An Echo of Things to Come

by James Islington

  “Not far now, Runner,” a low voice said in his ear. Davian turned to look at the helmetless man. A long, ugly scar traced its way from lip to at least his ear, possibly running farther but disappearing under a mane of long red hair. His expression was … if not sympathetic, then at least understanding. “Then you’ll get some time to rest before the Arena.”

  Davian just nodded, unsure to what the soldier was referring, but unwilling to show as much. They all called him and Fessi “Runners”; the Augurs were clearly prisoners, but beyond that their captors appeared to have no idea that they had come from the other side of the Boundary. There had been no reason to think anything of the sort, he supposed; there was no evidence that they were capable of crossing, and nothing about their appearance was drastically different to any of the other people accompanying the would-be invasion force. Even the language here—slight accent aside—was the same.

  He took a deep breath and pushed forward once more, reminding himself again that their current position was still better than what he had been expecting. When the Boundary had flared back to life and Andarra had vanished from view, his sense of kan had dropped away to almost nothing, and he’d been certain that he and Fessi were dead.

  Then the dar’gaithin had streamed past. Ignored them, started throwing themselves at the Boundary instead, bursting into smoke and light the moment that they made contact. The two Augurs had stood stock-still, holding their breaths as hordes of the monsters had rushed by.

  It hadn’t taken the Blind soldiers following long to spot them, though. And without meaningful access to kan, there had been little that they could do to resist capture.

  He glanced across at Fessi again, wincing as she turned, displaying the new scars on the side of her neck. Those had been carved there by one of the soldiers. The same had been done to him; he could still feel the combination of burning pain and irritation on the right-hand side of his neck. Fessi’s was a mass of partially-dried blood, and he assumed that his was the same, but they had clearly been marked with a specific symbol. He still hadn’t been able to tell what it was, though.

  How are you holding up? It was difficult to make the mental connection here in Talan Gol, even right next to each other, now that the Boundary was at full strength. It was possible, though. They had been severely beaten when they had first started trying to converse normally; after that, the extra expenditure in concentration seemed well worth it.

  Silence for a few moments, then, Tired. Sore. But my connection to kan is slowly improving. A few more days, and I think I might be able to do something useful with it. Fessi’s expression didn’t change at all and she didn’t look in Davian’s direction, but she sounded happy to be talking.

  He could understand that. The long days of silence left only time for thinking about their situation. About what was surely coming once they reached their destination, wherever that might be.

  Good. Same here, I think. They’d agreed not to attempt escape unless it was either absolutely necessary, or they had a good chance of succeeding. These men didn’t know that he and Fessi were Augurs, and in fact appeared to think that they were relatively harmless. They weren’t bound, weren’t being especially mistreated. A failed escape, however—an indication that they were something out of the ordinary—could very quickly change all of that.

  He was about to say more when they suddenly crested a rise in the terrain, and Davian nearly stumbled again. This time, it was from surprise.

  A hundred feet from where he stood, the desert abruptly ended—and rather than more of the same dry, cracked brown ground stretching out for miles, the land ahead was green. Not just with a little grass, either. The road ahead ran through neatly cultivated fields, which eventually gave way to forest in the distance. In the reedy afternoon light, Davian could tell that the vegetation was thick and lush, the crops well tended.

  The redheaded soldier gave him a gentle shove, pushing him forward once more. “Told you we were almost there,” he said. “Don’t try anything.”

  Davian licked his lips and nodded, suddenly uncertain. So much of Talan Gol was the same, it had made the past week feel like a single moment that would last forever.

  This was a stark reminder that their journey had an end.

  They walked on for several hours, until long after the sun had died once again below the horizon. All three soldiers carried torches for evening travel; though there were no clouds, the constant filtering haze overhead meant that the silvery moon rarely provided enough light to see by, and starlight was all but nonexistent here. The landscape passed by in shifting black shapes, more mysterious and unsettling now that they were no longer traversing open terrain.

  Despite yet another long, hard day, Davian found himself feeling physically better than he had in some time. The change in their surrounds had provided him with at least one positive—he no longer needed to take any Essence from Fessi. He’d hated having to do that, even with her permission, even in the tiny amounts needed to supplement what he’d managed to siphon from torches and campfires during the evenings. However, up until now their captors’ constant wearing of Telesthaesia, combined with the utter lack of any other life during their journey through the wastelands, had left him with little choice.

  Just when Davian thought that it must be time to stop for the evening, he saw the torches dotting the wall in the distance.

  He swallowed as they drew closer, the scope of the city before him—it was clearly a city; no walls were built so high or so wide to accommodate less—intimidating. It was difficult to tell in the dim light but he thought that the stone here was all black, roughhewn and jagged but also solid, well maintained. Shadows moved atop the hundred-foot-tall walls, which were periodically lit by flames that looked more like bonfires than torches; beyond, in the distance, he could see specks of light moving where the city climbed toward the peak of the sharp slope on which it was built.

  “How does it feel to be back, Runners?” sneered the soldier walking behind Fessi, evidently mistaking the astonishment on their faces for fear. He was an older man with graying hair and a thick beard, and had been by far the most unpleasant of their three captors.

