“I’ll do what I can.”
“Excellent! In the meantime, may I offer you a tour? The view is sensational, even at night.”
“I think I’d just like to rest.”
“Of course. Anyone else?”
“Not on your life,” Tanner grumbled.
“I’ll come along,” said Palawen, loosening the tethers that secured her to the seat. “I’m curious to know how this thing works.”
“Interested in a career in the skies, are we?”
She shrugged. “I just have a personal interest in the winds.”
Den’s brow furrowed at the comment. Then he chuckled, as though at some private joke. “Excellent! It’s so rare to have such lovely company here among the clouds. You’ll need to remain tethered at all times—for your safety, you understand. This way, my dear.”
Palawen was already peppering the Jushyn captain with questions as they left the cabin. Caleb was disappointed to see her go. He considered following, but only for a moment. He really was exhausted—tired enough to catch a few hours of sleep, even strapped into his seat as he was. He closed his eyes and was just drifting into the waiting arms of slumber when Tanner’s voice roused him.
Caleb shook himself awake. “What’s that?”
“I asked how you’re feeling, kid.”
“I’ll live.”
“Some days, that’s all we can hope for. It’s a hard world. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your mother. Never met her before tonight, but she seemed cut from good stone. Iron in her veins.”
Stone? What’s he talking about? Only when Caleb remembered that Tanner was Karinth did the words make sense. The northern clans revered the Graven One instead of the Nine. Stone was as sacred to them as fire was to Relenians. “Sometimes. When she needed to be, I suppose…” He paused. “So… You’re melded, right? To Winter, I mean. She’s your totem…”
“Aye.” He patted his left chest. “Carried her brand almost thirty years now.” He chuckled. “Closest damned thing I ever had to a wife.”
“What rune?”
Tanner raised one eyebrow. “What do you know about melding magic?”
Caleb reached down and rolled up the pants over his crippled left leg to reveal the brand on his calf. It appeared like a broad, blackish tattoo in the vague shape of an owl—nothing at all like the original brand.
Tanner stared at it, as though not quite believing what he was seeing. “I'll be damned. A Relenian with a brand. Thought your Sanctum frowned on that sort of thing.”
“I don’t think Chaplain Tomin was ever all that happy about it.”
Tanner grunted. “What’s your totem?”
“An owl. Named her Azental.”
“Owl, eh? Branded with quartz?”
Caleb nodded.
“Sensible. They don't normally use obsidian on birds. No real benefit—unless you’re using Maln as the rune, but even then, there're better beasts for that. How in the bloody hells did you convince a magus to brand you?”
“It was my mother's doing. I'd come down with the wasting sickness. My father was already gone by then. I don't think she could bear the thought of losing me, too.” Caleb remembered the tears, and the nights of near-hysteria that ended with Anya covering their mother, who’d passed out from her own weeping. “So she made a deal. I got branded, and the magic purged the sickness from my body. But not before doing enough damage to my leg to leave me a cripple. Still, better to walk with a limp than not to walk at all, right?”
“Sounds like a hard deal. Did you have a teacher?”
Caleb shrugged. “For a while—the magus who performed the melding. His name was Uktar, but he drank too much and died of an ulcer after a couple of years.” He winced at his own comment, recalling his mother’s own comments about Tanner’s drinking. The mercenary seemed unfazed. “He taught me the basics, but most of what I know, I’ve figured out on my own.”
“Well, there's not much I can tell you, lad. All the training I got from the magi was for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Fighting and killing.” He spoke as casually as a cobbler might discuss the crafting of shoes.
Caleb looked at the long, white scar on the mercenary’s chin. How many battles has he been in? How many men has he killed? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but there was some comfort in knowing Tanner would be travelling with them.
“Best advice I can give you is this: take care of your totem, and she'll take care of you.”
I like him, said Azental.
Caleb smiled.
“Something funny?” asked Tanner.
“She says she likes you.”
“Who?”
“Azental.”
“She speaks to you? With actual words?”
