by Martin Vine
Dewbreck had become strong indeed, and yet Albreck had appraised him true: he knew not how to properly control it. And in his moment of greatest need, it came to pass that the old hag did leave Dewbreck to face his brother alone in the bowels of Skeyne’s Imperial Gaol, thereby weakening the scholar of Sanufell more than he could yet know.
Of course, abandonment did little to dilute the scorn Dewbreck felt toward his brother, nor blunt the sharpness of his tongue. For Dewbreck’s Seven had made great progress in their experiments on the Blighted, and were on the verge of uncovering a power that would dwarf that of their rivals sitting high and mighty in distant Sanufell. The grey-robe was just beginning to understand where the continuation of their work might lead, and why the old hag showed so great an interest in the ‘Bleached Ones’, as was her name for them.
And in the beginning, it was Dewbreck who did hold his tongue. Albreck spoke first, and in a measured and conciliatory tone, reminded his brother that their king had first sent him south to undo the treachery of the hag. And for a long while did Dewbreck listen in silence while his brother spoke, and said nothing by way of counterpoint, nor challenged the accusations levelled against him. And only when Albreck spoke of his desire, and likewise that of the Druhirrim, to cure the Blighted did Dewbreck’s mask finally crack.
For upon hearing these words did Dewbreck Stormsonne howl with laughter, and it is said that the sound of it was so ghastly that even the Blighted did fall silent and cower in their shadowed cells.
And as he did finally recompose himself, the former scholar of Sanufell drew a deep breath and spoke, and all pretence of civility vanished as the bile, long stewing in his gut, vomited forth.
Dewbreck finished his tirade with a curse, as poisonous as it was spontaneous: “For so long as cloud shields the skies over Celestia Gar, forever will your line be destined to help those who despise them. Forever will they fail in their endeavours. Forever will their dreams torture them with truths untouchable.”
Such was the full extent of his words, now diluted by time to become what we know as Dewbreck’s Curse. And ever does it stand as a reminder of how closely the War in Heaven did mirror the battle in Dellreigh below, and likewise a guard against the notion that siblings are by nature inclined to act with kindness toward one another.
Bottled Lightning
Shrouded by the shadow of night, the grey-robed Sylt was locked in a battle of his own making. He had not anticipated such committed defence. Fighting it had drained him to a pitiful state. His brain hammered against the inside of his skull. Clutching the edge of the canoe, he leant over and let the cold air of the lake surface wash against his face. The old one was stronger than he’d been led to believe.
Clever, clever, he whispered inside his head, a grudging respect for a worthy foe. But sentiment would not turn Therok Greifstrykke from his goal.
Instead, he absorbed the pain, nurturing it, feeding off it, allowing it to grow and evolve into something more powerful. Focusing his thoughts, the grey-robe willed the last survivors of the ant colony forward, their inevitable deaths of no great consequence to his plan. It was only a matter of time before the one he sought revealed themself.
The anticipation of such a discovery – the final unwritten chapter of his life’s work – left Therok distracted and exposed. Too late, he realised his folly.
In his struggle to break through the old one’s defences, Therok had allowed a gap in his own. The other slipped right through like an invasive splinter thrust between his eyes. He recoiled, screeching. The stranger probed deep into his subconscious and the agony was indescribable. Therok’s entire body arched backward, bending his spine into an impossible angle. One foot slipped out from under him and the lanky mage toppled backward into the canoe’s ribbing.
The two acolytes looked on in frozen horror, unable to lend strength to the battle raging inside their master’s head. Spittle frothed at the sides of his mouth. Therok’s body continued to convulse and contort into unnatural shapes. His legs spasmed. One wayward foot slammed into the hardwood rail. His acolytes winced with every jarring impact, while the canoe continued its rocking momentum, perilously close to taking on water.
