by T. A. Miles
Whatever it may have been exactly, the response to it came immediately. At first, members of the Vadryn army who were infiltrating the city began drifting into his sphere of awareness, like small clouds in form and curious children in nature. He hoped that meant that they had abandoned hosts throughout the battlefield, but the thought wasn’t allowed to linger. Instead, he concentrated on the fact that here, as within the caves, they were distracted by him, making their way as surely as rats to an unprotected store of food. Casting Siren surpassed Analee’s presence and, in its way, defied her role. The levels of magic emanating from him, in the way it did, would not tolerate hiding. In this, his soul was brazenly rebellious, challenging the demons who would chase after it, daring men who would envy it, and defying the gods who had created it.
And it was in the midst of Song’s audacious rise when Korsten was struck by a force of tremendous power, one more destructive and invasive even than Serawe had been. It felled him immediately. He felt as if he had been literally pressed into the earth, except that he tumbled from the place he had been standing. On reflection, it was as being kicked by a giant, though there was nothing visibly present apart from the surrounding battle. He wondered for the briefest moment if Sharlotte’s magic had gone awry, his memory leaping back to when she had used it against him deliberately. But that wasn’t what had happened, he reasoned immediately. The sounds of Sharlotte’s spells echoed from further down the street, accompanied by the clash of steel and the occasional residual thundering of the ships’ fantastic weapons in the harbor. Surely, they couldn’t reach this far, though.
Korsten righted himself slowly, numbed somewhat by the lingering sensation of having been struck—as if by the gods. He looked around him for evidence of further destruction, but saw none beyond the splay of bodies and discarded weapons the previous fighting had already put in the street. The longer Korsten sat there, the more abandoned the area began to feel, as if he’d been transported to a vision of the city overrun and left behind. It reminded him very much of the first time he had accidentally Reached somewhere, though he knew this time that he had not, not unless the spell had lately developed a force similar to Blast and one which fell upon the caster. He knew that it hadn’t, but what exactly did happen?
He was reminded of Leodyn’s way with magic, how it had come with a heavy brunt, like a landing storm. In one instance of its use, a battle had ensued between archdemons. He had been witness then, to the full bloat of their accumulated power. Both demons had swollen in physical manifestation to match their spirits. They had become beasts the size of gods.
Korsten scanned the abandoned and disheveled street around him, anticipating that the smoky shape of a Vadryn giant might burst upward from beneath it. While focusing, he could still hear the sounds of battle and he could also descry the sound of the waterfall that ran a channel of rushing water through the city. But it all sounded distant somehow, held behind a barrier of some kind. It took on a distorted layer while he listened.
It was then that he began to feel a presence, one gradually approaching, like a storm front. But unlike a storm, he felt as if this presence had isolated him, specifically…as if it were bent on reaching him, and driving all of its raw power down upon him. Its darkness and purpose was unmistakable. He was somehow in the presence of an archdemon.
The cliffs appeared reasonably peaceful, compared to the activity beneath them. Soldiers and constabulary men and women were still rushing about, but in preparation for something that had not arrived. From the point where he and Cayri had assisted Ceth in turning back nature’s wave, Vlas now stood with a different priest, a determined constable, and a man whose role in any of this was hindered by injury. It set his thoughts briefly on Merran, but the nature of the light below served as ample distraction. The war had indeed come this far, and it had done so by sea. The question now remained, would it do so by land as well?
Lerissa may have been pondering the same thing, stood beside him with the wind at the city’s highest point turning loose strands of hair that was tinted darker by the mix of fire and shadow in the air. Amid the shadow, a black moth perched on her neck, just below her hairline. The darkness of the soulkeeper, compared to the colorlessness of his own, denoted on what part of the Spectrum their similarities branched away from each other.
When she had taken in enough of the conflict below, Lerissa looked across their higher space, toward the most populated area of soldiers. “Let’s find this Captain Gairel,” she said.
Firard agreed by stepping back from the railed edge to join them.
The immediate area was carpeted in equal parts by grass and stone. Several flat areas had been cobbled to sustain towers with rotating wheels. The four of them made their way across the field of wheels, toward the midway point where the water channeled. The sounds of the waterfall drowned out any sounds from below. Even the explosions from the ships were significantly muffled by the ferocity of the waterfall’s roar.
Around the central channel, lay a yard of stone, like an impossibly wide street to either side of it with narrow bridges of stone and iron laid across it. The bridges were marked by lantern and the yard itself, populated with soldiers who might just as well have been doing their city a better service by abandoning this place. Beyond the channel was spread more of the city, though the buildings were lower in stature and not as condensed in placement. It did occur to Vlas that, if Morenne were to seize control of this vantage, they would potentially be able to launch their brand of fire tactics down onto the city below, and that would be incredibly disastrous.
Before they reached the nearest bridge, they were stopped by a soldier who inquired of their presence, whom was duly informed, and who they asked where the captain could be found. They were directed across the water.
Finding Gairel was not a difficult task. The man was located amid a large gathering of soldiers, receiving information and delivering orders for the further preparation of a highly anticipated assault.
