by Dylan Doose
What would you do? the voice asked again.
Chayse. Her foe was deadly quick—a viper with his daggers, his speed was relentless, but Chayse matched him. Her short swords flashed and danced well with the daggers of her foe. But for every strike of hers, he had an answer, just as she did to his. But she was fading… fading…
The seeker took a chance and pressed in when Chayse made her next attack instead of back-stepping. She could have parried, but if she had he would have retracted and their dance would have continued, a dance she could not hope to master. She didn’t parry. Instead she took the seeker’s right-hand dagger to the torso. She didn’t scream out, only gritted her teeth. Chayse cut off the seeker’s other arm at the elbow. He let go of the blade in her belly and stumbled back screaming, staring at his gushing stump.
Chayse. The scream of her name only sounded in Aldous’ mind, or whatever space he now inhabited as he observed the battlefield. The dagger was at least nine inches, and it was buried in her to the hilt. Emotion began to rise in him, a molten flow .
She stepped forward and crossed her blades on the armless bastard’s throat and slit it to the spine.
Theron could not hold the impending blade any longer, and at the pace of thawing ice under a winter’s sun, the pale knight’s sword snuck through the vision hole in Theron’s helm and bit into his eye. His screams were mad and frantic and his legs kicked like a hanged man’s.
Stand, Aldous Weaver.
How? I am dying.
Stand and save Theron. Theron Ward must survive. It was a woman’s voice.
How? How, damn you!
Pay the price and he will live.
What fucking price?
Chayse, blood running down her legs from the blade in her gut, still gripped her swords, and with them she stumbled to her brother’s aid.
The pale knight stood, and for the first time Aldous realized what he was. For he flared his fangs as he met her swords. She was disarmed in a flash, and then the world seemed to slow.
Theron screamed his sister’s name as he sprang to his feet, blood gushing from his gouged socket. He was not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough to save her. The greater Upir’s sword did not slow. It did not waver as it parted Chayse’s head from her shoulders.
Chayse.
Aldous could feel the heat of the tears burning down the face of his body far below.
Chayse.
Theron howled into the night like the beasts he hunted, the sound chilling and rife with pain. He tore off his helm, caught the stabbing blade of the Upir in the visor of the helmet, and gave a twist. The sword sprang from the Upir’s hand and Theron dropped the helm; before it hit the ground he drove his bloody, gauntleted fist into his sister’s slayer’s face. Then a right and another left landed before the enemy adjusted and avoided the next blow .
Ken’s gone. Chayse is gone. Theron yet lives. Save him.
What is the price?
Everything. The price of worlds. A cost far greater than you can comprehend. Now pay it.
Aldous returned to his body, he returned to his pain, the earth screaming in his ears, the pressure devouring and exploding his brain. He returned to it for an instant and then it was gone. The world went silent and his mind became clear. His body pulsed.
He closed his fist around the red gemstone. It pulsed in his hand, a transfusion of power. Slowly, he drew the pendant over his head, the chain catching in his hair as he dragged it free.
The seeker’s arcane chains burst. The pale mage collapsed as Aldous stood, and he screamed for a moment before his skull exploded into a mist of blood and brain, and dust of bone.
Then the ravens came—thousands of flaming ravens ascended from the still blazing ring of fire that burned in the trench surrounding the keep. Aldous could feel them, he could see through them, each and every one of them. He could feel their hunger.
The Emerald Witch snapped from her occupation of the colossus rat’s mind, and the massive creature collapsed to the ground. Sensing the threat of the infernal ravens, her eyes rolled back yet again, and the corpses of rats on the ground surrounding her began to stir. They stood, some without heads, disemboweled and with severed limbs, but they stood nonetheless and made a shield around the witch. The first raven made contact and set the rat shield ablaze; the second and the third caused it to burst, sending chunks of flaming, pestilent meat flying through the courtyard. As more and more of the rats burst, the witch began to drain. Her skin wrinkled and grayed, but still she raised more of her dead beasts to her aid. The blinded colossus found his way to her, where it swatted aimlessly at the firestorm of ravenous ravens. It screamed as its limbs were set to flame.
Aldous altered his focus and looked through the burning eyes of his flock that swarmed the Upir. He was fast, and avoided one swooping attack after the next, but some found their mark.
Never in his life, and never in his darkest dreams, had Theron witnessed such surreal madness. A swarm of burning ravens soared in the sky, and Aldous stood in the center of the courtyard looking upward, his flaming hands outstretched to his sides. Theron had taken refuge beneath the mutilated corpses of his fallen allies from the earlier fight. He watched as the Upir was hit again and again by raven after raven, but his speed was no match for the ephemeral forms of fiery death. His black iron armor began to glow red, and he screamed as it melted to his flesh. The iron bubbled and Theron could smell the bastard searing.
Finish him, be the one to finish him.
He rolled out from beneath the corpses. He saw Chayse, her head fouled and bloody in the offal of the slaughter, as he reached down and grasped Sir Crowle’s war hammer.
The Upir was crawling aimlessly to the north wall. To the breach. Theron saw Ken lying there, his left hand gone, his eyes closed. Theron would give him revenge. He would give himself revenge. He would give Chayse, his magnificent Chayse, revenge.
