His right hand brandished his sword while his left shook his alchemical globe. Holding it high, he waited until its glow brightened to cast a thin radiance across the clearing. His mount stamped skittishly, and he struggled to control it with his knees.
Kurio edged nearer to her horse and gripped the saddle. The stranger was cloaked, a hood obscuring his face. Beneath the fabric, she caught the telltale glint of mail.
The sound of Mellish’s harsh breathing was broken by a deep, resonant voice speaking a fluid language Kurio didn’t recognize.
But evidently Mellish did. He answered tentatively, as a toddler would, as if searching for each word before speaking.
When he’d finished, the stranger remained silent. His hood moved as he shook his head. Eventually he spoke again, this time in Nan-Rhouric, the old but common tongue of the north. “What do you do here?”
“Begone, wraithe!” shouted Mellish. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”
Kurio swallowed and clutched her horse’s reins. A wraithe? Mellish seemed sure it was one of the old race. According to the old folktales, the remnants of their civilization were supposed to be in hiding. Kurio swallowed a mouthful of spit and clutched her horse’s reins.
“Be careful who you command, mortal. Cause offense and you will be slapped down.” The words were spoken casually, as if the wraithe were bored, but with a certainty born of strength.
Mellish licked his lips. “We only seek to camp for the night. We didn’t know this area was yours.”
“Mine? This barren place? Only mankind claims ownership. You cling like babes because your lives are so short.”
“We …” began Mellish, a tremble in his voice, “we’ll go, then. Demon, mount your horse.”
Kurio scrambled to obey, though she wasn’t sure staying would be any worse. Perhaps she should let the wraithe take her. How dreadful would it be? Would it enslave her? Or kill her? Would that be so bad?
“We’ll leave now. If you attack or follow us, I’ll destroy you,” Mellish said.
At that, the wraithe’s head jerked as if stung. Sneering laughter came from it. “You, destroy me? You bear no mark, no catalyst, nor are you a manipulator. You cannot even illuminate your way without a toy.”
It barked a harsh word, and a globe as bright as the sun formed in the air, hovering far above them. It gave off a dazzling radiance, banishing darkness and stretching shadows around them in a circle. Sorcery, realized Kurio.
“You bear relics of old,” said the wraithe, “which give you false confidence. But you merely found them. Like the scavengers you are.”
Mellish glanced around as if looking for reinforcements, eyes wide, fear written large on his face.
So this is the end, Kurio thought and closed her eyes. It’s a relief, really.
“I’m warning you,” Mellish said unconvincingly.
“Go,” the wraithe said. “Mankind will be annihilated soon, and the world will forget you.”
Kurio’s eyes snapped open. “No,” she whispered. “You’re supposed to kill us.”
The wraithe tilted its head toward her. It had heard her plea. But it did nothing.
“No,” she repeated. “No!” She realized she was crying, hot tears trailing down her cheeks.
“Move, demon!” Mellish snapped, sheathing his sword. “Do you want to die? Move!”
He tried to turn his horse around, but it fought him, unnerved by the stranger and the incandescent light. He twisted in the saddle to keep one eye on the wraithe.
“He-yah!” yelled Kurio at the top of her lungs. She urged her horse forward, jamming her heels into its sides, aiming straight for Mellish. He thinks I’m a demon. I’ll show him one.
“What the—”
Her horse shied away, too late. It crashed into Mellish’s, and there was a snap like a breaking branch as his leg jammed between the horses. Mellish cried out, and his globe tumbled from his grasp. Kurio turned her mount, thinking to run. But she still wore the collar, and Mellish held the hated turtle. There was no escape. Only death would free her. His, or hers.
Yanking at the reins, she yelled again and rode at Mellish. He was bent over the neck of his horse, clutching its mane. Shattered bone poked from his pants leg, and he wheezed raspingly.
On the other side of the clearing, the wraithe hadn’t moved a muscle.
Kurio rammed Mellish again, aiming for his broken leg. They collided with crushing force. Mellish cried out as his mount was thrown sideways. The horse scrabbled for purchase on the stone, but its hooves slipped, and it tumbled over the cliff.
