‘You abandoned me,’ screamed Tilden. ‘You – that allowed our father to be slain. You - that stood aside whilst he was smashed to pulp. I saw his body at the funeral, patched up as best they could. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You weren’t there; cosseted away in a mental hospital - eating your dinner through a straw.’
Wist couldn’t deny Tilden’s accusations. He had no memory of his dad’s burial. Images of the sterile hospital flashed to the front of his mind and slowly, the tears began to fall.
‘Not only did you rob me of a father,’ Tilden continued mercilessly, ‘but a mother too. And who could blame her for her ire? Did I not only remind her of her lost husband but also the pathetic excuse for a son who had let it happen?
‘No,’ said Tilden, his voice returning to its natural level. ‘I hold nothing against our mother.
‘Did you enjoy seeing her in the desert?’ laughed Tilden. Wist blinked through his tears at Tilden. ‘Yes, there is nothing that you have befallen that has not been at my behest.’
‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Wist, looking at Eliscius for as long as he could manage. ‘He never did anything to harm you.’
‘Nothing to harm me?’ spat Tilden. ‘If it were not for Eliscius’ intransigent pride and lust for power, I would never have been exiled from Mashesh. You would have been the one driven out like an infection.
‘Anyway, he needed put out of his misery. I alone know what it is like to inhabit the soulless world of the Damned.’ Tilden idly kicked at the chair Eliscius’ body sat slumped on. It toppled to the ground with a crash, leaving the ancient man’s corpse splayed across the ground. Tilden straightened and played with the dagger that he had used to end Eliscius’ life.
‘He,’ said Tilden, as he pointed to his former mentor’s corpse with the blade, ‘was just the beginning. I had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this. I had hoped that you would have despaired of your situation long ago and taken your normal escape route.’ Tilden’s words swirled around Wist as if they were imbued with magic. He felt his breath shorten and his pulse quicken.
‘Not only have you damned yourself,’ said Tilden, ‘but these poor fools whom you have managed to trick into carrying your burdens, they have claimed your fate as their own.’ Tilden took a step towards Faric, the edge of his dagger leading the way.
The hypnotic abyss of Wist’s life opened up before him. The blackness that had brought him to this place waited for him there, but he wouldn’t give into it; he couldn’t - not this time. Tilden stopped, reached below his cloak and produced a cup. It had been filled somehow with a black lifeless fluid. In an echo of his premonitions, Tilden placed the cup reverentially on to the table and slid it across to Wist. It glided across the table as if cut from time, finding no resistance to its movement, until it came to rest in front of Wist. He looked dumbly at the vessel. The pressure pinning him to the chair had gone, but so had his anger.
‘Oh, come now,’ mocked Tilden. ‘Even you must have figured out what I require. You know that I can’t simply kill you.’
The revelation shook Wist. He hadn’t been able to recall what had happened after Tilden had questioned him during his first time in Mashesh. It came flooding back now. When he had been unable to answer Tilden’s questions, Tilden had stuck a dagger in his heart. That had triggered the cataclysm that had fractured the world. Tilden had tried to murder him.
‘But your return here has provided me with a means of escaping this tomb,’ said Tilden.
‘You took your own life,’ he laughed, his voice rising in pitch as hysteria gained a hold of him. ‘Couldn’t face it anymore? Couldn’t take the pain? But it didn’t end, did it? No, it just dragged you back here. Back to face your old failures. And create some new ones.’
‘Escape?’ asked Wist through a tornado of emotions. ‘What do you mean escape? Where could you possibly hope to go?’
‘I have been shown a way,’ said Tilden, his eyes flicking to the open door that they had entered through as if he was expecting someone. ‘A life elsewhere; a real life – the one I was meant to have. And all you have to do is drink; complete what you started.’
The foetid odour of the liquid assaulted Wist. It spoke of decay and ruin, breathing soundless words of eternal emptiness. It stirred another memory in Wist. Not from his past life, but one more recent, when he had faced the Krowen at Potter’s Field. Why had he thought of that now?
Tilden intentions were plain. Wist was to take his own life, and release Tilden from his eternal damnation.
