Vina sighed and looked to the white-armored ogre. There was such sadness in her deep-set eyes that Cob almost regretted asking. “He is our other half, yes,” she said in a soft rumble. “But even spirits can stray from their purpose. I do not desire this conflict, but—“
Her gaze snapped forward, and he looked that way as well.
The bog ahead of them shimmered oddly as if seen through a heat-haze. Beneath that shimmer, the black earth and water was laced with seams of white, like spreading frost. As he watched, it stretched itself to cover more of the swampy ground, edging toward the marching column.
What is it? he thought at Vina.
The ogress shook her head grimly, the stone beads in her headdress clattering on her armor. “The veil-menders. They seek your mind, to enfold it again in their forgetting embrace. I must send you onward, to a stronger place. I can not protect you.”
A stronger place? Do I just…fly there? he thought. I don’t even know why I’m a bird.
“You are a child of two clans, made human by their joining. Your soul remembers its ancestors. Blackbird serves you better than deer now—smaller, faster—and so long as the Ravager is not here, you are safe in the air.
"Go now. Seek the others. I pray that they can shelter you.”
He thought to respond but she threw him into the air with a flick of her wrist, and he flared his wings out instinctively, flailing for a moment before catching an updraft. It lifted him into the sky, the dark bog withdrawing to a black plane that disappeared beneath the encroaching frost.
Beyond it, all was white. Horizon to horizon and the full arch of the sky, blank white.
A hawk’s cry rang through the emptiness. His prey-animal heart skipped a beat. He heard the flick of wings behind him and veered away, panicky, but the claws he expected to feel never struck him. The white ringhawk sped by in a rush of air and cried again, sharp and harsh against the echoless expanse, then glided ahead like a shadow on snow.
Despite his fear, Cob pursued it. Many times he lost it against the sky—it was fleeter than him, nearly invisible, and it made him feel like a man flailing through water after a fish. But each time he thought it gone for good, he heard its cry and saw its shape momentarily outlined against the white.
So fierce was his focus that he did not notice the return of the landscape until he caught the scent of smoke.
Looking down, he saw that the bog was gone. In its place stretched a ravaged patchwork of towns, fields and grassland, burning and burnt. Rivers gleamed like copper beneath the pall of smoke. Ahead, the blackened lowlands mounted steadily toward saw-toothed, granite-spined cliffs from which rose a tower like a sliver of bleached bone.
He flew higher, trying to avoid the smoke even as he stared down at the devastation. Strange shapes moved within the fire-cloaked towns and blasted fields—massive, unearthly insect-shapes, wide and flat and shiny as glass, with flickers of opalescent wings that reflected the flames. Further on, they piled in squirming waves upon the hills, seeking to collar the lone tower.
The white ringhawk slanted downward, arrowing for the tower’s top. Chasing it, Cob saw the great black smudges around the tower’s spiral of windows, and the flat glassy expanse of ocean beyond its high ridge, and recognition struck. His stomach sank.
The tower in my dream, he thought. The Pillar of the Sea.
On the heels of that memory came another: Morshoc. ‘Six sacred places, each with a Seal.’
At the crenellated top, three figures crouched around a grand arcane sigil, drawing its last lines in smouldering chalk. Two wore ragged, smoke-stained robes, while the third was armored in pure white. A fourth waited at the tower’s lip, black-clad, and turned to watch the birds as they circled down.
The hawk landed on the shoulder of the white-armored figure, who never twitched. As Cob descended, the Guardian lifted his arm to provide a perch.
Cob’s small claws clicked on the black gauntlet as if on stone. Like Vina, the man wore armor etched with fur and scales, but his face was human: grizzled and square, with short-cropped hair and beard and the deeply tanned skin of a desert dweller. Over one shoulder hung a strange weapon on a strap: a sword-like implement with a short span of straight blade that then bent in a deep curve. A khopesh, carved from a single great piece of greenish bloodstone.
Hard, discerning eyes met Cob’s as he brought the little bird in close.
“So you have come at last,” he said.