“Yes. Is that not normal?”
Tanner shrugged. “Not for me. Winter communicates with feelings and impressions. Could be different with quartz. Or with birds. As I said, lad, I don’t know much more than what I need to win a fight. At any rate, you’d best get some rest. You’ve had a hard day and tomorrow won’t be any easier.”
Caleb nodded. He closed his eyes again, focusing on the movement of Zephyr’s Song as it cut through the open sky. He imagined the wisps of cloud passing by and the cold Flameborn winds that drove the vessel northward. Soon, he was asleep.
Caleb’s dreams were troubled—a sequence of fragmented moments, strung together with no discernible purpose. He was surrounded by family. His mother was there, and Anya. Carvesh. The twins. Others whose faces he could never see, but somehow he knew were distant relatives. They stared at him with cold, empty eyes that focused on nothing but somehow saw everything about him. He found himself desperate to flee, but wherever he turned, there they were.
Caleb, they would say. Only that—his name repeated, over and again. Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.
He screamed, “What do you want?”
Only what's mine.
He turned and found himself alone in a dark corridor. It stretched onward, its grimy floor and ornate stone walls saturated with greasy shadow. Sconces of blackened iron held torches that burned with a lightless flame. Caleb couldn't discern where the dim illumination was coming from. It seemed to hang in the air like a lingering, late-morning mist.
Then a figure was approaching, cowled in darkness. It was tall and broad, carrying a weapon in each hand. In the left was a long sword, its steel as red as sunset and etched with the marks of a thousand battles. In the right was a mace of bone and copper, stained green and dripping with black pitch. As it approached, Caleb felt a sense of terror gnawing at him, festering in his heart and seeping into his veins. He took a step backward, but his leg failed.
The figure raised the mace. Caleb turned away.
And tumbled into an open sky.
The winds crashed all around him, throwing him in every direction. Clouds struck at him like waves, ten times the height of a man. They obscured his vision as he fell, filling his nose, choking the breath from his lungs. He thrashed and turned, struggling to orient himself amid the endless white and grey. He was dimly aware of a storm raging somewhere overhead, of lightning tearing open the sky. It seemed of little importance. Nothing could stop his fall.
He burst free of the clouds. A mountain appeared, immense and white capped. It loomed below him, like a spear pointed at his heart. He twisted, desperate to slow his descent, and knowing there was nothing he could do. The mountain drew closer and closer. He screamed his throat raw and bloody before he crashed into the snow and rock. He fell and fell.
There was no impact.
He opened eyes he didn’t remember closing. A brilliant, violet light appeared before him, a perfectly formed orb floating in a world of pure white. Without thinking, Caleb stretched out his hand. The light seemed to respond, pulsing excitedly.
Caleb.
He awoke with a start, uncertain of where he was until he sensed the movement of Zephyr’s Song cutting through the air. The cabin was dark,
its lanterns having been extinguished and its portholes shuttered. Still, the faint glow of the heart fire crept through the wooden slats, giving the night a peaceful air. He could hear Jayslen's breathing nearby, ragged and shallow, but steady enough that it was possible to imagine he might survive. It was so peaceful that Caleb nearly closed his eyes again.
Instinct alone saved him.
The man came at him like a wraith from the darkness. He lunged with outstretched arms, so fast that Caleb barely had time to shrug free of his restraints and roll out of the way. The man's momentum took him over the empty seat and crashing into the wall. It gave Caleb just enough time to break toward the door. He fell flat on his face. One treacherous strap was twisted around his crippled leg. He clawed at the leather, but it seemed to tighten beneath his fumbling fingers.
Damnit. His attacker was on his feet again, growling as he turned back toward Caleb. His face was battered and bloody, but Caleb recognized him. He’d seen the man on the wind yards before, climbing amid the lines and sails of Zephyr’s Song. One of Den’s riggers? There was a swollen boil on his neck, red and cracked and crusted. His eyes were as black as night—as black as Kharl’s.
Oh, hells. Not again!