Mellish screamed all the way down. There was a massive thud, then silence.
Kurio’s breath came in harsh gasps, clouding the air in front of her. Her limbs trembled, and her stomach churned. Bile rose, and she swallowed it.
She glanced at the wraithe. It remained silent and ominous.
I have to see. I have to confirm he’s dead. If he survived … I’ll finish him off.
Blood pounding in her ears, Kurio dismounted. Her knees buckled, and she clung to her saddle to stop herself falling. A moment passed. Two. Forcing herself to move, she staggered to the cliff. She stood on the edge, dizzy with relief, fearing she might lose her footing and plummet to her death as well—but she had to know if Mellish was dead.
All she could see was blackness. There was no sound save the moaning of the wind, her heavy breathing, and the occasional flap of the wraithe’s cloak.
Ignoring the creature, Kurio cast around for Mellish’s alchemical globe. She tossed it over the edge and heard its glass shatter on the rocks below. Light spilled across granite, throwing shadows and illuminating Mellish’s twisted corpse. He’d been thrown clear of his horse. Both were unmoving.
She staggered with relief. More tears flowed, hot and salty. She wiped her eyes, hating herself for her weakness.
With an effort of will, Kurio pulled her eyes from Mellish’s broken form and examined the wraithe. It still hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken.
She took a tentative step toward it, holding out her manacled hands. “What do you want with me?”
It moved slightly, mail clinking. “With you? Nothing.”
Kurio sobbed with relief. “Then why are you here? There’s no one for miles around. This wasn’t a coincidence.”
“I was … drawn here. Pulled from my task.”
“And what task would that be?”
“I am to prevent. Failing that, to witness.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Witness what?”
“The coming of the Seventh Cataclysm. Another downfall of mankind. Perhaps their end.” It shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Kurio felt cold fingers of dread clutch at her. “You hate us. You hate humankind.”
There was a long silence. “Hate is … insufficient.”
“Am I … Can I live? Am I free to go?”
A nod of its hood. “You are free, demon. The Dead-eyes will eat your companion after they have defiled his corpse.”
Kurio fancied she heard satisfaction, or pleasure, in the wraithe’s words. She drew herself up, feeling her strength returning. She was free. All she had to do was climb down the cliff and retrieve the turtle from Mellish and whatever else she could salvage.
But …
“Am I?” she asked the wraithe. “A demon? Do you know?”
Though she could only see darkness inside the hood, Kurio felt the wraithe’s eyes upon her. “Yes,” it said. “I see their blood in you. In your face, in your essence.”
The clearing spun. Kurio fell to her knees in despair. Biting her lip, she stopped herself from sobbing, from showing weakness. She tasted copper: her own blood.
“You do not fear me?” the wraithe said.
Kurio managed to shake her head. “No. I’ve … had enough of fear, of pain.”
The wraithe circled her kneeling form. “Do you wish me to decide for you?”
It was offering to kill her. A release. An end.
“No,” she whis
pered.
“Good. Some demons—a rare few—are able to make their own decisions; they are not driven by their base desires, their demon instincts. You demonstrate that your blood does not master you; you will not exult in degradation. You will make a name for yourself.”
Kurio shifted her weight. A sharp rock pressed into her shin, and she decided to stand. “I just … I just want to return to Caronath. I want my life back.”
As she said it, she knew her world would never be the same.
She raised her still-manacled hands and rubbed her burning, tired eyes. When she looked up, the wraithe was nowhere to be seen. The incandescent ball hanging above her winked out, and darkness flooded in.
Kurio drew a deep breath, then approached the cliff edge. The climb down in the dark was terrifying and gritty, but also glorious. Mellish was dead.
She moved as quickly as she dared, her hands scraped and bloodied by the granite, remembering the wraithe’s promise that the Dead-eyes would come to defile and then eat Mellish’s corpse. Finally free from the collar’s torment, she had no desire to die out here in the wilderness.