Why not? A dark voice inside him asked. Wist recognised the voice. It was one he was intimately familiar with. It was not the memory of Tilden’s bitter threats. Nor was it the helpless voice of his mother who had so desperately sought someone to blame for her pain. This was his voice, the one he had listened to in the depths of his despair; the voice that had convinced him that the solution to his life was to open his wrists.
This was something else that he could not deny. Not anymore. He could remember the heat from the bath he had run. He could feel the cold touch of the tiles. He could smell the sweet tang of iron from his blood as it had washed into the bath… before the light had left him.
In cowardice, in self-pity, in despair, he had tried to end it all. He looked down to his wrist. The rag that Faric had placed there a lifetime ago was still there. Like the rest of his clothes, it was stained with the desert sands and blood. But the blood on the rag was not Eliscius', it was his own.
24 - Gallows Pole
Tilden stepped behind Faric’s chair. He placed the knife that he had used to murder Eliscius across Faric’s dark throat. Faric’s fate pulled Wist back to himself. There was no sign of fear on the Lyrat’s face, but neither was there resignation. He remained ready to act if he was given the chance.
‘I shall ask you only once,’ said Tilden, the veneer of sanity settling on him once more. ‘Drink or I shall begin executing your companions.
‘And should I run out of friends,’ Tilden bit off the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth, ‘then I shall begin on this city… and then I shall tear the world from its foundations, piece by piece.’
Indecision crippled Wist once more. Could he choose eternal damnation to spare the life of his friends? But the choice was torn from his hands. Tyla thundered through the door behind Aviti, falling into a smooth roll. Tilden never blinked as he pulled the dagger savagely through Faric’s windpipe and kicked his chair over leaving the Lyrat to join Eliscius on the floor.
Wist shouted in denial as he saw Faric fall, blood spraying from his open veins to mingle with the pool that already lay there. A towering rage built in Wist now. The fire that had been lit when Eliscius had been killed was fed by the blood of his friends.
The building rocked again as if it had been struck by a missile.
Tyla was followed through the door, first by Nikka who slipped on the blood and then Dregan who launched a stream of immolation at Tilden. The searing heat and light forced Wist to close his eyes.
A wave of power swept through the room. Wist felt that it would crush the life from him. It was unmitigated venom; hatred in its purest form. It tried to push him down further into his seat, seeking out any resistance that remained in his body and devouring it.
When Wist opened his eyes, he saw that Tilden had moved a few paces back from where he had executed Faric. The Lyrat lay on the stone floor, his body convulsing as the last of his life fled his body. Ignoring the man who lay dying at his feet, Tilden walked over to Dregan, who was now pinned against the dark stone wall by the force of the magic. The disbelief on Dregan’s face was obvious. He had not even noticed that Eliscius lay dead on the other side of the table yet.
‘You think you are a match for me,’ raged Tilden.
‘You pathetic, fucking worm,’ he spat his words into Dregan’s face. ‘You, I shall leave until last. You shall watch.’
The power that flowed from Tilden threatened to render Wist unconscious, so absolu
te was his control. Darkness crept in at the edges of Wist’s vision; a familiar darkness, but he denied it this time. He scanned the room for the remainder of the party. His anger alone would not free him; he needed something else.
Tyla had been held immobile where he stopped upon entering the room, kneeling as if in deference to Tilden. Nikka lay unconscious at the doorway. There would be no rescue for him.
Wist would not allow this to be the sum of his life. He would not meekly agree to Tilden’s request that he commit suicide. Everyone in this room had given up something for him. He could not remain passive now as they were executed to teach him a lesson. But he couldn’t move. He was secured so tightly he could barely even breathe. Why had he not acted when he had his chance? No! It could not be too late.
Tilden turned his attention back to Wist. ‘First,’ he said, ‘your little bitch dies.’ Tilden was in the grip of his own fury now, his purpose forgotten in order to gain revenge. Aviti’s eyes bulged. Wist could see her struggling against the invisible force that held her.
‘No!’ Wist screamed, his wrath shaking the room once more.
With his knife raised, Tilden walked over to Aviti. It appeared he would not be content until the room was awash with blood.
