Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3)

by Berardinelli, James

  Myselene rose unsteadily, surprised to discover how badly her legs were shaking. Indeed, it wasn’t only her legs. Her entire body was trembling, although whether that was from delayed fear, relief, or weakness, she couldn’t say. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Sorial, sitting on the cold floor because his infirmity preventing him from standing, spared her a glance. “As well as possible. What about you?” In terms of physical abuse, she had suffered worse than him.

  “Now I understand a little of what you went through in Havenham. It wasn’t pleasant but you saved me from… I’ll admit to being scared shitless of what was coming next. What’s in that bag?”

  Sorial glanced at the leather satchel but didn’t make a move to open it. He had seen enough of Langashin’s tools to guess and he didn’t need a stark reminder of one of the darkest periods of his life.

  “We have to get out of here,” said Myselene, one hand cupping her injured breast protectively. “They’ll come if they don’t hear what they’re expecting.”

  “Scream a little. Make it sound like he’s doing his job. It’s gonna take me a while to arrange our escape.”

  Myselene did as requested. Sorial was surprised at how genuinely frightened and hurt those half-sob/half-screams sounded. Given her current state, he guessed not a lot of acting was required. When they got back to the camp, she would need a healer’s care. Too bad Alicia was far away. These were the kinds of wounds she was becoming an expert at salving. Unless there were broken bones, which didn’t appear to be the case, there was little Sorial could do. And he was useless when it came to abating pain.

  He summoned the rock wyrm. Establishing the communication was more difficult than it had been at any time since their first connection; it was as if something in his mind was sluggish. The drug continued to impede him, and that would be the case until it worked its way through his system. For the moment, he was operating under significant limitations.

  The creature arrived with its characteristic lack of stealth. The ground shook, gently at first then violently as it approached the surface. There was an explosion of rock and dirt as it broke through the crust. The noise was deafening. There was no way every guard in the dungeon could have failed to notice something was amiss. The alarm was raised almost immediately: a cacophony of shouts, a bell ringing, and booted footsteps running down the hall.

  “Get on!” demanded Sorial, gesturing toward the wyrm’s back. He did a little magic on the door to ensure it wouldn’t be opened quickly or easily. Moments later, there was a lot of shouting just outside the cell and the sound of keys turning ineffectually in a lock that was fused beyond repair.

  A nonplused Myselene was frozen in place, gazing into the impenetrable depths of the wyrm’s eyes. To most people, this was a figment out of a fable or a nightmare: a huge, serpentine creature with a sleek, reptilian body and a prehensile tail. It was intelligent, although not as smart as a dragon. And, while it couldn’t fly or spit fire, it could travel through earth as easily as its aquatic sea serpent cousin could cleave water. Myselene’s reaction was similar to that of others who had encountered it, but he didn’t have time for her to adapt to its transformation from beast of fiction to creature of reality. He needed her to focus and act. Coping could come later, if there was a later. If those men got through the door, Sorial couldn’t fight them all, at least not in his current state. And the rock wyrm’s retreat would be slow and awkward since it had to take into account Myselene’s vulnerability. It couldn’t just burrow into the ground the way it would if Sorial was its lone passenger.

  “You’ve got to mount,” said Sorial, his tone insistent. Myselene nodded and moved hesitantly toward the creature, which remained immobile, gazing at her impassively. The overlapping obsidian scales that covered its body were large, cold, and hard - just like stone. Once she was on its back, Sorial hopped over to join her and, with some difficulty, clambered up behind her. Riding the rock wyrm with two good arms and legs was difficult enough; doing it with one of each missing was more than a challenge. It wasn’t the first time he had done it, however.

  Rather than just communicating a voiceless command for the rock wyrm to go, Sorial constructed a mental picture of how he wanted the trip to proceed. Rather than passing through soil and stone, as was its usual practice, Sorial needed the creature to dig out a tunnel with an exit beyond the city walls. The most important instructions were to keep the ride smooth, lest Sorial fall off, and to make the tunnel sturdy, lest it collapse and kill Myselene. The rock wyrm chafed at being given so many instructions, but there was no alternative.

