Brandon thought back at the stone. Easy for you to say. You're not the one with a whelp forming on your back.
Rok laughed. You could have ducked.
Brandon didn't bother to reply.
When the training session was over, both men were dead on their feet. They stood across from each other, both covered in a sheen of sweat, and Gerrick gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. He went inside, leaving Brandon standing in the flickering light of the circle. Exhausted and out of breath. Brandon bent and began putting out candles. The night was silent, the woods around Highgarden quiet in a way the rest of Matheson wasn't. Brandon assumed it was something to do with the magic of the place, the ancient spell surrounding the property.
Your ancestors chose a good place to build their fortress. Rok said, inside his head. It was an admiring tone.
Brandon agreed. He let the cold wind dry the sweat on his face and hands as he cleaned up the circle and followed his uncle inside.
He took a long hot shower, washing away his bruises and fatigue along with the sweat. He stepped out of the shower feeling clean and strong. Powerful, even. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Nina, before shutting off the light and crawling into bed.
As he was drifting to sleep, Rok spoke again. His voice was loud inside of Brandon's skull. We are bonded, Merryweather. Soon, you will know my strength. And, when that happens, you will no longer know fear of death.
Sha'ha'Zel crouched on the limb of a tall tree on the outer edge of the spell surrounding the boy's home, letting its senses stretch across the forest below, out past the barrier. Grohlm moved in the trees around him and on the ground below, prowling along the edges of the invisible shield keeping them from their prey. They ignored the demon in their midst, giving the Curse a wide berth as he perched silently in the shadows.
The boy's training was moving along, but he still wasn't ready to die just yet. He still had much to learn from his uncle and also from his little girlfriend. But the demon was patient. Standing, it lifted its hand and moved its fingers as if testing the air. There was magic in the air, the night stank of it, and it seemed thicker than usual around Highgarden and the spell protecting it.
The Curse didn't know what it was, whether it was an attack on Merryweather by some other outside force or somebody was trying to help the boy. In this town, it could have been either. There were more factions in the town than the Curse had initially realized, powers that had taken notice of the battle going on around them and were slowing awakening to the danger in the forest.
Shrugging off its uneasiness, Sha'ha'Zel tasted the magic with the tip of its tongue and shuddered. The magic tasted foul to the Curse, flat and metallic, meaning that it was spiritual in nature and not a physical attack at all. Pulling back the tendrils of its essence, the demon continued its silent vigil, waiting to see what else the night might bring.
CHAPTER 12
In the dream, Brandon stood in the center of a clearing. He was himself, not his grandfather. He was dressed in battle gear, a long black cloak hanging limp off of his shoulders. An unfamiliar sword hung at his hip. The sky above was blue and cloudless, the sun standing high overhead. Brandon turned around in a slow circle, studying his surroundings as he got his bearings.
The clearing was empty for miles around. Far off, near the edge of the horizon, Brandon saw a great spire reaching up into the sky. It was hard to tell from so far away, but the spire looked to be miles high, reaching up to pierce the blue. It glittered in the sunlight, as if made of polished metal, and wavered like a mirage.
The ground under Brandon's feet was dusty, barren except for a few wisps of dying grass and scattered shrubs. Nothing substantial. No trees. No water to see. There was no wind. No sound, except for Brandon's breathing. The air tasted parched and metallic and left his tongue dry.
Brandon turned in a circle, searching for anything that could show him where he was, but the only thing that stood out was the metal spire gleaming in the distance. Squinting up at the sun, he felt sweat begin to burst from his pores underneath the heavy cloak. He was tempted to take off the cloak, but Rok spoke up, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance. You'd best leave the cloak on. It's better to be hot and sweaty, underneath a soaked cloak, than to be hot and dry, dehydrating in the sun. You will live longer, I promise.
Brandon was never one for arguing when the advice seemed sound. He left the cloak on and began walking towards the spire. The ground crunched underfoot as he walked, kicking up little swirls of dust, but still no wind blew. Brandon kept his eyes everywhere as he walked but it quickly became apparent that there was nothing else to look at. The place was dead. Even the sky was more white than blue, as if the sun had bleached the air.