  Neither Davian nor Fessi responded.

  As they made their way to the looming gate at the end of the road, Davian cast a quick sideways glance at Fessi. The other Augur had kept her composure well since the moment they’d been captured, but now … something was off. It was obvious in the hesitant way in which she was walking, the vaguely concerned look on her face as she studied the walls in front of them.

  What’s wrong?

  It’s probably nothing. Fessi didn’t stop studying the city ahead, though.

  There were two men at the gate, though neither wore armor nor any discernible uniform. They were waved through, Davian and Fessi receiving glares from the strangers but nothing more.

  The way ahead was well lit given the hour. The streets were bright with torches, revealing black stone everywhere; even the roads were a basalt-like rock, worn smooth from traffic. It was easy to spot a distinctive architectural style to the city: everything had sharp edges, jutted, the shadows emphasizing the jaggedness of their surroundings.

  The few people still walking the street at this hour appeared perfectly normal, though. A couple of men swayed slightly, evidently intoxicated, while a woman glanced in their direction but promptly hurried the opposite way. There was what sounded like a strange, rhythmic music emanating from one of the buildings along with the low murmur of voices, but otherwise everything was quiet.

  Davian looked up. Looming over them at the city’s peak was an enormous black palace, visible only thanks to its outline against the hazy moon and the array of torches along its walls. More torches lit the way up a steep cliff to its gate: a single staircase that looked uncomfortably narrow, given how it stretched at least a hundred feet into the air.

  They pressed on for a while. Davian did his best to take note of landmarks along the way—the giant bell tower with the
strange inscription written down its western side; the field of stone swords surrounded by flowers; the odd, man-size sphere in the middle of an empty square with pulsing lines of blue Essence running jaggedly across its surface—and tried to fix their positions in his mind relative to each other and the omnipresent, looming palace atop the cliff. He didn’t know if they would get a chance to escape, but he wanted to be able to find his way back if the opportunity arose.

  He glanced across at Fessi again after a while, noting with concern the growing unease in her expression. He’d tried a couple of times since entering the city to communicate with her, but whether because of how difficult kan was to use here, or because Fessi was too distracted, the other Augur hadn’t responded.

  “We’re here,” announced the gray-haired man suddenly.

  Davian stuttered to a halt, swallowing as he studied the structure in front of which they had stopped. It was an enormous, windowless tower, its stone facade bleak and dark, the only entrance a narrow passageway lit by flickering torches. Men in the black armor of the Blind—though, again, not wearing the vision-covering helmets—were positioned at regular intervals around its perimeter, most of them staring at Davian and Fessi suspiciously.

  It wasn’t hard to guess the building’s purpose.

  Fessi. Davian focused as hard as he could now, trying to get a response from the girl. Do we want to try and get away before they lock us up?

  There was no response for a few seconds, then, I don’t think I have enough control yet.

  All right. Davian licked his lips nervously as they were shoved toward the entrance, then ushered through the tight passageway until they emerged into a long room with a solid-looking iron gate at the other end.

  A handsome black-haired young man with pale skin rose from behind a desk as they entered, studying Davian and Fessi critically.

  “Runners?” he asked, tone slightly weary, as if the concept were something of a boring one.

  “Evening, Keeper. Caught them near the ilshara, of all places,” said the gray-haired man.

  The man—the “Keeper”—grunted, looking mildly more interested. “Further than most,” he observed. “They’ll have to go in the lower level. Lord Gassandrid has asked for exclusive use of the upper.”

  The soldier with the long scar frowned. “Why’s that?”

  The pale-skinned man hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering his tone conspiratorially. “Special prisoner. They’re not saying much, but there are rumors. He’s been here for almost a week.”

  “For a week? When was the last time someone made it …” The scarred man’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  The Keeper just nodded, evidently satisfied that the soldier had understood his meaning. He walked over to the gate, fishing some keys from his pocket and unlocking it.

  “You know where to go?” When the gray-haired man nodded impatiently, the Keeper opened the gate, allowing the soldiers to prod Davian and Fessi through.

  They had been walking for about a minute when they first heard the screams.

  The sounds seemed to be coming from only a single source, but they echoed unsettlingly through the stone hallways, soft at first but gradually increasing in volume and intensity as Davian and Fessi were prodded farther inside. There wasn’t just agony in the cries, either.

  They were full of desperation. Of complete and utter hopelessness.

  Davian shivered as they came to the top of a dim stairwell leading downward, glancing across at Fessi. To his horror, he could see that her hands had now begun to tremble, and the blood had drained from her face.

  We’ll be all right. He continued looking at her, trying to catch her gaze. We just need to rest for—

  Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and Fessi was standing in front of him.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked grim, terrified. “I can’t extend this to two of us; I can’t even hold it much longer for myself. Ducking down here is the best I can do.” She nodded to the passageway off to the left and started pulling Davian urgently along behind her.

  Davian allowed himself to be towed away from the near-motionless soldiers, heart pounding. “Why now? What’s going on?”