At the cliff bottom, the illumination from the globe’s alchemical fluid was fading. She spat on Mellish’s face, then rifled through his clothes. The turtle first. This close, she could see the gems were embedded into each segment of its shell, and it clasped a ring of curled wire in one of its feet. Carefully avoiding touching the gems, she clipped the turtle to her belt with the ring. Then she rummaged through Mellish’s pockets until she found the key to her manacles. She unlocked them and threw them as far as she could into the darkness.
He had a pouch filled with royals, which she pocketed, though she decided not to bother taking his sword or other gear. She still had to climb back up the cliff face with aching and stinging palms. Luckily, her crossbow and her own gear were in her horse’s saddlebags, or they might have been damaged in the fall.
Kurio almost thanked the gods, then spat again. None of them had helped her when she needed them. She was done with them.
She stuffed a tinderbox with alchemical matches and some of the dried meat and cheese into her shirt, then fingered the orichalcum amulet Mellish wore. In the fading light of the globe, the metal seemed to glow red, and she could just make out hundreds of tiny Skanuric runes etched into the piece. Perhaps this was what the wraithe had meant when it said Mellish bore relics of old? Kurio shrugged and slipped the amulet over her head. She tucked it under her shirt, where it nestled between her breasts, warm against her skin.
The large book Mellish had been reading caught her eye. She scanned a few pages filled with minute writing and strange illustrations of creatures, probably demons, and objects, and cities, and fortresses. It was heavy, but she decided to take it. She undid a few buttons and shoved it inside her shirt. It would be awkward to climb with it, but doable.
Ascending was easier, as always, though she had to stop frequently to rest and to adjust the book where it dug into her ribs.
At the top, she paused to catch her breath and rub her aching hands. Her horse regarded her with uninterested eyes and went back to cropping the grass.
The settlement was supposed to be close by. All she had to do was make her way through the forest safely to find it. Once there, she could recuperate and buy provisions and begin the journey back to Caronath. She wanted no part of Mellish and Zarina’s business with the ruins the settlers had found. The sooner she was back in the city, back where she was comfortable, the better. And then Zarina would pay.
Her fingers touched the collar around her neck. She could pass it off as jewelry until she found a sorcerer to rid her of it.
Lights twinkling in the distance caught her eye. Kurio stood and squinted. It had to be the settlement down in the valley. She laughed with relief. Surely she’d reach it tomorrow, but for now, she needed rest. Her body ached, and her mind was scrubbed raw by emotion.
She unloaded her haul and gathered armfuls of wood. Then she built up a large fire, lighting it with a strike of an alchemical match. Soon, it blazed hot, crackling and cheery.
Kurio checked her gear in her saddlebags to make sure it was all there. Then she unsaddled her horse and tied it to a bent tree.
Laying out her bedroll, she snuggled under her blanket, face to the fire. It was comfortingly hot on her cheeks and forehead. She closed her eyes and, for the first time in days, drifted off to sleep almost immediately.
She woke at dawn, sweating under the blanket, the fire’s coals still warm. The air was bitter and crisp on her face, stinging her cheeks and causing her nose to drip. Far away in her consciousness was a faint glimmer of terror, just beyond her grasp. She vaguely remembered the formless ills that had harrowed her dreams and shivered. But they faded to nothing with the coming of dawn.
She tossed the blanket aside and rose, stretched her stiff limbs and aching hands. It was a new day, and the sun seemed brighter now she was free. She raked fingers through her short, tangled hair.
“Hello, Kurio.” A rich voice, thick and sweet.
She jumped and turned. Behind her stood Gannon, full lips smirking, an amused glint in his bright blue eyes.
What was he doing here? How had he found her? Her mind froze. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.
“I’m so glad I caught up to you,” he said, then muttered a few words in a foreign tongue she didn’t understand.
Kurio felt a cold breeze brush across her skin, and the heat of blood rushed to her face. Bloody hells. Her heart pounded beneath her breasts; her eyes drank him in like she was a giddy adolescent. She tore her gaze away, embarrassed at her reaction. Her thoughts coalesced, then scattered again before settling.
“You came to save me?”