Aviti’s hand flicked up suddenly toward Wist. How had she managed to move? Perhaps, if she could counter Tilden’s magic, she could fight him? An unfocussed, delirious smile replaced the fear that had been in her eyes only seconds before.
Tilden stopped surprised that the girl had managed to free even a small part of herself. After he saw that she had no hope of freeing herself, he smiled to himself and took another step forwards. But he had missed what she had achieved. She had not been struggling to free herself - she had used her innate magic to free Wist. Somehow, she had found a way to counter his control and Wist seized his chance. Without a weapon in his hand, he seized the cup that Tilden had offered him, and threw it back at him. With his focus on Aviti, the cup caught Tilden on the jaw, its contents washing across his porcelain features.
Tilden screamed in pain. The instant the dark fluid touched his skin, it began to burrow downwards, its appetite seemly whetted by the taste of flesh.
Despite lacking a weapon, Wist was gripped by a mounting rage. Just as the acrid fluid bit into Tilden’s corporeal form, Wist’s anger ate into his soul. Wist tried to launch himself across the table at Tilden, but part of Tilden’s magic remained in place. Wist was able to move, but now he felt that he was bound by invisible ropes rather than compressed magic. He struggled against its bonds. Around the room the signs of Tilden’s slipping control were present - only Dregan remained motionless, as if petrified by the early assault. Soon Tilden’s control would vanish. Then the only question would be who would reach him first.
As Tyla rose, the room was plunged into darkness. A sensation of loss and abandonment filled Wist once more. “No!” shouted Wist. “No, damn it!” The darkness, the fear, the emptiness… it was all too familiar.
The Waren. They had come to reclaim Tilden.
Wist stood up in the blackness. He wouldn’t let that bastard escape. Grasping out in the darkness, he collided with something and crashed heavily to the floor. Light and pain exploded in his head as it connected with the flagstones. No visions or flashes of the past awoke in his mind, only a blinding all-encompassing rage. He pulled himself to his hands and knees. Fear had no claim on him now. There was nothing Tilden could do to him that he hadn’t already done to himself. He would tear him to pieces. The floor convulsed as he grasped for Tilden, and he caught hold of a piece of cloth. Wist pulled at it desperately, trying to grab, trying to keep hold of Tilden. But like his past, it slipped through his fingers. The darkness shifted, becoming incomplete. Wist shouted in impotent rage.
Where was Tyla? Why hadn’t he grabbed Tilden? Tyla feared nothing. And Dregan - what of the mage, where was his powerful magic now?
Then the darkness was gone and the insubstantial light from the lamps in the room returned. Tilden was gone and so were the Waren. They had taken their ally back to their hiding place.
Wist shook with the effort of controlling his wrath. He looked at Faric’s body, which had joined Eliscius’ on the floor. Their blood ran together, mingling at his feet.
Tyla stood over the body of his Lyrat Pair; he had been more than a comrade, more even than a brother. Despite the enforced separation they had suffered when their link had been broken, Tyla had never sunk to the depths that Faric had touched. Perhaps he had held on to the hope that the damage could be repaired, or had he just been refusing to accept the inevitable? Had Faric’s bitter reaction been the correct one?
But the Lyrat could not refuse this brutal truth. There would be no resurrection of his Pair. His brutalised corpse lay at his feet, mocking his hopes and betraying his future. His loss paralysed him as completely as Wist’s ever had. There was no blame Wist could place at Tyla’s feet, which he should not adopt first. No, there was no blame, but neither was there pity.
Nikka lay insensate where he had been felled. The Cerni had tried, but the truth was that he had been unequal to the task. Again, Wist could not fault Nikka; his body had faltered where his heart had not. Nikka’s loss should have shamed Wist; Nikka had less reason than any of them to be there. He could simply have refused to follow Dregan, sat in his home on the side of the Rathou, safe from this carnage. He too must have realised the trap, into which they all walked so willingly. But Wist could no longer feel shame. It had been consumed by his rage, fed into the fire of his hate and self-loathing.