“Help!” Caleb screamed. Where’s Tanner?
The demon had returned, wrapped in new flesh.
It surged forward. Again, Caleb tried to flee, but the strapping held him fast. He kicked and rolled, but it was no good. The demon was upon him in an instant. Strong hands closed around his throat, rough and calloused fingers squeezing away his life. He tried to cry out again, but no sound would escape his lips. His vision darkened and the demon's twisted face blurred.
“Yes,” it hissed. “This will crush you, manling. This will take the stone at last.”
No!
Somewhere deep within himself, a part of Caleb refused to die. It surged out of him in a rush, a deep primal mixture of survival and magic. There was a flash of blinding light, followed by the feathery beating of wings. The demon hissed as Azental's sharp talons raked at its face. Its grip slackened, just enough for Caleb to suck back one deep breath. The demon swatted the owl away, and her pain echoed across the melding. Then the grip was tightening again. Blood dripped from the ruined face, splattering against Caleb's cheek.
The cabin door flew open. “Storm’s breath!” The voice sounded like Shevik Den.
Caleb couldn’t see. Everything was going dark.
“Wayl, what’s the meaning of this?”
The demon didn’t respond. It was too focused on crushing the life from Caleb’s body.
It had nearly succeeded when a thunderous roar exploded through the cabin. The hint of a shadow passed across the dim haze that was Caleb’s vision. The crushing hands were wrenched from his throat. Merciful Mother.
He coughed and sputtered, nearly convulsing as he swallowed precious air. He felt a hand on his arm, helping him into a seated position. Someone was speaking to him, as though across a vast distance. The voice sounded vaguely like a woman’s. People were shouting all around him. Wood was splintering. Caleb could sense the violence raging around him like a storm.
When his vision finally cleared enough to see, he found Palawen beside him. Azental was perched on his shoulder, her feathers rustling. The rest of the cabin was in chaos. Two of Den's men were down—dead or wounded. The Jushyn captain was leaning against one wall, a cutlass in one hand and his blue eyes wide with shock. Tanner struggled alone with the demon. Somehow, he had lost his hammer, and they were reduced to trading blows, smashing at each other with fists and feet and elbows. At one point, Tanner headbutted the demon's face. Its nose shattered, spraying blood, but it seemed unaffected. It grabbed Tanner by the front of his leather armour, hauled him to his feet and threw him across the cabin. The mercenary's weight snapped panelling and beams before he crashed to the floor.
The demon turned its ebony gaze back toward Caleb. Its broken face twisted in the cruel mockery of a sneer. It took one step forward.
Palawen pushed herself to her feet, brandishing her long hunting knife in one hand.
“Stay back, halfling. This grows weary of these games. This will have the stone.”
“Piss on you,” she said.
Once more, the Faceless rushed forward. As it closed in, Palawen feinted, flicking her knife forward. The demon pressed on, as though inviting the steel into its flesh. She angled the blade upward, catching the demon flush across its exposed throat. A deep gash opened—a vile second mouth, smiling and spewing streams of bright crimson. The demon staggered with shock. It stumbled forward, clutching at Palawen's hair and dragging her to the ground as it fell. She kicked free, rolling to the right, only to find the demon springing to its feet like a locust. It fell upon her with a vicious fury, tearing at her with its bloodied hands. Palawen struggled to fight back, but she was no match for the demon's strength.
No! I won’t lose anyone else! Caleb clenched his fists and felt something round in his right hand. He glanced down and saw the violet luminance of the agiestone emanating from between his fingers. When did I take that out? It hardly mattered. He could feel its power, lurking just beneath the smooth surface, like a churning liquid just waiting for release. The same power Jayslen had used to destroy Kharl’s body.
Caleb raised his hand.
“No!” Palawen screamed from between the demon’s blows. “Caleb, don’t!”
It was too late. With all the fury, anger and desperation that had built up within him over the nightmare of a day, Caleb Rusk summoned the magic of the agiestone.
It responded.