I know you. I’ve been you. Who are you?
The grizzled man bowed his head to Cob. Grey flecked his dark hair at the temples and along his jaw, and deep weariness etched his strong features. “I am called Jeronek the Stonehand. I served as Guardian in the five hundred and first year of the True Imperial Age.”
What do you mean, True Imperial?
“Your Emperor marks the time since his realm's inception, though it has been less than two centuries. The empire of my people still persists as it has for two millennia. Our age never ended.”
Cob blinked at the man, then looked around at the tower. Above them, the sky boiled with clouds, red from the reflections of the fires. The stink of smoke and burned flesh pervaded the air, wafted up by the hot wind. The place felt abominably real.
This place is a memory too? From how long ago? he asked.
“Fourteen hundred years.”
Why are we here? He looked to the arcane sigil and its makers. He remembered his dream, dimly: the completed Seal, the lines of light crawling across the sky, the female mage knifing her fellow survivor. The feeling of triumph, then rage.
“This was my last act as a vessel of the Guardian,” Jeronek said. “This place, this time, is the end of a war--the deathbed of an Empire, wrought by its own hand. It was called Lisalhan.”
Like the sea?
“Yes. Like the sea.”
But why was the Guardian here?
“For the life of the world. Look.” Jeronek held his arm out over the drop, and Cob peered down cautiously from his perch on the man’s wrist.
Monstrosities ringed the base of the tower like seething iridescent scales, clawing and tumbling over each other in a constant struggle to climb its smooth facade. They were the massive ‘insects’ he had seen in his flight, but from here he saw that they had faces: twisted human visages cast in pale glass, mouths pulled wide by mandibles, eyes segmented a thousandfold. Useless vestigial wings, writhing tentacles, pincers and spikes and barbs decorated their shining bodies—some like ants, some like beetles, a few like giant mantises with the upper bodies of beautiful women, but most like nothing he had ever seen before. A great susurrus of sound rose from them, a chorus of whispers. It sent chills through his small form.
What are they? he thought in horror.
“Kuthra called them ‘stellar locusts’. They come from the Outside, the lighter realms. Like the caiohene--what you call ‘wraiths’.”
They’re wraith-creatures?
“No,” said Jeronek. “Something else. They did not find their own way here; they were summoned. In the late days of this war, the mages of Lisalhan sought a greater power—a power beyond the magic that the wraiths had brought to us. Each Empire had its mages, so each battle had become a deadlock. Vast swaths of land were burned to desert by the clash of powers, and so the Lisalhanians quested for something that would overwhelm their enemies. Annihilate them.
“I do not know how they learned to open the way to the lighter realms, only that they did. And that all of those involved perished along with their city.
“But the path remained open, and through it came the locusts.
“At first, we were merely amused—my people. Our enemy had destroyed itself. But the locusts flooded the countryside, and soon we saw that they would not stop. They devoured all in their path and swiftly encroached upon our border.
“And the path, like a rip in the very fabric of the world, continued to grow. None could go near it, but one could see its fierce glow from hundreds of miles away, even in dayli
ght.
“We are far from it. This Pillar stands at the southernmost tip of Lisalhan, nearly a thousand miles distant, but even this was at the cusp of being overrun.
“We are here because we were sent by the council of empires. As the locusts spilled across their borders, they realized that they could no longer laugh at the misfortune of their enemy, and that the time had long passed for direct action against the pathway. Because they knew that the threat came from Outside, they made the decision to seal the world.
“There have long been sacred sites in this world, each attuned to an element; myriads of them, more ancient than the Great Spirit itself, all scattered throughout the vastness of earth and sea. It was decided that six of these would become Seals, through which the life of the world would be tapped and used to eject the influence of the Outside, forever closing ourselves off from it.
“This was to be the Seal of Water. Mages and spirit-speakers were sent here to prepare this space and begin the ritual. Other teams were dispatched to the five other sites, all of them outside Lisalhan’s borders. Assassins struck them—the deranged adherents of doomsday cults—but they fended off the assaults and made their Seals.