  As they were about to move, an unpleasant feeling touched Sorial’s consciousness. At first, he didn’t know its cause or meaning then, with growing dread, he figured it out.

  “Shit,” he muttered, wishing he had misinterpreted the sensation and its meaning but knowing he hadn’t. “She’s free.”

  * * *

  Naked hostility burned in Ariel’s eyes as she stared into the faces of the three men surrounding her.

  “You propose that I betray the only person who’s stood by me in order to save the brother I’m sworn to kill?” Her voice was like the wind through a reed, thin and sibilant. She hadn’t moved. Her frail body, covered by a threadbare blanket, lay supine on the dirt floor of Warburm’s tent. Her hands were still folded over her chest.

  Carannan avoided directing his gaze at Ariel’s face; what he saw there haunted him. In those desiccated, ravaged features, he could detect hints of a beauty that had long since been eaten away by poxes, the cruelty of harsh years, and the rigors of magic. According to Warburm, she had been pretty in her youth - lithe and ripe on the cusp of adulthood when she had disappeared. Was this what lay in store for Alicia? Already, his daughter showed signs of premature aging. According to the calendar, Ariel had seen thirty-three years. Based on her appearance, she might be twice that - an old, palsied woman near to her deathbed.

  “I propose you save your life so, in the future, you’ll have an opportunity to rejoin The Lord of Fire and attempt to carry out Sorial’s death sentence,” said Gorton, who had made the offer to Ariel as soon as she had appeared lucid enough to understand its meaning and implications.

  “You must be desperate indeed to make such a magnanimous offer. But then you need both my little brother and your little queen back in order to continue this foolish stand against Justin. With or without Sorial, you’ll fail. Still, I suppose you don’t see it that way.”

  “Will you do it?” asked Gorton. Time was running short. They had agreed beforehand that Ariel would be given only a matter of minutes in which to make her decision before she was dosed. None of them knew how long it might take between consciousness and the return of her powers but they intended to err on the conservative side. Lengthy procrastination wouldn’t be tolerated.

  “I’ll make you a counter-offer. I’ll agree to your terms if, in addition to my freedom, you present me the head of Prelate Ferguson - divested from his body, of course.” A rictus twisted her ghoulish features.

  “Lass, you know that ain’t possible,” said Warburm, speaking for the first time since Ariel’s awakening. Thus far, Gorton had done all the talking.

  “My dear Warburm, nothing is impossible. I broke your back yet you walk. When people are desperate enough, sacrifices can be made. Do you all love Ferguson so deeply that you wouldn’t give him up for Sorial and your queen? Isn’t the price I ask for my cooperation surprisingly mild? The life of one very old man in return for a temporary truce in which I rescue two important people from certain death?”

  On the surface, Ariel was right: it wasn’t an unreasonable demand. Considering their current precarious situation, operating without a queen and wizard, it was a price she could extort without fear of refusal. Carannan bore no love for Ferguson but this seemed somehow wrong. He knew that Sorial and possibly Myselene would agree to it without blinking an eyelash, but neither was here. Ferguson’s value lay in the knowledge locked in his mind. Surrenderin
g him might be a bigger sacrifice than any of them realized. The central danger remained, however. Even if they agreed, there was no guarantee Ariel would abide by the bargain. How likely was it that she would forswear herself?

  “If I agree to this condition, will you…” Gorton’s words died on his lips. His body became immobile; he stood rigidly in place, the only sign of life being the continued rise and fall of his chest. Recognizing the danger, Carannan reached for his sword only to find himself similarly paralyzed, every fiber of his body frozen into position. He screamed a silent curse in his mind. They had waited too long.