The world went white. Caleb screamed. Magic rushed out of the stone. The coolness of its surface became a molten heat that seared into his palm, flowing through his veins like a raging wildfire. For one terrible moment, he heard Azental screech on his shoulder. Then she was gone, consumed by the rush of magic. Oh, Lord! What have I done?
Caleb panicked. He tried to release the magic but found it was holding him. Its grip was as firm and unyielding as the demon's fingers had been around his neck. I’m going to die. It’s going to burn me to ash. Already, his vision was failing. The field of blinding white was fading, but in its place was a dizzying network of amethyst filaments that wove through everything around him. They danced and coiled around each other, forming intricate patterns, binding everything together in a single, expansive tapestry.
Caleb recognized many of the patterns. They sprang to his memory fully formed. He couldn’t understand where such knowledge came from or what it meant.
The agiestone continued to flare. The magic tore through him, so wild and eager that it threatened to splinter his mind. Beneath the torrent of power, he was able to form a single thought.
Order the chaos.
He saw it then, the blackish blot in the tapestry. It was the singular point where all the intricate patterns fell into a tangled knot. The filaments were strangely blackened, as though they had been dragged through an open flame. All Caleb could see was the ugliness of that chaos. It was repulsive to him, so offensive that he was entirely overcome with the need to untie the knotted darkness. To set the patterns right.
He could see them in his mind, envisioning the way they were meant to be.
Without considering what he was doing, he turned his mind upon the darkness. The magic of the agiestone burst forth with another wave of brilliant light. A single shape emerged, winged and snowy white. Azental!
His totem screeched as she took form, whole but transformed. Her plumage seemed whiter than it ever had—all except the amber that had once encircled her eyes and banded her wings. There, the feathers had taken on a shade of violet that perfectly mirrored the colour of the agiestone.
Caleb didn’t have time to wonder at the change. Azental tore into the blackened morass, her talons tearing at the filaments, rending them apart. At the same time, hundreds of new tendrils ripped through the air, twisting and turning toward the chaos. The magic of the agiestone wove its own intricate patter
ns to fill the void left by Azental’s clawing. They formed complex knots, binding together and growing tighter and tighter around the chaos.
A terrible, inhuman scream sounded through it all. It was only in that moment that Caleb recognized the source of the chaos. The Faceless. A twisted and wretched being, so corrupted by its own darkness that it no longer remotely resembled its original form—whatever that might have been. It was a stain on the very fabric that bound the world, an abomination born of chaos and disorder. And the magic of the agiestone was working upon it, tearing it apart in the one place from which it could never regenerate.
The realization brought the world back into focus. The patterns and filaments remained, but Caleb now seemed to see with two sets of eyes. He watched the demon, fixed and unmoving. He saw Palawen rolling away and Tanner reaching for his fallen hammer. Both the mercenary and the drifter girl were battered and bloody. At the same time, the magic of the agiestone granted him a second sight, an awareness of the patterns running through everything, and the chaotic corruption that both surrounded the Faceless and somehow emanated from its very core. Like a blight that needs to be purged.
The thought filled Azental with a renewed fury. She shrieked and tore and clawed.
The demon struggled to turn away. It fought and writhed, all to no avail. The threads of power were as firm and unyielding as brightsteel. It glared at Caleb with a broken expression that was one part shock and one part fury, an expression tempered within the fires of fear. Filament by filament, the demon’s corruption was being stripped away. Its strength faltered. Its stolen body began to fail, succumbing to its wounds. With one last effort, it fought back to its feet.
Tanner strode forward. The big mercenary swung his hammer—one powerful blow aimed at the heart.
The Faceless shattered.
All the threads of corruption came undone, splitting along a thousand tiny fissures and collapsing upon themselves. Violet filaments rushed into the void, filling the space and knitting the patterns back together. The magic of the agiestone spurred them on. It continued to pour out of Caleb, lending strength to the healing, helping the filaments cover the corruption, like new skin grafting over charred flesh.
The First of Shadows Page 13