“Yet the sixth Seal was never made. The communications from here claimed that all was well, but the locusts continued to spread. Messengers, soldiers and mages were sent to discover the problem, but none survived to report.
“The council of empires beseeched us to go where mortals could not. To finish the Seal. When we arrived, it was already as it is. The locusts surrounding the Pillar, its insides gutted by fire and murder.
“This,” he said, gesturing to the tableau on the roof, “is where we came to our end. You have seen some of it. The traitor, the beginning of the Sealing.”
Did you complete it? Cob thought.
“Yes.”
And…what happened?
Jeronek shook his head slightly and cast his gaze to the white-armored figure. “I have seen the world through many eyes since then. Enough to know that we succeeded. But the Sealing had incredible power behind it, and struck down from the sky like spears of flame. I felt the earth lurch and crack. Then the sea rose to consume us, and the Guardian left me.”
And your Ravager? Kuthra?
“I do not know.”
Cob shifted on his clawed feet, uncomfortable. This was quite a slice of history, but… Morshoc was trying to tell me about the Seals, and you interrupted him.
Jeronek’s expression hardened. “We would not have your view of events corrupted by his words. But you must know that it is happening again.”
What, the Outsiders? But if the world is Sealed…?
The hawk took flight suddenly from the Ravager’s shoulder. Jeronek and Cob turned to watch it rise into the sky. Beyond its outstretched wings, the smoke had gone white and blank.
“Andar’s scales,” Jeronek cursed. “Here they come again. We thought this place would be strong enough.”
Where do I go? Do I follow Lerien?
“I see no other way.” The old Guardian looked to Cob, expression grave. “But do not trust it.”
I know, I know.
“We will speak again.”
With that, he flung his arm out and Cob lifted off, black wings catching the hot wind. It swept him fiercely skyward, and the next time he glanced down, the Pillar was a mere speck in a whitening world.
Something glimmered in the air before him. He veered instinctively.
It swayed toward him and for a moment he saw it clearly: a fine filament descending from the sky like a fishing line. Beyond it, hundreds more stirred in the hot air, their tips rising as if anticipating his passage.
Fear clutched at his heart, but before the filaments could strike, a shadow fell across him. The hawk shrieked from above. Instinct made him dive and he felt the hawk dive too. In its path the filaments rippled away as if pushed by an unfelt wind.
They knifed downward together, fast approaching a turquoise sea. The burned fields and the Pillar had vanished, leaving an archipelago of islands like pearls in placid water. The hawk-shadow cut for the largest and he followed, relieved by the return of color and life.
On the rocky beach walked a dark figure. Cob angled toward it and the hawk-shadow rushed on ahead, sweeping past the Guardian and down the curve of the beach.
This Guardian did not pause in his step, or hold out his arm. Cob circled him once, taking in the tanned skin and black hair shaved into a narrow crest, the two swords at his hip. Another circle and he came to alight on the man’s shoulder carefully. The man glanced sidelong at him and smirked.
“Hoi, kid,” he said.
Cob blinked. Only his people used ‘kid’ like that. You’re Kerrindrixi?
“Real bad Kerrindrixi. Erosei the Younger.”
Erosei? Aloyan Erosei? You can’t be!
“The Younger, I said. And if there were rules about who couldn’t be a Guardian, they’d sure strike you off the list, kid.”
Cob just stared at him. Aloyan Erosei—the first one—had practically founded Kerrindryr. When the lowland raiders had tried to conquer the Thundercloak Mountains and their tribes, it was Erosei who had delved into the forbidden strongholds of the Muriae, the Silver Ones, to awaken them from their centuries of slumber and bring them to the aid of their human disciples. Erosei who had defeated the Silver Champions to prove the worth of his people.
Erosei who had disappeared into the depths once the war had ended, embraced by the Muriae as one of their own.
Who pikin’ gave you permission to use his name? he thought furiously.
“The Muriae, kid. Is your skull that thick?”
What? No But I never heard of you. I woulda heard of you if you were worthy of the name.