The advantage had been taken away from Therok, the battlefield shifting from the rope bridge to some deep, dark chamber of his mind. Mustering strength, Therok fought back, wrestling for the identity of his attacker. It was like trying to grasp at fog. That such power could exist outside his knowledge continued to confound him, even as he wrestled to regain control of his mind.
No Sylt in Broken Meadow should have had the will to challenge him. Yet this newcomer had strength to match his own: raw, primal, of the ancient line.
But there was no song in his Floren blood. This was not the one he sought.
The disappointment turned his curiosity into venom. As the battle raged, Therok slowly began to turn the tide. Finally, he detected a chink in the armour.
This one feels love; this one’s deepest fears are for others.
Grunting with the effort, Therok hauled himself up from the floor of the canoe’s hull to the bench seat nearest the bow. A sneer curled the edge of his mouth.
This one can feel pain!
The sneer twisted into a grimace. Therok clenched his eyes shut, lest they be turned against him, clenching his fist tight around the quartz pendant.
Your turn!
At great risk to those around him, Therok took everything from the stone. The vast reserves of energy held within the cool quartz surged into his body like water through a Bridgetown sluice. The rush that followed felt like his soul was tearing free from his body. Welcoming the power, he whispered a silent prayer to the Other God and prepared to unleash her full vengeance upon his enemy.
Without warning, the stranger released him, sidestepping what would certainly have been a fatal counter strike.
Impossible!
Therok shrieked his outrage into the night. His disappointment was absolute. The grey-robe’s body bristled head-to-toe with power, but there was no one for him to unleash it upon. Frustration raged inside his mind that was, once again, his alone. He dared to open his eyes and discovered the world swimming in shades of grey-black. Blinking through the haze, he reached out with his mind for any trace of his foe.
Nothing!
The other had hidden himself well. Still contained within Therok’s body was a force akin to bottled lightning. Before the danger grew too great, he clutched the quartz – so tightly it drew blood – and let the power flow back inside its empty heart. Therok Greifstrykke understood the peril of holding on too long.
But how it pained him. For the first time since he’d donned the grey robes, the Lord of the Ravenstrykke had been outplayed. His head was a cauldron of pain, but his vision was stabilising. The world came slowly back into focus.
Collapsing backward, Therok supported himself with one arm slung over the edge of the canoe’s rail. Through blinking eyes, he stared up into the night clouds. The gentle lapping sound of water against wood amplified to a drumming fury inside his head. He could already feel the bile rising from his guts.
But Therok had one last order for the night, and he risked it all to send it.
“Take out the traitor!”
His loyal companion answered in a piercing caw that echoed off the nearby slopes.
As he hauled himself upright once more, dizziness overwhelmed his body. His stomach lurched. Plunging his head over the edge of the hull, Therok Greifstrykke vomited into the black waters of Lake Whispermere.
Grandpa Rand felt like an earthworm caught on an exposed rock in the heat of day, a dried-out husk teetering on the edge of death. Somewhere inside was the reserve of energy he so needed, but it felt far beyond his reach. Every part of his body ached, but it was the throb in his head that threatened to topple him.
And the ants were closing in.
The side-effects of the afternoon’s work had taken a hefty toll on his mind and body, and it was little surprise. Rand ha
d literally shifted the landscape all the way from Double Chin Ridge to Saddleslip Gorge in order to slow the advance of the first swarm. Under the cover of the spiral figs’ dusk dance, the old Whisper Mage had utilised his gift like never before, opening great channels through the ridges south of the gorge, splitting soil, tree roots and solid rock alike. The earth had bowed and bent to his will. Though the cost of wielding such power was considerable, he paid it willingly. It was all he could do to protect the youngsters.
They still had no idea what was going on around them.
Should I have told them? Should I have left them so ill-prepared?
Not for the first time since day had broken, Rand cursed himself for so gravely underestimating the ruthlessness of his foe. The presence of the grey-robe was known to him, but he’d not factored in such a direct and aggressive assault upon his kin. Had he better understood his opponent, the plan would have been altered, his grandson removed from the game altogether. Only Morganveil had anticipated the lengths the thrice-cursed Ravenstrykke would go to.