  “I find this conversation tiresome,” said Ariel, sitting up with the slightly tortured movements of an old woman. Perhaps in an act of modesty, she pulled the blanket around herself, hiding her emaciated form from view. “You people think yourselves clever. Through these long days in and out of consciousness, I’ve awaited an opportunity such as this. I dared not act while Sorial was present, but now… Even the little dribble of magic at my command is enough to neutralize the likes of you. Three senseless half-wits. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

  She rose to a standing position, seeming to relish the moment. There was something almost predatory in the slow, deliberate way she moved. Carannan recalled something Sorial had told him shortly after he returned from Ibitsal with Alicia in tow. When the then-duke had remarked that his daughter looked and seemed no different, Sorial had responded: “Never judge a wizard by how he or she looks or acts. If you do that, you’ll be deceived.” They had put too much faith in the drug and Ariel’s physical feebleness. And they had been deceived - not necessarily by her but by their own expectations.

  So focused was Carannan on Ariel that he hardly noticed the commotion outside the tent, but she did. Her attention shifted from her prisoners to the entrance just as the flap was thrown back to reveal one of the last people the overcommander might have expected to see: Sorial - naked, pale, and very much at liberty. A crude spike of rock was in place below his left knee, allowing him to walk. It was obvious he had undergone an ordeal but, like Ariel, he had found a way to escape. Apparently, his captors in Basingham had made a mistake.

  “Apparently, my services are no longer needed,” said Ariel, her eyes meeting her brother’s. “No need to free someone who has found his own means of escape.” Carannan felt the bindings slip away but, before he could, act, he was slammed violently to the ground. The concussion was so forceful that it knocked everyone to the floor except Sorial, its architect.

  From her knees, Ariel counterattacked. Carannan couldn’t determine precisely what she did, just as he didn’t grasp the full ramifications of Sorial’s attack, but her brother staggered back a step, his hand clutching his breast. Almost immediately, he overcame whatever she had done. Sorial straightened and took a step forward. Ariel’s twisted features expressed surprise; she hadn’t expected his response to be so quick or decisive. A hail of tiny pebbles erupted from the ground around Ariel, but they fell away before striking her, deflected by something Carannan couldn’t see.

  “This isn’t over,” she hissed, then exploded skyward, ripping through the tent’s roof. Sorial attempted to stop her but he lacked the stamina for his efforts to be effective. The remaining color drained from his face. Carannan watched with concern as the young man took a deep breath, exhaled as he dropped to a knee, then pitched forward onto his face.

  * * *

  Less than two hours later, a council session was held in Myselene’s tent. Sorial was present, although bundled in thick blankets to keep him warm. The brief conflict with his sister had come close to killing him - not because of anything she had done but because of the way he had recklessly plundered his own low energy reserves. He had been fortunate that her weakness had matched his. Had she stood her ground rather than fleeing, she might have won the day.

  Myselene’s modest attire - a loose-fitting peasant’s dress - disguised much of what she had endured in Basingham’s dungeon, although the telltale bruises on her face hinted at the brutal treatment. Her demeanor was cold. Now that she was safely removed from the city, revenge was foremost in her mind. Sorial didn’t blame her. His own thoughts drifted toward payback. Some actions couldn’t be permitted to go unanswered.

  They had lost Ariel. That was bad. By now, she had almost certainly rejoined The Lord of Fire - something that would make him that much harder to overcome. Magically, she was weak. He had spent enough time with her to recognize that she was near the end, but her experience made her dangerous. Even with little power, she had nearly strangled him during their brief duel. He had been expecting the attack - after all, she had employed it in their previous engagement - although not as a direct assault on his lungs. But the tiny specks of dust in his body had allowed him to breathe using a similar mechanism to the one he exploited while passing through solid rock. He didn’t understand the specifics of how it worked, only that it did.

  The biggest downside of losing Ariel was that Justin now controlled air. Even if Ariel was to prove unable to fulfill the duties he envisioned for her, he could replace her at a time of his choosing. Although there was value in learning whether Lavella could hear the call of the portal, the urgency was gone. The only way she would become The Lady of Air was if Justin lost the war. Otherwise, she would die as she had lived, without ever touching magic.