The clouds clanged thunder, and a cold rain began to fall. Too cold for summer. It ran into his empty, throbbing socket and the water mingled with the blood. As the thunder bashed the heavens, the Emerald Witch began to chant; her voice deepened and left her with inhuman volume. The unknown words echoed through the courtyard and mingled with the Upir’s screams of pain, the bestial moans of the burning colossus, and the shriek of the hungry ravens.
A green mist crawled over the dead, and the corpses of rat and man alike began to rise. Theron did not fret, for as they did, Aldous’ ravens burst them to bits and turned them to ash. The ones that were not consumed by the hellfire, Theron sent back to death with the hammer.
The ravens burst man and rat alike, living and dead. It mattered not; they circled and protected Theron as he stalked his prey.
“Stop your crawling. ”
The Upir obeyed, for the fight was over, and somehow Theron and the defenders of Dentin had won. The rain had cooled the iron, but it seared deep into the fiend’s flesh, right to the bone in his legs. A greater Upir could heal from such wounds, but it would take time, time the creature did not have.
“You still feel pain, Upir?” Theron stomped on one of the corroded legs and the Upir screamed. He screamed just like a man, frantic, afraid. Just like Theron had been screaming as the bastard cut out his eye. Just as his heart had screamed as the bastard took Chayse’s head.
“Finish it, hunter,” the Upir begged.
“I will, but tell me why you spoke of my mother. Why did you speak of Diana Ward? Where is she?” Theron tried to keep his voice steady; he tried to focus through the pain, like Ken would have done. Like Chayse had done.
A body exploded nearby and smoldering chunks landed at Theron’s feet.
“She was one of us,” the Upir said, relishing the telling, his words aimed like pointed darts. “She was one of the heads of Leviathan.”
“Leviathan?” And when the creature made no answer, Theron swung the heavy war hammer down on a mangled leg.
The Upir wailed.
“One of the higher orders, an order of mages.
Powerful. Unstoppable. You cannot stop us. Even your mother could not stop us.”
“If she was one of you, why did she try to stop you?”
“She was one of us once,” the Upir said, sly now as it faced death.
“Explain.”
“She wanted all the power for herself, and that we did not allow. But we are many. Kill me, kill the Emerald Queen, and another head will just grow! Another…”
Theron brought the hammer down on the Upir’s skull. He decided if he survived this he would make inquiries, but for now all he had to do was kill. So he brought the hammer down again, and again. He pulverized the fiend’s head into nothingness, into the mulch that was fed to dogs, or rats. There would be no recovering from that.
Next was the witch .
When he turned to find her, it was too late. Over the back of the burning colossus he saw her, hunched over and defeated atop her black demonic mare riding off into the darkness, into the storm.
The ravens were gone, as was the green mist. No more of the dead were walking. There was just cold rain in a courtyard of corpses, and Theron Ward alone had his first taste of a real battle, along with his first taste of victory. It was a wretched taste.
They sipped on their golden wine, too lavish for the world of men; they feasted upon their otherworldly sweets and most exotic meats, high up there in their tower that pierced the clouds, so high it nearly touched the sun. But despite their great ascension they did not burn; they did not fall back down to earth. Instead, every year, every month and every day, bit by bit, inch by inch higher, they rose. The one with golden hair at times would look over the edge so far down at the world of men, at the children she left behind. She would think of the lover she’d betrayed and remember watching as he fell all the way back down. She smiled at her children; she smiled at her lover, who was strong enough to reach up and touch the new gods. She smiled because she hoped her son would not only be able to touch them, but in his fury, in his fiery heart that was the heart of man, he would be able to wound them, to draw the blood of the divine. Hunter of monsters, hunter of demons, hunter of gods—how high could Theron Ward climb?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Never Alone Again
T heron took some small rations from Dentin Keep when he left in pursuit of the witch—not much, but enough to get him through the first few days. He found his claymore and he equipped Chayse’s bow. He wrapped bandages around his head, covering his empty socket with cloth. The duke’s man Fabius had an impressive personal stash of medicinal herbs, all of which the duke gave to Theron, despite Fabius’ protests. They helped with the pain, but Theron consumed them sparingly, for they reduced his focus and made him slow. He found a middle ground and took enough to take the edge off while still being able to make good time in his pursuit.
It took him five days to adjust to the change in depth perception that having only a single eye afforded. On the fifth day his sister’s bow scored him a fine buck, eight points on him. He ate well that night as he sat alone by a small fire. He thought if Ken had been there they would have nearly eaten half the beast, just the two of them. Aldous would have nibbled and become full and satisfied after a few ounces of the fine meat.
And Chayse… A tear formed in his remaining eye while the hollow socket covered in bandages throbbed. Chayse would have eaten herself sick just to keep up with Ken .
The tear rolled down his cheek.
The chasm on the other side just ached.
A missing eye was a strange absence. So were missing friends. A missing sister an absence that could not be described. One could carry on alone and one could carry on with just one eye, but one would never be able to see the whole picture.