The spire grew as he moved towards it, becoming thicker and more pronounced. He was able to make out the finer details of the thing. It didn't seem to be made completely of steel. There were places along its length where the spire looked like glass. There were also stairways spider webbing across it, each leading to doorways spaced irregularly along its surface.
Beyond the spire, Brandon began to make out mountains tracing the edge of the horizon, impossibly far away. He walked faster, despite the fact that his cloak was becoming heavier with each step. Looking behind him, he watched the trail of dust settle slowly back to the cracked and dying earth.
The shimmer of heat surrounding him seemed to ripple, revealing black shapes lurking just beyond the edge of his vision. But when Brandon turned, the shapes vanished, fluttering into the ether. He stopped, staring around himself, and let his hand rest on the pommel of the sword at his hip. The weight was reassuring and real within the dream. The dreamworld felt as real as the waking, from the sweat running down his face to the hardness of the ground beneath his feet. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting sudden vertigo. He tried to tell himself it was all a dream. That he would wake up soon and be amazed at how real it all felt.
But when he opened his eyes, he was still surrounded by the deadlands. Something dashed across the dry strip of earth to his right, cutting across his peripheral vision. He twisted, yanking the blade free. The ring of the steel leaving its scabbard was loud in the silence of that barren wasteland.
The blade was a stranger, curved and deadly sharp, and decorated with etched runes that seemed almost familiar to Brandon. Though he'd never held the sword before in his life, it felt instantly familiar in his fist. Like an old friend returned home.
Shouldering sweat from his brow, Brandon turned a full circle with the blade held in the middle guard position. He watched for any hint of movement and saw nothing. Glancing at the spire in the distance, Brandon felt a moment of disquiet when he realized that it looked as if it had moved further away. Still holding the sword, he began to trot toward the spire, unsure what compelled him to quicken his pace. The trot became a loping run. Soon, he was dashing full tilt toward the towering sliver of metal and glass.
His cloak fluttered limply behind him as he ran, only slightly slowing him down. He was running so fast and so hard that he almost ran into the swinging blade of the first attacking grohlm. It was a dog face, wielding a notched and rusty short sword. If not for Rok, Brandon would have been decapitated. The stone bellowed inside of his mind. BRANDON, WATCH OUT.
Brandon dove as the stone roared, keeping his sword ahead of him, and missed the slashing blade by mere inches. He hit the dusty ground rolling, snapping the blade up and around. The steel bit into the iron plate strapped to the dog's chest and sent it crashing backwards.
It hit the ground with a yelp, scrabbling quickly to its feet, and launched itself at Brandon. Brandon stepped sideways, easily dodging the next sword swing, and drove his sword's tip into the dog's neck. It punched through the other side with a splash of crimson and the dog fell, ripping its head half off as it did.
Brandon kept moving, this time keeping his eyes everywhere, but it was his ears that made him twist, throwing his blade into the path of a swinging axe. T
he second grohlm had the face of a Hawk, its hooked beak opening and closing as it attacked. Steel rang on steel. The hawk leapt to the right, its coarse and matted feathers rustling as it moved. The thing smelled like a desiccated corpse left in the sun to rot away into dust.
Brandon swept away the axe, pistoning his free hand out to jab the thing in the face, stabbing his stiffened fingertips into its eyes. The hawk screamed and fell back, lashing out with one of its clawed feet. It caught Brandon in the chest, tearing the breast of his jerkin and scoring his skin underneath. He fell back, whipping his blade up and blocked an axe swipe aimed at his head.
From somewhere behind him, Brandon heard a low growl. Rok said, softly. Watch your flank.
Brandon dropped and spun, raking his blade through the hawk's middle, and speared an attacking dog in the throat. Around him, the air was cloudy with kicked up dust, drifting down slowly, untouched by wind. Through the dust, he saw more black shapes lurking. The sun beat down mercilessly, slicking Brandon's face with sweat.
