Instead, she turned her attention to the chamber. It was larger than she would have imagined. The walls and ceiling curved away, rising to a crest somewhere up above where she could not see. The light from the torches in the sconces on the walls could not reach the room’s heights. The flames held still, although that was remarkable, for she felt the wind from the portal on her face, cool, but bringing with it no relief from the stifling warmth of the underground chamber. Her sweat chilled on her brow, and she wiped at it with one filthy sleeve, merely wiping dirt from one place to another.
In the centre of the room a massive circle of coruscating light dominated. It was large enough for three men to pass together, or perhaps two rahkens. Not large enough for man on horseback, but then the Protectorate had no use for horses.
Beside the shimmering pool, vertical and seeming to hang on its own, two brilliant crystals hummed with power. Tirielle had never seen such a thing. She wandered around to the other side, but the portal was flat — she could not see through it. She wondered if it had a front and a back…and what would happen should they step through the wrong side.
A soft susurration came from the crystals, making her teeth ache gently. The power they must contain, to hold the space between the worlds open permanently. It was frightening to be close to so much power.
The portal itself made no noise. It sat, ominously, ripples of light running across its surface, but to look within…she forced herself to look away. It was too dark inside. Unnatural, the look of the afterworld, a dead place where nothing could live. Somehow she understood, even though she knew nothing of magic, that this portal led through the world of spirit, it was a rent in the land of the dead, where there was no space, and no time. They would have to pass among the slain, the cancerous, the lepers…children who died in their cribs, ancient women dead from age, the lonely spirits of the world gone by…her imagination ran away with her, and she could suddenly hear all their cries, forlorn and lost…she saw their hands reaching out to her, to pull her down among them, for the comfort of the living, to feel her warm flesh, to pull it apart and step inside.
She pinched herself hard. The voices subsided, and there was nothing frightening about them at all. They were merely the dead, and they meant her no harm.
The moment passed, and she remembered the urgency of their situation. Carth’s bulk was holding the door closed against the bashing bodies of the tenthers outside. Quintal was in whispered conversation with j’ark, and somehow j’ark looked troubled, more so than by the mere thought of the Protectorate massed behind the door. Carth was serene, calmly holding the door closed. Then Quintal laid a hand on j’ark’s shoulder, and pulled him into an embrace.
To Tirielle it looked like a goodbye.
j’ark turned to her and she felt her knees go weak.
“Through the portal, lady. Draw your blades. Quintal will go first, and hope that Drun Sard has reached the other side in time. You will go last.”
She nodded, feeling grim certainty gnawing at her belly.
“And what of you, j’ark?”
“You understand as I do. I have fallen from grace. I must redeem myself.”
“No!” she started to cry then, and she could not remember the last time she had cried more honest tears.
“No tears, lady. There is no other way. Someone must stay behind to close the portal.”
The hammering at the door intruded on her pain.
“You must come,” she pleaded, though from the look in his sad golden eyes she knew already that he would refuse.
“I cannot. I have sullied my vows.”
“How? How have you sullied your vows? You have done nothing wrong. All you did was kill an enemy.”
“That is irrelevant, lady, and you know it. I have fallen, and have loved more than the sun. I am no longer pure…”
Quintal stepped through the portal, not looking back. He could not interfere. It was j’ark’s decision to be the one to stay. Sword held before him, he faced the pathways of the dead. Roth, seeing its friend in distress, followed Quintal through the flowing portal, beyond the light and into the darkness. It could feel Tirielle’s pain, and it was almost palpable. Her feelings for j’ark had been evident for some time. It did not wish upon her any more pain. It knew better than most how much she had already lost on her long journey. They blinked from existence. Their receding backs could not even be seen. It was like they had never existed at all.
“What are you saying?” She slapped his face. “Are you saying that you must die because of me!?”
“No, lady. It is not you that is to blame. My feelings have overwhelmed me. I am no longer pure. But never, never blame yourself. It is the way it must be.” He pushed her toward the portal, and took his place behind the door, beside Carth. At Carth’s questioning look, he said, “No, Carth. The task is mine.”
Carth’s only farewell was to touch j’ark’s shoulder, like a big brother would touch his sibling.
“At least say my name,” said Tirielle through her tears, which were falling freely. “Don’t call me lady, not anymore.”
Cenphalph was next, not turning to see j’ark. Perhaps their goodbyes had already been said. Perhaps they spoke with more than words. Typraille ducked his head. “We’ll meet again, brother,” he said, and leapt through the portal, his blade held high.
Carth was next to go.
“Farewell, old friend. Until you join us again,” said Disper, who roared and ran at the space between worlds.
Tirielle was left alone with the man she had grown to love, her saviour in all things.
“There is no more time to waste,” he said, shuddering as the force behind the door rammed it again and again with their shoulders, and hammered it with swords.
“No, no more time,” she said as she drew her daggers. She stepped into his chest and kissed him chastely on the lips. He kissed her back.
“I love you, j’ark.”
“Goodbye…Tirielle,” he said, and she turned from him. Without a backward glance, she stepped through the portal.