Lerissa approached him at once. “Excuse me, Captain.”
He was far too busy to acknowledge her for several moments, though he did visually note her presence in one specific instance. In the moments following, he quickly took in her companions and otherwise set about his affairs. The ill news, even without having spoken to the man directly, was that it sounded as if enemy troops had been spotted on the high ground. That determined, if a camp hadn’t been discovered nearby, they might well have marched from a considerable distance. That could work in their favor.
“We may simply have to fight alongside them,” Lerissa murmured.
Vlas was not keen on the suggestion, but understood that this was a situation that might call for just that. At least Irslan was safely stashed in the city’s safest location, for now. He did imagine that the man would fight if he had to, however.
“If it comes to that,” Firard was saying to Lerissa, appearing more than eager to relive the days of his soldiering youth…if he’d even departed from them to begin with. He might not have.
Regardless of that, Lerissa precluded the notion with, “You, my dear sir, are not battle ready.”
He seemed mildly perplexed by the manner in which he had been addressed, but he overcame it quickly. “Be that as it may, young madam, it may come to that anyway.”
Lerissa looked over her shoulder at him. She was nearly smirking. “I suppose I do look like a ‘young madam’, don’t I?”
She did, of course. “You might be younger than I am,” Vlas said, because he was fairly certain that was true.
“Oh, might I? I would wager you on that if there was time for it, Priest Vlas.”
“I’m not a wagering person,” Vlas told her. “And it’s unimportant besides. I’d forgotten how irrelevant you can be, for one of Ceth’s most excelling students.”
“Irrelevant? How rude.” Lerissa dismissed him, his words, or their conversation entirely with a wave of her hand.
Vlas let her do so, giving attention to Gairel when the ca
ptain was allowed a moment away from the cluster of soldiers trying to gain direction from him.
The man approached with a look that hovered between wonder and apology. “Did you bring word from Governor Tahrsel?” he asked, as if he’d expected that, though maybe not from the three before him.
“We have,” Lerissa replied. “We’ve been asked to help you reorganize the defense of this area.”
That evidently was not what he’d expected to hear by the pause the comment drew. Still, he didn’t fight it. “Reorganize how?”
“We’re going to help you to plot a trap for the invaders,” she explained. “It won’t require most of your men. I think it might be possible to arrange a false path to the water, which Priest Vlas and I could then arrange for the enemy to fall into. What have you to stop them advancing now?”
Gairel looked toward the water as it was mentioned, then said, “The first line of defense will be the arbalests. We’ve done our best to conceal them against the enemy eyeing them up prematurely, now that we’ve seen the ability and range they have using fire tactics.”
“Yes,” Lerissa said thoughtfully. “And now that gives me another idea. Rather than the water trap, might it be a better option to…”
“Shroud the pending battlefield,” Vlas finished for her, presuming they were coming to the same scenario.
They were. Lerissa nodded. “Yes, and conceal the arbalests altogether. Though, once begun, Morenne might assail us blindly with their fire tactics, it will at least afford us a valuable first strike.”
“Yes, it would,” Imris agreed.
Gairel was nodding, not in immediate agreement, but in consideration. “Yes,” he said. “It might.”
Firard added further justification to Lerissa’s and Vlas’ plan. “It’s not as if visibility is paramount with the arbalests. Launching an entire panel of arrows into a formation of men, it’s probable that most will strike something.”
“What does the layout look like?” Vlas asked the captain.
“Morenne has a sloped approach from the north,” Gairel said, gesturing behind him in the general direction. “There’s no way around it, unless they go a great length—that of many miles—to attempt a western advance. The terrain rises slower in that direction and is less craggy, but again, to circumnavigate the rocky terrain and the wall, as we call it, would take them considerable time. Their confidence thus far makes me believe that they’ll try the most direct path.”
“I believe so as well,” Lerissa said, and Vlas nodded, agreeing.
Gairel took another moment calibrating their conversation and ideas, then said, “All right, let’s employ these new tactics.”
“Take us to the wall, please, Captain,” Lerissa said, then held up a hand. “But first…”
She turned toward Firard. “I’m going to take a look at your arm, young sir.”
Gairel presumed that to mean he was no longer needed for the conversation at hand, and departed for the time being. Vlas watched him to a group of soldiers, whom he undoubtedly meant to inform of the alterations to their defense. In the periphery of Vlas’ view, Firard was allowing Lerissa to attend to his lingering injury, which was more than any of them could have done for him before her arrival. Vlas was not a healer of any kind and Cayri’s abilities were to do with emotional balancing and recovery more than physical. In fact, he knew she had performed a casting on him lately to help alleviate some of his distress over recent events. He didn’t resent her for it—quite the opposite—but he disliked knowing that he had exposed himself to such response over a stranger.
Over strangers, he amended, reminding himself of Imris’ presence. He had witnessed how automatically she had come with him, Lerissa, and Firard. And he had witnessed in himself, no protest whatsoever.