Erosei snorted. “Right. Think what you want, kid.”
Making an effort to smooth his own hackles, Cob thought, Well, if you’re an Erosei, what are we doing on an island? Why aren’t we in Kerrindryr?
“We were. We came here.”
Why?
“We’re following him.”
He pointed ahead toward the curve of the beach, and Cob squinted. In the bright sunlight he could just make out a white figure at the edge of the water.
Who’s he? And what’s he doing here?
“The Ravager. Opening the Seals.”
What? But you just closed them, didn’t you?
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Erosei’s upper lip curled in a snarl. “He killed the previous Guardian at the Seal of Fire, Aekhaeleisgeria—that volcano the crow-folk worship. I was tapped to defend the Seal of Metal at Howling Spire but he threw me down the mountain, and he set the forest on fire at Du’i Oensha so I couldn’t get through. This one, Water, is the last Seal left.”
You mean… Cob looked around wildly. The rocky hills of the island looked suddenly familiar. Old, worn-down by tide and time, but nevertheless the sea-cliffs that he had just left.
But…where’s the land? Where’s the Pillar? What happened?
“Dunno. That was a long time ago.”
How can you not know?
“Don’t really care.”
Cob stared at him. Erosei did not return it. “Listen, kid,” he said, teeth bared as he stalked through the sand, “I didn’t ask to be marked for this. I’m not the Guardian type. We’re people of metal, you and me. We belong to the other side. But once it takes you, you can’t just shirk the duty. This isn’t little stuff we’re talking about, this is the end of the world.”
But… You won, right? The world is still here.
“Yeah? Great. Except I’m pretty sure I die shortly, so I don’t know how that happened.”
Cob had no idea what to say. He just stared ahead at the white shape of the Ravager as they drew closer. It had its back to them, and he saw now that it stood at the center of a wide, cracked circle of white stone, half under sand and half under water. The base of the Pillar, snapped down to its root.
Why is he doing this?
“Piked if I
know.”
Nobody asked?
“How do you ask someone who shoots fire at you the moment you show up?”
Privately Cob wondered. Morshoc had never attacked him—not unprovoked. But this event was in the past; whatever problems the Ravager-host had caused then, it could not be the same Ravager-host now.
When was this? What year?
“1485 Imperial.”
How long ago was that? Cob thought of Jeronek’s commentary, of nearly two thousand years of True Imperial time, and counted quickly. About four hundred years ago? Five?
“Sure, why not.”
You’re really unhelpful.
“Well pardon me for being a wick’s-length from dying. Again.”
But this isn’t real. It’s a memory. Can’t you just stop and talk?
Erosei sneered. “Perhaps, but I’m gonna put these blades through that bastard’s face if it takes me a thousand tries.”
With that, he broke into a ground-eating lope, the sand spitting back from his steps. Cob hunched down against the wind and stared ahead at the nearing Ravager. A glow emanated from the wrecked Pillar beneath him—the same glow Cob had seen in his tower dreams, when the Seal had been forged. Coils of pale energy rose from it to echo the motions of the Ravager’s hands.
The hawk on his white-armored shoulder looked back as Erosei entered the circle, then sprang into the air.
Cob did the same, hearing blades slide from their sheaths even as he flapped hard to rise above the impending duel. While the hawk took off into the sky, Cob circled once, confused and interested but most of all angry. Here he was, locked in the depths of his own mind, hunted by weird tendrils and thrust around in time, and some idiot who claimed the name Erosei had to go and start a fight.
Then the Ravager turned, a whip of gathered energy sizzling in his hand, and Cob’s little heart nearly stopped.
Morshoc!
It can’t be!
But as the whip lashed out, he knew it was true. A raptor-faced helm covered the figure’s head but the fighting-style was the same, and though Erosei dodged the first crack, the second took him across the shoulder where Cob had just recently perched. Spiders of white lightning spilled down the black armor. Erosei grunted and staggered, then made a pulling motion toward the water with one blade-clutching hand.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 45