“Tirielle,” he said for the last time, tasting her name on his lips. Then, at last, he allowed himself to say out loud the only words that frightened him to the very core.
“I love you,” he said, and his voice was stronger now. It was not so bad. Nothing to be afraid of. His god did not smite him, and he did not feel unclean, or ashamed, but free.
He clenched and unclenched his hand. All weakness was gone, although he was sure the stitches in his shoulder would open soon.
He just had to hold on for long enough. He didn’t know how long it would take for them to travel, or what would happen when he closed the portal. He had to give them time…
The door was being battered at his back, and his feet were slipping on the stones. It opened a crack, and he was pushed inward…
He waited, and in that moment, that moment of perfect clarity when he knew death was coming, he felt at peace at last. He felt whole for loving, not sullied, not impure, but cleansed by Tirielle’s love. His heart felt light, and he knew now, too late, that his gods loved love, they wanted it, wished it on their children.
He cleared his mind, and with little effort put away his regrets. He let himself understand them for a moment, rolled them around in his mind — it was sad that he would not die embraced in the loving arms of Tirielle, or in the warmth of his gods’ golden glow, but he knew that both loved him equally, and would do so even after his death. He regretted only that he had denied himself for so long. Then, like the afterglow of a sudden flash of light burnt into a retina, his mind was clear, filled with purity and purpose.
He stepped back from the door and it exploded inward, soldiers tumbling through. His sword leapt in his hand. He beheaded the first warrior to step through, and with a thrust ripped open the neck of the second. He danced back and gave himself room, the chamber’s breadth more than ample to swing a blade. He would not fight in a corner. While he could not fight in the glory of the sun, its light fi
lled his mind, with love, and finally, its approval.
He twirled and slashed, his blade twinkling in the eerie radiance of the portal, and Tenthers fell as they entered the room. One threw himself forward, skewering himself on j’ark’s blade, and in the moment he freed it two more soldiers entered. Their armour turned aside a glancing blow, dark armour forged with blood, a filthy grey. Beside them, j’ark was a shining light. His cloak whirled around him as he span on his heel, his sword slicing cleanly through two necks — but in the time it took to dispatch the two warriors more had entered. He was dimly aware of his shoulder wound opening again, and blood flowing within his glittering armour.
He embraced the pain, for with it he knew he was still alive.
He saw a blade swinging toward his head but could do little to avoid it. It clanged against his helm, knocking it from his head. His eyes blazed with power he did know he had, and he felt Unthor’s spirit welling inside him, giving him strength. He shook his head and his sword arm was suddenly full of renewed vigour. He thrust through the warrior’s armour, disembowelling him, drew his dagger with his failing left arm and drove it between the eye slit in the helm of yet another soldier.
Then time seemed endless. Each moment drawn fully, vision unimpaired by thought, nothing but the dance of the blade, the flowing and pumping of blood. The flagstones were slick with it, the air filled with cries of agony. None of it affected j’ark.Peace held him tight. He saw his death to come. He was tiring fast, his blood flowing freely from his shoulder. He did not realise it, but he slowed. Imperceptibly, but enough.
A sword sliced across the back of his dagger hand, and the blade clattered to the flagstones. Two more soldiers entered the chamber. Surrounded now, Unthor’s spirit urged him on…just a little longer, brother, I can see them, they are near the end…just a little longer…and he whirled, blocking a thrust at his back. A sword pierced his hamstring and he felt sudden blood drenching his greaves.
Limping, he killed yet another soldier. A sword glanced against his scalp. Blood blinded him in one eye.
A moment longer, brother, I am with you…your left!
He parried, clumsy now, for such an accomplished swordsman, but still faster than most mortals. A warrior fell, his breastplate sliced through.
NOW!
The power of Unthor’s voice rang through his head. He shouldered a soldier out of the way. The soldier tumbled to the floor.
The gems hummed, but j’ark could no longer hear them. All he could hear was the strange singing of the spirits within the portal, Unthor’s voice among them, and yet still strong within his head.
He swung with all his might.
The crystal shattered, and the world imploded.
Shards flew into the portal, the power pulling at his soul. The afterworld’s darkness surrounded him, but it was held back by a strange, rising golden glow.
At the last, pain was forgotten. All was peace.
In death, j’ark finally shone.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Shockwaves tore at the rock and ice. The day had darkened preternaturally, a thick grey cloud seeming to grow from the peak of the highest mountain. The pristine white of the plateau had grown grey with what, to Shorn’s eyes, looked like ash. It could not be, though. There were no fires…the only time Shorn had seen the sky rain ash was in Cabran, and that was only because the city had been torched following the dreadful battle.
Shorn stumbled into a roll as a blade whistled past his head. He lashed out with his sword and a red-robed warrior fell. He gained his feet, lurching as the ground bucked and warped under foot, parrying a vicious blow and using his brace as a shield to turn aside a long dagger, then running the man through. Their breastplates were of inferior quality — Drayman armour had given his blade more pause for thought than the dark armour these warriors wore.