  “It’s here. This place. I recognize it. I … I can’t be here.” Fessi just shook her head, clearly panicked by something. “I can’t hold this. I’m so sorry. Fates with you, Davian.”

  Before he could react, she let go of his hand.

  There was a blur of motion as Fessi sped away; apparently even pushing the limits of her ability, she couldn’t move fast enough to maintain complete invisibility here.

  Davian gaped disbelievingly at the retreating figure, then spun around as shouts erupted from behind him. He was alone, but he and Fessi hadn’t made it far enough away.

  His captors could be upon him again in a matter of seconds, and he doubted that they’d be so casual about his imprisonment next time.

  He ran.

  The screams were still echoing unnervingly down the hallway; he found himself sprinting toward them, having nowhere else to go if he wanted to put distance between himself and the confused yells of the soldiers.

  He slowed as he came to a junction in the corridor, risking a glance behind him. There was still no sign of his pursuers, but their angry voices were louder, and he thought that their shouts had been joined by others now. He ducked left, then grimaced as he was faced with only a stairwell leading upward.

  There was no time to vacillate; he took the winding stairs two at a time, gasping for air as he reached the next level of the prison. The seemingly unending screams were piercing now, sending ice through his veins every time that they rattled off the walls.

  He slipped through the doorway in front of him and then stuttered to a horrified halt, bile suddenly in his mouth as he took in the scene.

  He had emerged into a large, semicircular room that was well lit by both torches and hanging lanterns. One of its two occupants stood in its center: a large man with his back to Davian, having apparently not noticed Davian’s entrance. He held a long blade that glistened wetly with blood, while another one hung sheathed at his side.

  Pinned against the wall was another man, this one facing toward Davian, though his blank gaze didn’t seem to register Davian’s presence, either. Thick, dark chains emerging from the stone were wrapped tight around his chest and limbs, suspending him slightly above the ground.

  Davian couldn’t see that the man had any physical injuries, yet there was blood … everywhere. Drenching the prisoner’s clothes. Spattered on the wall. Pooled thick on the stone floor, along with what looked suspiciously like a pile of severed body parts.

  The sight was grotesque enough that it took Davian a few seconds to register the familiar face, haggard and twisted in agony though it was.

  “Where is she, Tal?” Caeden’s torturer spoke softly, but the words sounded rote. As if this was a question that he’d already asked hundreds of times. “I promise you that even after what you did to Is, this is only happening because you’ve left us with no choice. So just tell us where she is, and this will stop.”

  “I don’t know, Meldier,” rasped Caeden, his voice desperate. He choked back a sob. “It’s the truth. I don’t remember.”

  The man called Meldier stepped forward and with one smooth motion, calmly cut off Caeden’s right arm.

  Another hoarse, furious, desperate scream resounded through the chamber, louder and more terrible than anything Davian could have imagined. He stumbled back, watching in wide-eyed disbelief as Meldier coldly slammed his hand down onto the gushing open wound. There was a blinding burst of Essence and Caeden cried out again, but the sound was muted in comparison to his first shout, this one more of an anguished moan.

  When the light faded and Meldier finally took his hand away, Caeden’s arm was whole.

  Davian swallowed down his urge to retch, his lips curling to a snarl. Both men were too engrossed in what was happening to spot him, but he’d seen more than enough.

  He clos
ed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He’d only be able to step outside of time for a few seconds, here, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let this go on.

  He fought with kan for a few moments, then let time flow around him and ran forward. The large man didn’t hear Davian coming, didn’t even turn as Davian grasped the hilt of the sword at his waist.

  Everything froze.

  Davian nearly lost his grip on kan, so surprised was he by how suddenly easy it was to grasp. He drew the blade free, heart pounding as the light from the torches began to bend and swirl toward it.

  This wasn’t just a blade.

  This was the one that he’d seen Caeden use at Ilin Illan.

  He gasped, shaking his head as he tried to get to grips with the dark power now seeping through his veins.

  “Who are you?”

  Davian’s gaze snapped up to see Meldier looking at him, hands outstretched in a display of calm surrender. Behind him, Caeden was still all but motionless, expression frozen in a rictus of pain.

  Davian took a hesitant step back.

  Meldier had managed to step outside of time, too. Perhaps not as well as Davian—his voice was a little slow, his eyes a little behind as they tried to focus—but he was clearly able to manipulate kan. Manipulate it incredibly well, given where they were.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Davian held the blade steady, adjusting his grip slightly. He was a long way from a true swordsman, but Aelric’s memories gave him a good deal of confidence with the weapon. “Let my friend go.”

  “Your friend?” Meldier barked a laugh. “Tal’kamar?”

  “Yes.”

  The laughter quickly died. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You should.” There was an unsettling force behind the man’s words, which boomed in the surreal silence that surrounded them. Then Meldier cocked his head to the side. “But … you are not from here, are you? Not if you can use Licanius.”

  Davian motioned with the sword, trying to look confident. “I’m not interested in talking. Let Caeden—Tal’kamar—and I go, or I’ll use this.”