Korsten felt trapped in the open. He felt trapped by something intangible, but by something that also was not giving him its full attention yet. It was as if he were as small as Analee, caught beneath someone’s cupped hand to hold him in place until they completed whatever other engagement was occupying them. But he wasn’t actually being held. It was only a sensation, a strong impression of emotion which bore a weight that only just in these moments felt physical. He could leave, and he determined that he would.
Withdrawing his emotions, in effect dampening Allurance and thereby cancelling Song and the associated spell that may have been pending—or so he hoped—Korsten took steps through the abandoned street, toward where he knew the battle was taking place. In only a few paces, he was compelled to stop by images chasing through his vision. They were images of the demons in their falsely made vessels, scurrying along the walls of buildings that had been emptied of their residents. Amid their movement, glimpses of Serawe raked across his memory, as her claws had done over his skin. Whispers filled the air, some of them her voice, some of them unidentifiable, and one of them…
“Korsten…”
His mother.
He believed her voice had come from behind him and he turned to face her ghost, straining to see anything in the lay of shadows and in the way Serawe’s red form continued to hurry in front of his mental view, as if to deliberately obstruct his view of Zerxa. He strained against the heavy and insistent presence of her memory, saw the silhouette of his mother’s tall, slender form…
And then she was gone. Serawe was as well and in their place, he heard the forced cackle of a young man, one who Korsten would never forget. Alsaide’s demented pitch would never leave his memory. No matter how many years priesthood or the gods might grant him. Immediately afterward, he heard Dacia as she’d been when in conflict with the crone, and it struck him then that Alsaide’s madness might well have been owed to living or being in close proximity to a demon.
And that was when he thought of Renmyr. In the same instant, the sounds of footsteps began, at first clicking against pavement, but then resounding in the very air, as if made among the clouds by the gods. The sensation of the danger he was in at just that moment had never been stronger, save when Leodyn and another archdemon had emerged from Endmark’s hidden fortress. He knew now, for certain, that other archdemon was Renmyr. He was here now, but this was projection, not presence. This was not the first time he’d been held beneath Renmyr’s will.
The first time? His words echoed back at him darkly. You beautiful fool. You’ve never been free of it.
Whether the words had come from Renmyr directly, or some tainted aspect of him haunting Korsten’s memory, he couldn’t wait idly to be discovered. He turned toward the muffled sounds of battle once again, and took deliberate steps away from what he determined for the sake of his current presence of mind was memory. He felt followed, and so moved quicker. He might have run, but his path appeared suddenly to be no more, as if the ground had been scooped out by an invisible hand…the same that had been trying to pin him in place.
Who’s the betrayer? Which of us left the other?
“Renmyr,” he whispered, looking into the blackened abyss at his feet. Years ago, he’d have welcomed that abyss. He’d have gone willingly into its destructive embrace.
But not now. He couldn’t return to that place. It would only lead to further ruination. He had come to understand that, and his hope for Renmyr had dwindled in that time to a mere firefly in the darkness, but it remained nonetheless. He would see his path through. His path, not a course designed by a demon.
The wails of many gravelly voices rose up from the pit…from Hell’s depths, literally gaping beneath him. He could see the many limbs of the Vadryn clutching and writhing at the walls of this dark womb, waiting to be disgorged from the mouth of despair onto a world they would devour, if allowed. These were the children of gluttony, and of greed.
We’re yours…
The notion streaked to the front of his thoughts, boring through him and leaving a hot trail of blood across his mind. “No,” he said quietly.
And now he could see faces in the abyss.
Master…
Eyes lit across the da
rkness, like dying stars caught in the veil of an adulterated vision of Heaven.
A deep, depressive ache came to life inside of him. It throbbed malignantly and clouded his vision with tears. Whatever this was, it was not right. It should not have happened, but he knew that he had brought it onto himself. Through the Siren spell and through his own ignorance before that. He had given himself to demons, but he refused to give in. There had to be a way to turn this back…or to control it.
Again, the cries of protest from below. The thundering footsteps began again as well, coming faster. Korsten looked over his shoulder, at darkness that concealed itself within itself, growing absolute in the few moments he watched it. And in front of him there was the wound in the earth that should not have been. That could not have been.
That wasn’t.
It was in that moment, knowing as she so often did precisely when Korsten required her support, that Analee appeared in his plane of vision. The crimson butterfly fluttered just ahead of him, the brilliance of her color creating a glow of its own, like blood against blackness…. life against death.
Korsten stepped forward, onto the solid surface of an Indhovan street. The sounds of the fighting flared into full being. He looked behind him at darkness that was no deeper than the rest of the city. The presence previously surrounding and pursuing him seemed to have departed, or he had created all of it…as he had been creating visions of demons and of other beings since his altercation with Serawe. Dreams and memory were infringing upon reality. An ill consequence of casting Siren perhaps was madness.
“They won’t ever stop.”
Upon hearing the girl’s voice, Korsten looked toward its source, to Dacia Cambir, whom he knew starkly in that moment was no vision. He could feel her physical presence as much as he could detect the unbodied presence of the Vadryn.