She tried to smile but it looked more like a grimace. “We stopped him without Wren’s help.”
He let out a laugh and stopped from the pain. “Look at us! This isn’t a victory. We’re barely alive. There’ll be others. We can’t keep fighting like this. We need someplace safe.” He looked out to sea. “That is if we can get away from here.”
Sarai nodded. “Poor Wren, I didn’t like her, but that’s no way for her to die. Cursed assassin.” She glanced back toward the avatar’s remains.
Her eye widened and her jaw went slack. The little color that had returned to her face left it again. Sarai grabbed his arm and pointed.
Bannor felt his skin prickle. Past where Wren’s still form lay. The avatar’s charred corpse twitched. A leg bent and a hand clawed the sand.
“Odin,” Bannor breathed. Despite the hot burning on his chest, his insides grew cold.
Perhaps the avatar was truly immortal, the spirit of a god imbuing mortal flesh with supernatural life. The body could be killed, but apparently not Hecate’s influence. Hecate was elsewhere—empowering Nystruul’s shell much the same way he had impelled Wren when she left her body.
Bannor’s strength was gone and wouldn’t know what to do, anyway. How did you drive out a deity’s demiurge?
“What do we do?” Sarai asked.
Bannor shook his head. Groaning, he rose to his knees. Rain trickled down his face. His chest ached and it hurt to breathe. If they ran, they wouldn’t make it far.
Sarai pushed herself up clutching his shoulder. They watched as the blackened body’s movements grew more deliberate like a puppet master untangling the strings of a broken puppet.
“We can only play for time. We thought Rankorhaaz was unstoppable. It simply took the right thing.”
Sarai’s face screwed up. “It took Wren. You hurt the demon. She killed it.”
“Funny to hear that coming from you. Come on.” It took all his effort to stand.
Bannor wobbled, uncertain of his footing. Sarai swayed at his side. He glanced back at Wren. If they survived they’d come back and give her a proper burial.
The savant’s features looked waxy in the dim light. Her expression had relaxed; she no longer wore the grimace of pain as when she fell.
Nystruul rolled over and rose to hands and knees. His body was now only a sticklike caricature of bones, sinew, and parboiled flesh.
“Bannor!” Sarai pulled on him.
He took a last look at Wren. Even if Sarai didn’t, he thought of Wren as his friend. His insides knotted. He would try to do well in her memory.
They turned and staggered away, leaving Wren alone by the ebony sea to greet her maker.
* * *
Dead, undead—the difference never bothered me much.
What’s a few maggots between friends?
—From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
« ^ »
Bannor staggered down the sapphire beach doing his best to support Sarai. He hiked Wren’s pack on his shoulders, regretting its extra weight. The cool night drizzle continued to patter down urged by a sighing breeze. He stumbled and caught himself. He was the one who needed help. His body had been drowned, battered, burned, and shocked. It was pure miracle he still moved at all. His ears still echoed with reverberation of the thunderbolts he struck Nystruul with.
Sarai looked as frayed as he did, clothing torn and sandy, bruises covering her face and neck, and one eye swollen.
The chill night air only added to the stiffness of their wounds, robbing them of valuable mobility.
“Is he after us yet?” Bannor asked as loudly as he could. After being so close to the thunder strikes, neither could hear well. He couldn’t spare concentration to look or he’d fall down and be unable to rise again.
Sarai pushed damp strands of hair from her eyes and looked back. “I don’t see him.”
“I hated leaving Wren back there.” He swallowed. “I should have done something.” Bannor glanced out to the rolling black sea, the stars shining from the underside of the breakers. His stomach tightened. “Something.”
“She was already gone, Bannor. That freak must have poisoned the dart. You tried. You can’t raise the dead.” Sarai glanced over her shoulder again. “Wren isn’t around to help anymore. We have to protect ourselves now.”
“Need to concentrate,” he muttered. “I can’t imagine how we can kill it. The lightning should have liquefied him. Should be nothing left.” He looked up to let the rain wash down his face. “If my ears would stop ringing I might be able to think. If only we had some of Wren’s healing potion.”
S
arai nodded. “At least we’d have the strength to fight back.” She stopped. “Wait, maybe we do. You still have her knapsack. Look inside.”
They could only hope. Bannor groaned, twisting to unshoulder the pack. It made his singed skin stretch painfully. They stumbled into the shelter of some rocks to prevent soaking the contents of the pack that had been meticulously weatherproofed with oil and resin.
Bannor laid it on a rock and undid the strings. Sarai stepped out of the cleft and kept an eye out for Nystruul. They didn’t know when the avatar would be after them again. Bannor had immolated the creature in a thunderstorm’s full fury. Nothing should have been able to remain whole in that conflagration.
Sarai returned to watch him go through the contents. Inside, the depth and breadth of the pack felt much larger than the outside portrayed. His hand could move far past the dimensions of the bag before he touched the sides.
More of Wren’s surprises. He always wondered how she managed with only a bedroll and this knapsack. Now, it made sense. Inside were numerous packets of herbs and strange minerals, the mortar and pestle Wren used to make her alchemical solutions, a few tightly bound changes of clothes, a tinder case, the coil of hair rope they made, a wooden box, and three books, one being the metal journal Wren always wrote in. Irodee would want that.
Leaving the wooden box out, he put everything else back. He opened it. In round receptacles were six potion vials one of which contained a swirling blue fluid.
“Yes.” He felt a little surge of hope. “I don’t care if it is made out of dragon whiz.”
Sarai smiled faintly. He knew her wounds hurt as much as his. No doubt she had bruises and contusions hidden beneath her clothing he couldn’t see.
“We’ll split it,” he said. “You go first.” He uncorked the container and handed it to her.
Bannor went to the opening and checked the beach. A cliffbird cawed its raucous laughing sound. The waves tumbled on a dark empty shore. No sign of Nystruul.
He turned back to see Sarai still nerving herself to drink the noxious smelling, foul-tasting concoction.
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