He had chased Mellish all the way from Caronath, just for her. Never before had she felt something with such strange certainty.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ancient Revelations and Fresh Wounds
SIAN SCREAMED. MARTHAZE STARTED awake at the sound, scrabbling for his dagger. He was sure he’d left it close by—couldn’t find it. He moved to Sian and held her shoulders. Her body trembled, her breaths short and sharp, the blanket fallen to her slender waist. She pushed him away and stumbled to her feet, arms folded against the chill night air.
“Sian?” he said. “What is it?” Had she been attacked by something, a sorcerous intrusion invisible to his eyes?
Around them, a few other priests and sorcerers stirred, but none came to see what the commotion was about. They were all fatigued from their exertions of the last few days. The demons and their human worshipers had renewed their assault in an attempt to break out of the ring surrounding them, which slowly tightened.
“Go back to sleep,” Sian said. “It was only a dream.”
There were tears in her voice, and he felt sorry for her, though she was a cursed sorcerer. They all suffered nightmares now. An inevitable consequence of the mind-numbing horrors they’d seen, of the hardships they’d endured for years. The war had lasted far longer than anybody had expected.
He returned to his ragged blanket; it was all he had left. But Marthaze gave up searching for sleep long after Sian had found it again. He shivered, breathed an oath, then rose quietly. There was no solace to be found in sleep these days. There hadn’t been for many a year.
Far in the night-shrouded distance, glittering lights flickered—the Covenants going up against the Tainted Cabal’s sorcerers. He knew Sian grieved for her lost colleagues, as did he for the fallen priests and priestesses. The Covenants bore the brunt of the fatalities: always on the front lines, scouring the earth with arcane cants, slaughtering dozens of the demon’s fell army. Seven out of every ten sorcerers had been killed already, leaving only the strongest, the most puissant. The most dangerous.
Marthaze found himself on the edge of the camp. Watchful sentries noted his approach, but let him be. Often, those who’d had their fill of slaughter just walked away, even though they walked to certain death at the hands of the
monstrous horde. The sentries knew better than to try to stop them.
One distant illumination shone brighter, redder, than the others. Marthaze knew this to be the Grandmaster of the Evokers, whose sorcerous might eclipsed that of the Grandmasters of the other Covenants, and who had in her possession the potent Chain of Eyes. How exactly the artifact worked Marthaze didn’t know, not wanting anything to do with the sorcerers and their godless power. He watched the lights flit to and fro like fireflies above the infernal mass, trailing glittering arcs of destruction. Beneath them, demons and humans died in their hundreds: flesh and bones scorched, limbs severed, heads cracked like eggshells.
After a time, the Grandmaster’s bright light dimmed slightly. Dawn was approaching, and the assault would lessen while the sorcerers replenished their reserves by the light of the rising sun.
As the Grandmaster came closer, Marthaze was able to discern an individual shape within the glow she emitted. A silken robe covered her slender form, and she glided across the churned and bloody terrain as if walking were beneath her. He sensed the sentries stiffen as she approached, no more comfortable with their allies than he was. But if it meant defeating Nysrog and the Tainted Cabal, the lesser evil could be tolerated. At least, for a time.
A hundred yards from Marthaze and the sentries, the Grandmaster’s radiance winked out. She dipped, then, as if her sorcery failed her, and fell toward the smoking corpses carpeting the ground, then recovered and resumed a steadier descent.
When she landed ten paces away, Marthaze could see just how tired she was. Eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed; limbs and torso thin from lack of food and insufficient sleep; cheeks gaunt, sweat-drenched hair plastered to her scalp. She passed a skeletal hand across her face in weariness. Around her neck hung an orichalcum chain festooned with green cat’s-eye chrysoberyls: the Chain of Eyes.
One of the sentries, bolder than the others, offered his arm for the sorcerer to lean on. “Grandmaster Shalmara,” he said, awe in his voice, “may I escort you to your tent?”
She bowed her head slightly and accepted.
Aldric sat bolt upright, the ancient memory jolting him awake.
Revenant Winds (The Tainted Cabal Book 1) Page 34