Aviti had slumped in her chair; the effort of combating Tilden’s dark powers had exhausted her. She may have been unconscious, Wist couldn’t tell. He owed her everything, but his anger would not allow him to focus on that. It wanted a target. And he knew whom to blame.
Dregan stood exactly where he had when Tilden had overcome him – forced against a wall, held now by disbelief and failure rather than magic. Wist strode over to the mage, ignorant of the footprints he made on the stone floor with his comrade’s blood. Just as Tilden had, he stepped to face Dregan, stopping with their faces inches apart.
‘Where was your magic?’ shouted Wist, his words dripping with vengeance. ‘Your bold promises – this headless rush – what was the point?’ The stench of Tilden’s burned flesh caught in Wist’s throat. He choked for a second, losing the momentum of his attack.
‘Coward!’ Wist yelled into Dregan’s face, desperate to vent his anger. ‘Aviti beat him. Did you see that? Aviti, unaided, released me from his grip.
‘Why didn’t you?’ Wist spat out each word as if they offended his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you?’ Dregan did not reply. He looked past Wist to the bodies on the floor. One of them Dregan knew too well, the other he knew only superficially. He could not deny his culpability in either death.
Wist’s shouting had roused Nikka. He stirred at the door, breaking the silence which had fallen over the room. Wist left the speechless mage and went to help Nikka up. The Cerni shook the disorientation from his head. ‘I appear to be making a habit of this,’ he said. The broad grin on his face soon departed, as he took in the room. Nikka grasped Wist to him. He had mistaken Wist’s shaking for grief. Wist pushed him away forcefully.
‘Son,’ Nikka began, but Wist cut him off.
‘We have to go,’ said Wist, as he buried his anger beneath a cloak of activity. Tyla moved to Aviti, breaking his silent vigil. The simple sandals he wore were stained crimson and black with Faric’s blood. He lifted Aviti over his broad shoulder, her body laying inert on him. Aviti had cared for him when he had been struck by the insane preacher, now Tyla would care for her. Nikka never asked where they were headed. The scene in the room told him most of what he needed to know anyway. He left Wist and went to help Dregan, who recovered a little of himself when Nikka began to move him.
Wist knew he would have to leave Eliscius here. They had travelled so far to find him, only to condemn him to death. They could not take his body or F
aric’s. They would need to leave them to the mercy of the city. Wist thought of their journey to the city. What damage had Tilden done? Mashesh was now a smoking ruin. It looked like Bohba faced turmoil in the wake of Jerel’s demise, for it couldn’t be kept a secret for long. He guessed that the city’s guard would be descending upon them soon. An undefended house would not go unnoticed for long. They had to move and move now.
Wist took a single look back at the bodies in the room. He couldn’t bear to think of them as Eliscius and Faric. If he hadn’t witnessed their deaths, he wouldn’t have recognised either of them. This was the fire he needed to fuel his vengeance. He should have felt guilty for using his mentor and his friend this way, but his anger knew no compassion – for friends or enemies. He burned the image of his dead mentor and the murdered Lyrat into his consciousness, and then he left Jerel’s tower, fleeing beside what remained of their company. The tower shuddered once more as they went. He would go to Medicaut, and kill Tilden for he was sure that was where he must be hiding
Epilogue
Aviti awoke in the partial light of a room with wooden walls and a wooden floor. Her head throbbed when she tried to sit up, so she lay back down for a while. From where she lay, she could make out the vaguest impression of someone else in the room, sitting in the shadows in quiet vigil. Tyla. She knew it was him without seeing his face. He had healed her once more, just as he had in the cave after the attack of the Waren. She could feel the pain in him, feel his loss. It was as tangible as the salt in the air. The room lurched abruptly and she rolled on to her side, exacerbating the pain in the head. She was on board a ship.
She should have been terrified. The sight of the Corb had left her numb when they had come upon it in the Great Desert. Perhaps it was her immersion in the river, or it might have been the power which grew in her, but she no longer feared the water. When she had lived with her family, the thought of seeing enough water to float a ship, never mind being cast adrift upon it, would have paralysed her. But she was that girl no longer.
The Redemption of Wist Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3: The complete collection Page 30