Rolling quickly to his feet, Brandon turned, shocked to see the tower looming up before him. Up close, the tower's surface looked less like steel and more like gold. The stairs winding around the tower's walls reflected the sunlight like a thousand mirrors. They looked like crystal. The doors placed irregularly along the tower's surface were all closed. The ones that Brandon could see, at least.
Something like thunder rolled overhead and the wasteland surrounding the tower lurched, nearly knocking Brandon off of his feet. The bodies of the slain grohlm had vanished. Brandon kept his sword up and approached the tower. The tower had no base. It punched its way up through the parched earth. The stairs were partially buried, as if there were more levels to the tower, hidden beneath the ground.
Brandon climbed the steps, moving up and around the tower. As he walked, the dreamworld shook around him and another blast of thunder rolled out from the tower. Taking the steps two at a time, Brandon held onto the crystal railing with one hand and his sword with the other. The tower shuddered and Brandon stopped, staring down at the wasteland stretching over the horizon. A ripple spread out from the base of the tower, shattering the ground and throwing up a storm of dust that blasted out from the tower in an unbroken ring that looked like the blast wave of an atomic bomb.
Boiling up out of the broken ground were thousands of grohlm. They were made up of every type of animal. Bears, dogs, wolves, cats, lizards, snakes, boars, deer, rabbits, birds, and some that even Brandon couldn't identify. All were armed and armored differently. Some in heavy plate, while others wore only toughened pieces of oiled leather.
As the grohlm burst from the wounded earth, Brandon wasted no more time watching. Up the stairs he ran, only slowing as the tower trembled under his feet. The howling and roaring of the grohlm began to drown out the thunderous sound of the tower's tolling. Brandon didn't know how high he was when he reached the top. The spire was too narrow and the ground was too thick with grohlm to accurately gauge how far down they were. The stairs ended at the top of the spire, flattening into smooth polished steel. It was inlaid with crystal runes. The runes were identical to the ones etched into the blade in Brandon's hand.
Brandon stood at the top of the spire, sword in hand, and stared down at the massing horde below. For as far as he could see, from horizon to horizon, the ground was covered in grohlm. The tower shuddered under his feet and from somewhere beneath him Brandon heard another boom of thunder. But it wasn't thunder, he realized. The sound was coming from behind one of the doors, far below him.
Above him, the sky dimmed. Brandon stared up at the sun, which had grown a large black beauty mark across its surface. Like blood from a wound, inky darkness began to blot out the sun's light. The sky went dark, going from blue to violet, then gray to black. The sword in Brandon's hand became hot, the runes on the blade turning white, and he felt the tower give one last gigantic heave. The grohlm went wild, moving in on the tower in masse.
The doorway is open. Rok said. The god's voice was low and thoughtful. The only thing that can close it now is the blood of the king.
The crystal runes at Brandon's feet began to glow a deep dark red and he felt more doorways opening below him. He didn't have to see them to know that the grohlm were pouring into the open doorways, leaving this dead and barren world behind and finding new lands to conquer.
"This is my world, isn't it?" Brandon said, his voice weak. He didn't expect an answer, but Rok gave one.
This world belongs to the grohlm. Rok said. And the dead.
Brandon couldn't say anything. He stared at the writhing mass of grohlm and felt a cold shudder work its way up his spine. He knew where he was. What this wasteland once was.
"This is my grandfather's kingdom." Brandon said, his voice quiet with shock. The sky was black now, the only light coming from the glowing runes at Brandon's feet and the ones blazing on the blade of the sword. Below him, he could hear the grohlm howling and roaring at the night.
Not anymore. Rok said.
The sword began to vibrate in Brandon's hand. Its grip getting hot enough to cause smoke to rise from Brandon's hands where he held it. Not knowing why he did it, Brandon stepped into the center of the tower, letting the golden light envelope him, and lowered the sword until its tip touched one of the glowing runes. The stone went from red to white, throwing a beam straight up into the midnight sky, and Brandon began to work through sword forms. He danced, whipping the blade up and around, touching each of the glowing runes as he did so. He was soon surrounded by pillars of light, creating a blinding ring that completely encompassed him. The light surrounded and flowed through him, piercing the inky curtain drawn over the world.