Should have listened; should have heard.
And now it felt very much like he was to be the first casualty. A lifetime fighting for Broken Meadow; a lifetime fighting an ancient curse.
An inglorious death looming.
Two catastrophes he could already lay claim to, with another unfolding around him.
‘For so long as cloud shields the skies—’
Haunting words, returned to chip away at his resolve.
‘Forever will they fail in their endeavours.’
He thought of Isen; he thought of Tannen.
‘Forever will their dreams torture them with truths untouchable.’
He lived the never-ending nightmare of his corrupted ancestor’s curse.
And yet, a small corner of his mind rebelled against the fog of despair: the small part that wanted to live; wanted to see his grandson grow up in a waking world of light and colour and hope and magic. It reminded his exhausted mind that friends and allies were now counting on him, of how lucky he was to be alive.
If not for Dapple, Rand knew his life would already be forfeit. Or worse, a living being trapped inside a shattered mind. Through much of the afternoon they’d fought shoulder to shoulder as Dapple had promised, and always with the worry gnawing at him: was Hopskotch safe?
Night had fallen over the gorge country and the battle yet raged. Their adversary had been rattled, but Rand knew Dapple’s gambit had bought them only time. He knew how lucky he was, but such risk he’d accepted on his own behalf. It had been so much easier than accepting risk toward another.
‘A child of the blood—’
A thousand thoughts collided inside his skull. He prayed Tannen had the good sense to stay on the north side of the bridge; he prayed Dapple would lead the young ones safely to him; he prayed Hopskotch would one day understand why his grandfather had saddled him with such a load.
He knew his daughter would never forgive him for it.
Rand swept the doubts aside and reset focus. The face of his most trusted ally appeared inside his head, whispering words of caution, another distraction he could ill afford.
Morganveil, spare me, he pleaded, I have not the time.
Surrounding him all about was loudness and chaos, a shrieking chorus battering away at his eardrums. Fighting the agony in his body and the fatigue clouding his brain, Rand blocked out the background noise and took stock of the situation. Dapple’s mind was back inside his own skull, and focused on the work of protecting the youngsters.
That was good.
“Take them far from me,” he mouthed in silence. Take them to safety, old friend.
The nymphs were safe with his grandson.
“But how safe, the child?”
The voice of Morganveil continued to press him. “They’ll understand,” Rand responded, this time out loud. “When we bring them home, they’ll understand.”
It took a great force of will to keep his damaged body upright. He’d never felt so old, so weak, so near to death. Without the dreigh amber pendant he’d always worn, Rand had never felt so vulnerable.
“But you did right to hand it over.” And now the voice in his head sounded more his own. “It is time for Hopskotch to awaken the man inside the child.”
And it is time for me to give him that chance.
Drawing upon a deep reserve of energy, Rand stood to full height and faced down the approaching ant swarm. He cleared his mind and tuned in to the whispers around him.
“This is dangerous!” Morganveil’s voice again.
Again, he ignored it. A veteran like Rand needed no reminding about the perils of summoning Whisper magic without the dreigh amber.
“If the river runs too fast, the dam will burst and you will drown in it.”
He knew the rules. He was not afraid – least, not for himself.
’Tis a matter of control and discipline!
But fuelled by emotions of fear and panic, the magic was unstable. All around him, the whispers of his companions fuelled a tempest of unharnessed power. Rand stretched his arms wide and flung his head back, opening himself to it.
It was like overdosing on adrenalin. The distilled power raged through his body. Less than five yards away the ragged front of the fire-ant swarm hesitated. Rand’s eyes rolled back in his skull as the familiar feeling swept through him: a tidal wave of energy lifting him right out of his body. The old man’s life force became meshed and fused with the Whisper magic.