  “We need to make preparations to strike camp immediately,” said Gorton without preamble. “Ariel’s freedom only makes the situation here more precarious. And, once Uthgarb and his cronies have figured out what happened, they may open the gates and send the entire army of Basingham on a search-and-destroy raid.”

  “I doubt Uthgarb controls the army,” said Myselene. “According to him, Durth is confined to quarters, so it’s an incomplete coup at best. He’s trying to hold on until Justin’s arrival, hoping The Lord of Fire will elevate him. Our escape has placed him in an untenable position. That will make him dangerous and unpredictable but I don’t think he has sufficient clout or contacts within the military to be able to mobilize the army for a sortie against us. Our biggest concern remains what it’s been from the beginning: Justin’s advancing force. We have to be far enough distant by the time of his arrival that running us down isn’t an attractive use of time and manpower.”

  “At least we know Justin will remove Uthgarb as a threat when he arrives. The Lord of Fire isn’t the sort of person to countenance failure and your escape represents failure on a grand scale.”

  “We’re not going to leave Uthgarb’s fate to chance. The man is oily and if he slips free of Justin, I don’t want to have to wonder where he’s going to surface next. If he shows up in Obis when I’m trying to rally support, he could tip the balance of power against me. Underestimating him once nearly had disastrous consequences. I won’t repeat that mistake. This is something we have to handle before we leave.”

  “What you mean, Your Majesty, is that I have to handle him,” said Sorial. His words were slurred, making him sound like a drunkard.

  “Other than using magic, can you think of a way to get to him?” asked Myselene. She hadn’t phrased her intentions as a royal command but Sorial knew that would be the next step if she sensed resistance. She needn’t have worried. Uthgarb was near the top of the list of people he wanted to eliminate. Sorial had killed for revenge before and, if he survived long enough, he was sure it would happen again.

  “If this is how you see things, there’s no other way,” intoned Ferguson. “Although I believe you overvalue the danger represented by Ambassador Uthgarb. He’s a lazy opportunist who saw a chance to grab for power and overreached himself. But if you’re determined to kill him, you’ll need magic. Basingham is sealed tight and won’t open to the likes of us anytime soon. Sorial, on the other hand, should be able to enter, locate his target, and eliminate him with minimal difficulty.”

  “I’ll do what needs to be done,” said Sorial. “I’ve got an opportunity to kill him now.”

  “When ca
n you be ready?” asked Myselene.

  Sorial turned to Warburm, “How long till this drug is out of my system?”

  “Assuming it be the same, or similar, to what we was givin’ yer sister, you should be in fair-ta-middlin’ condition by first light tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” said the queen. “Prepare everyone for departure. Tomorrow at dawn, Sorial will enter the city to do what must be done. Once he’s back, we’ll make final preparations to leave. I’ll leave it to you gentlemen to determine logistics since you’ll be the ones leading the army and refugees north through Widow’s Pass. Sorial and I will go alone via a faster route to Obis.”

  No one questioned Myselene. They hadn’t spoken in detail about the specifics of how she would reach the northern city but no one doubted Sorial could get her there quickly and safely. Gorton and Carannan had protested her going without an armed escort but she had dismissed their concerns, arguing that if a wizard couldn’t protect her, a squadron of well-armed men was unlikely to represent her salvation. She needed stealth and speed: things that Sorial, and only Sorial, could provide.

  “The chain of leadership remains the same. Gorton, you have overall command of the forces, military and otherwise, from Vantok. Ferguson, you’re second in command with your primary responsibility being the non-military refugees. Carannan, as overcommander, you lead the militia and answer only to Gorton. Warburm, I’d like you to join the council as Ferguson’s aid.”

  “I’d be honored, Yer Majesty.” Answering to Ferguson was a duty he had fulfilled on more than one occasion in the past.

  “Carannan, I need you to name a second in the event that some ill should befall you.”

  “I’ve given that some thought, Your Majesty. Many of the good men I might have chosen fell at Vantok, but a few survived. I thought to name Rexall, Sorial’s childhood friend and lately a member of your personal retinue, as undercommander.”