Below him, at the base of the tower, the grohlm began to shriek. The tower heaved underneath his feet as they began to attack the tower itself. Brandon continued to dance the forms, closing his eyes as he moved. He didn't think of the howling monsters below him or of the nearness of the roof's edge. He thought of his grandfather. And his parents. He thought of all the people of this sad dead world. When Brandon thought of all the people killed by his grandfather's enemy, all of his fear vanished. Without the fear, all Brandon had left was anger and a righteous hatred. Hatred for the grohlm and their master, the Usurper. Hatred for Sha'ha'Zel.
And hatred for himself. For not being strong enough to make this right. To save the lives of those lost. His parents, his grandfather, and all who had died because of the Usurper and his minions.
There was a great cracking sound beneath him and the tower shifted underneath Brandon's feet. He danced sideways as the roof tilted and the tower collapsed. Holding the sword with one hand, he braced himself and held onto the tower as it fell. The wind battered him and his stomach clawed its way up his throat as the tower's base collapsed in on itself and he rode it to the grohlm covered ground.
The grohlm slowed the tower's fall as hundreds were crushed beneath the heavy steel and crystal structure. Brandon leapt off as it crashed to the ground, throwing himself into the grohlm. He struck fast and hard, driving his boots into the chest of a bull and using it to break his fall. Striking the bull's head from its shoulders, he used its falling bulk as a bulwark against the other grohlm. Climbing up its back, he used its forward momentum to smash through the closest of the grohlm and began slicing through the rest.
The air around him was black with blood, hair, and debris. Brandon was surrounded on all sides, so he turned and began cutting a path back toward the tower's shattered base. Making his way through the writhing and slashing creatures, Brandon used his sword like a farmer, cutting down weeds in the field.
The base of the tower was a blasted ruin, jutting up from the sand and dusty earth like the twisted and broken fingers of a titan. Standing in the shadow of the mangled steel was an open doorway. The surface of the opening was glowing in the darkness and a figure stood there. The figure was too far away for Brandon to make out any details.
Stabbing a wolf in the throat, Brandon dove under t
he swinging axe of a bear and kicked one of its knees out. The bear roared and stumbled, the heavy blade of its axe cutting through a trio of frog faces, splattering Brandon and the ruined tower with black blood. There was a scream from above and Brandon looked up. A hawk leapt from the side of the tower, throwing itself at him.
Brandon twisted, dragging his sword up and driving it into the creature's chest. He let the thing's own weight carry it past him, yanking his sword free and blocking a second swing from the bear. Spittle flying as it roared, the bear tried to rush Brandon but its wounded leg wouldn't support its bulk. It lurched sideways, its axe dropping to the ground as it fell. Brandon didn't waste time killing the bear. Instead, he snapped his wrist to clear the blood from his blade and ran on.
He had to climb over rubble and dead grohlm to reach the doorway. Behind him, Brandon heard more of the monsters hot on his trail, screaming for his blood. Standing and turning to face the horde, Brandon saw the glow of the doorway reflected in the thousands of animal eyes staring at him. Then he turned and stared into the open doorway.
Standing before him, reflected in a surface that looked like murky water, was himself. Brandon stared at the reflection and couldn't move. But that didn't stop the figure in the doorway from taking a step forward. The Brandon in the doorway was dressed in plain clothes. Jeans and a tee shirt with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it.
"That's my favorite shirt." Brandon said, taking a step toward the doorway. Staring at the other him, Brandon could see how young he truly was. The face was his but not his, untouched by any of the nightmare that now consumed Brandon's life.
An innocent face.
Brandon closed on the doorway, coming to a stop just outside of it. His reflection, pale as it was, squinted at him and took another step. He was close enough to reach out and touch Brandon through the surface of the water covering the doorway. But he didn't reach out. Instead, he said. "Who are you? What are you?"
Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) Page 12