Through force of will, he anchored a part himself; his soul hooked deep into his physical body through unbreakable gossamer fingers. He allowed the power to build within and around him, till it encased his mortal shell in a cocoon of crackling violet-blue energy.
The front of the ant swarm broke. No longer did they move as one. In the face of the ever-expanding light, confusion infected the swarm and spread like a virus. The stone beneath their countless legs began to shake and splinter.
Finally, he could hold onto it no longer, lest he risk losing himself.
Holy Daenethor, blessed of Aethelron, guide me, he prayed.
Grandpa Rand released the magic.
Inferno!
The fear came from a place he could not name. The second Hopskotch’s foot touched timber it returned to torment him, a sense of dread so crippling, it physically cramped his arms and legs. The magic of the amber pendant bound to his wrist did nothing to shield him from its chill. He had never felt so small, so weak.
Please don’t make me cross this bridge.
Flek showed little compassion, shoving him forward toward Bartrem, who had managed to get himself almost twenty yards ahead. Dobbin and the others were somewhere close behind, or so Hopskotch hoped. He didn’t care to think where Grandpa Rand was.
Struggling against irrational fears, Hopskotch began to fight, digging his heels into the wooden planking.
Flek would not be turned.
Eventually, Hopskotch relented. He stopped pushing back, but nothing could increase his willingness to move forward. Just as Flek began yelling at him, a deafening thunderclap split the air. Hopskotch shrank against the shockwave, doubling over as a violent rush of wind shook the bridge, end to end. His ears began to ring.
The explosion did little to slow Flek, or drain her strength. Showing no mercy, she yanked Hopskotch upright and shoved him onward.
Hopskotch could sense the girl’s fear; her determination to keep moving. Instinct drove him to struggle against her, regardless.
His secondary concern was for Grandpa Rand. Relentlessly, he tried to see what was going on beyond the bridge’s pylons, to find out what was behind the mystery blast, but Flek had a way of twisting and shoving him to make it impossible to turn his head. Hopskotch was desperate not to lose sight of his grandfather so soon after they’d been reunited.
If only she’d let me turn—
Nothing else mattered to Hopskotch. He tried again for a glimpse past Flek, but his eyes could find no trace of the g
reat boulder where he’d last seen his grandfather. The southern ridge of Saddleslip Gorge had disappeared into darkness, overpowered at closer range by the glow of orange torchlight framing the bridge’s span. The ringing in his ears had evolved into a droning buzz that drowned out all background noise.
Ker-REEEAACK!
Another explosion rocked his world. This time Hopskotch felt its full force and it almost somersaulted him forward. The blast echoed across the gorge and bounced around his skull for long seconds after the initial shockwave. He thought his ears must surely be bleeding. Hopskotch’s hair was standing straight up on end, as was Flek’s, he observed. Through the pain and disorientation, Hopskotch screamed out to his grandfather, but found he could no longer hear the sound of his own voice.
Wobbling like a drunk and clutching his ears, Bartrem scrambled back toward Flek and Hopskotch. Dobbin was closing in from the opposite direction, his face contorted with pain.
To Hopskotch’s surprise, Bartrem shoved right past them to join Dobbin. Grabbing the support rope, the large Syltling hauled himself off the gangway and stared back toward land.
It took but a moment for Hopskotch to discover what had caught Bartrem’s attention: a violet glow radiated from back on the ridge, silhouetting the distinct V of the bridge’s support pylons.
“Grandpaaaa!” Hopskotch screamed once more. The violet light flared as if in answer.
BOOM—Ker-REEEAACK!
Another explosion ripped through the gorge. The flaming brands flickered in response. Bartrem lost his grip on the support rope and fell, landing hard on his rump upon the wooden planks. The bridge tilted dangerously under the impact.
Staring back at the bluff, Hopskotch realised Nissa was not on the bridge, nor the grown-up, Dapple. He didn’t know whether to take it as a good sign or bad. Hunkered down with Flek, he took a series of slow, deep breaths and waited for someone to tell him what to do.