But their blades were true. He bled from a scalp wound already, and had only narrowly avoided becoming a full head shorter because one soldier had put too much faith in the shifting land.
He ran, stumbling and falling, slashing wildly. It was the best he could manage.
Before he knew it, he was free of attackers. He crested as small rise, where the ground rock was uncovered. He scanned the battle with a jaded warrior’s eye.
These soldiers were something different. And this was a new kind of battle. Even the ground fought against them. Ice and snow flowed down the rock face, the ground tore itself apart, and the insane crackling of magic flew overhead. Battle lines were forgotten. It was pure chaos, unlike any battle he had ever fought. At the start the Teryithyrian casters had taken their place around the Protocrat ranks, and the battle had begun in a haphazard fashion, soldiers falling to invisible hands. Drun’s magic joined the white beasts, and power burned the frigid air. Flames shot through the air, snowflakes battled them and lighting cracked. The beasts fought with the powers of nature, wielding natural forces like a hammer on the Protocrats. The tenthers — if that’s what they were — fought with fire and darkness, with waves of despair and crushing hatred.
Behind them, the Teryithyrian warriors fought the Protectorate, with tooth and claw, their casters holding the power of the Protocrat wizards at bay. He did not understand magic, but he could feel it. He didn’t need his swords ululating song to know what flew through the air around him.
He could not see his companion’s in the heaving melee, but caught the occasional glimpse of Renir’s whirring axe and the mayhem that followed the axe man where he fought. Drun stood on a similar hillock, at the edge of the battle, surrounded by a nimbus of holy light. His magic joined with that of the white beasts. Shorn took a moment to wonder just how powerful the priest was…perhaps, with his aid, they might win the day.
A warrior had seen him, but Shorn was untroubled. He held the high ground. He stood firm as the soldier charged toward him, held his blade to one side and prepared to strike. The hill crumbled, his weak leg buckled under him, but still he managed to disembowel the warrior in front of him.
He found himself alone again, a dead warrior at his feet. He whirled, looking for another enemy.
No one stood before him. Somehow, he had made it through.
He returned his gaze to the battle, his breath still steady, his mind clear and calm despite the cacophony of screams and battle cries floating through the air. He was untouched by the magic colliding in the skies above, or the ash raining from above. He searched for the portal with sharp eyes, but having never seen one he did not know what to look for.
Power coruscated through the air, and he found what he was looking for. It was a shimmering circle of light, an unprotected beacon in the centre of the battle.
He caught sight of Renir’s flashing axe from the corner of his eye. He hoped his friend had learned enough to protect himself in midst of a battle, where, outnumbered, swords came from all sides. But from the glittering arc of his weapon, Haertjuge, Shorn saw that he had learned a warrior’s trick — attack hard enough, and defence takes care of itself. It was a way to create space, always fighting on the front foot, push the enemy back and you will find you have time to think, in the way that thoughts come in the heat of battle — furiously, leaping into your mind.
On the plateau below him, the circle of power crackled between two crystals. The light was growing brighter. Here, in the calm eye of the battle, he could see that it was pulsing, the waves of light becoming more powerful, more intense.
He ran, unobstructed, to where the portal waited.
He felt no fear, but he wondered if their allies had made it through, as Drun had promised they would, or if more of the blood red warriors would make it through. Surely, with their dark powers, their brethren would already know of the battle being fought at the foot of the mountains.
When he reached the portal, the wind picked up, chill and biting, somehow blowing through the portal. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
He prayed it was their friends coming through. They could not hold off more of
these warriors.
A blinding flash of light broke the darkness — the white beasts were bringing the power of the storm against the enemy casters. Lightening flashed again. He closed his eyes but the brightness was burned on his retinas. He waited for the afterimage to fade.
The wind howled.
He raised his sword and held it to one side. His hood blew away from his face, the wind scouring his cold-blistered skin.
Calmly, he crouched. Voices were drifting through, blown by the fey wind…lonely here…join us…dead voices, with no warmth in their cadence, just echoes of the living.
But they were persuasive. He shook his head to free his mind, but they called to him and he could hear nothing else. The sounds of battle faded to nothing, until all he could hear was the voices. Somewhere, in his mind, he knew they were the remnant of lost souls, that they wanted him…so lonely…they whispered.
Unseen by Shorn, his attention entirely taken up by the portal, a warrior approached.
Renir’s axe flew through the air, killing the soldier.
Leaning down to retrieve his weapon from the dead soldier’s back, Renir glanced into Shorn’s eyes. They were unfocused, as though he stared at something distant…perhaps, even, in the past. Renir understood instantly that it was the effect of the portal. He backed away from it, but he did not know enough about it to know whether it needed Shorn’s attention, or whether even to try to return his friend to sensibility.
But, looking around him, they were in a circle of calm. No soldiers approached — not yet. They had bought themselves some time.
And he did not think it would be long. Wind howled from the portal, blowing Shorn’s hair back from his scarred face, and Renir could hear voices rising (underneath the voices, eerie words drifted, but the voice in his head spoke over them, ‘do not listen’ it said…he had learned to trust the voice in his head.) Instead, he could hear human voices.
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