He looked at his claymore glinting in the firelight as he ran a wet stone across its edge. Methodically, at a smooth, steady pace, no rushing. Not anymore. It didn’t matter when he found her—sooner or later, it meant nothing.
What was time, anyway? There was no Wardbrook to go back to, not after this. He was not the same as he had been; he never would be the same again. Darcy Weaver was wrong; his book was wrong. There was no science to goodness—there was only the weak, the evil, and the wrath that evil invoked.
He was Theron Ward no longer; he was only that wrath. It felt like a choice no longer, this pursuit he now took. This hunt consumed him, and it was he. The witch could run to every edge of this world; she could dig a pit to hell or ascend to the heavens. It mattered not, for he would find her and she would know the feeling of prey. She would be a beast cornered and she would fight with everything she had left to carry on another day, another day to the centuries of her wretched existence, but she would not have it.
Theron bit into the venison, just slightly cooked. He liked it bloody.
That fucking witch will bleed, oh, she will bleed and she will suffer. She will understand fear and pain. The end of the world will not be far enough. The day she crossed me, I became her only clock, her only calendar, and for her the sands of time swirl down to the last grain.
He boiled water and placed a generous portion of the medicinal herbs and roots into the small pot. He tossed some into the fire and wafted the smoke into his face as he waited for the water to boil.
He thought of his childhood, before Mother became very strange. He thought of guests in fine clothes with grand stories and the way Father trained with vigor in the courtyard. He touched the red gemstone around his neck, the piece of his mother’s jewelry he had given to Aldous. As he stared into the fire and inhaled the smoke, he could see the wizard’s ravens again.
Such tremendous power at that young of an age, power grand wizards and arch mages would take two centuries to unlock. It was no small wonder that sorcery was punishable by death, for if every great sorcerer and sorceress of this world united, they would rule indefinitely. Their arrogance and vanity was what preserved the world of man, for they hated each other too much to ever unify, even as they paid lip service to an order of mages. The words of the greater Upir had confirmed that for him.
The water had boiled. Theron inhaled the steam and sipped on the brew, tears rolling down his right cheek into the potent liquid.
“Do you remember what you said to me? What you said when I left?” His mother’s voice, taunting him. A memory. A dream.
“Where were you, Mother? If your power is so great, if you are so high above, then why did you not descend to save your daughter? To aid your son?” Theron screamed into the dark sky, into loneliness. His life of reading gave him no answers; philosophy did nothing for his pain, and although the herbs had now fully dulled the ache in his empty socket, they amplified the ache in his being.
What was Darcy Weaver’s answer to this? Aldous the son would give a better answer, and that answer was hate. Ken would give a better answer, and that answer was vengeance. Chayse would know the answer, and that answer was the hunt.
“Do you remember, Theron?”
It was the voice of his mother, but it was not a memory and it was not his own thoughts. His hand shot to the pendant around his neck. The stone was cool and smooth.
“Mother?”
“Do you remember?”
Theron looked around franticly, then kicked over the pot of boiled roots and medicinal herbs. I have taken too much.
“Do you remember?” Mother asked again.
“Chayse is dead…” He fell to his knees and wept. “Because of me, sh e is dead. Chayse is dead, Mother! I killed your daughter! I killed my friends! What monster am I? What manner of fiend, what devil was I to decide?”
“The day I left, you cursed my name, you cursed it to the abyss, and you said you would forge your own legend with a sword and the will of man. You said that you held the greater power, not I, but you, the mere mortal, would strike fear into the hearts of all dark things, that the name Theron Ward would become myth, the idol of the hunt for time eternal. As you cursed my name I smiled, for on that first day you understood my sacrifice. Your destiny is myth, my son. This is only the begi
nning of your pain. This is only your first meal of it. You will be buried alive in suffering again and again, and you will rise from the grave.”
“We were children!”
“Children who needed hardship.”
“Children who needed a mother and a father!”
“To coddle you? To weaken you, more than wealth already did? One day you will thank me.”
“You knew the Emerald Witch was coming to Brynth. You knew our paths would cross.”
“I did not know, but I hoped.”
“How could you hope for such a crossing? Did you know of her intent? Of the plague?”
“Indeed. It was what caused us to go our separate ways.”
“Why do you speak to me now? Why tell me this now? Why did you not warn me? Why did you not kill her? You could have killed her before she killed Chayse.” Even as he said the words, he knew she would give no answer. Instead he asked, “Do you know what the plague did to this country?”
“Made it stronger.”
“For what? For whom?”
“What comes next.”
“What comes next?”
There was no answer. She was gone; the voice was gone or the intensity of the high was fading. Regardless, no answer came.
Theron rose early the next morning. Despite the haze of the herbs, the venison had done him good, and as he followed the tracks he chewed on some of the meat he had cooked, salted and cut into thin strips. Nothing was better on the road than being well fed, not stuffed but not starving, enough to keep the muscles going and fight off the brutal depletion that the road often gives.
The clouds were still above, but there was no rain and the temperature was moderate and cool. The Emerald Witch’s tracks led north. She did not seem to stop even once. Her shadowy steed had to have been summoned, for any horse not conjured from the arcane realms would have needed to stop by now.