by Brandon Barr
“Pike?” whispered Aven.
The room was silent.
“Pike?” said Aven again, a little louder.
Something scraped against the wall. A soft click sounded, and a blue glow appeared at eye level. Quickly, Aven lowered the lever and placed it behind his back.
In the light, Aven could see Pike leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the cell, the weapon pointing at him.
“You almost had me,” said Pike. “You almost made me feel sorry. But your words were as hollow as your soul. You don’t want forgiveness.”
Aven stood still. There was no way he could close the distance and use the metal lever, not as long as Pike held the lightning gun pointed at him like that.
“Do you know what I want, Pike? I want redemption too. I want a new life. Are you blind? You’re the one holding the gun. You’re the one trying to kill me.”
Pike’s eyes remained hard. “Admit it. You’d kill me if you could.”
Aven stared at Pike, at the glistening face lit blue by fire. “I would. But only because if I don’t, you’ll kill me. I meant what I said. I want your forgiveness, not your hatred.”
Pike’s forehead ran with sweat. “We both need to die,” mumbled Pike. “You and me. You say you hate what you did. If you really do feel like that, like me, then death isn’t so bad. It’s what you deserve. It’s the true penitence.”
Aven took a slow step forward. “I felt that way once, that my life was worthless because of my failure, and I had nothing else to live for. Now I know those are a coward’s thoughts. Our lives can still do good. We can do something right with our lives, no matter the mistakes of our pasts.”
Aven took another step.
“Stop moving closer,” said Pike. “You’re a wriggling little worm. I’ll forgive you, Aven. But I’m still going to kill you.”
“Is that forgiveness?” asked Aven, taking one more step.
Pike’s mouth pinched together, either preparing an answer, or holding one in. Time froze for Aven.
His fingers clenched the metal lever. Pike’s face lay before him like a wet corpse, mouth open, mumbling something under his breath. All Aven needed was another half step.
Heart pounding, he moved forward, straight at the blue fire glowing before him. His muscles tensed.
Aven swung the lever full force, striking the nozzle of the weapon. A burst of brilliant blue light shot from the end, the energy bolt just missing the side of Aven’s face.
He leapt at Pike, slamming him up against the wall. He rammed his forehead into Pike’s face, heard a crack and felt Pike’s nose give. Pike’s free hand clamped hard around his neck, fingernails digging into his flesh. Gripping the lever, Aven bashed it into the side of Pike’s head.
The blow only seemed to enrage Pike, who snarled like an animal. Aven felt Pike’s legs slide behind his own, and then Pike drove him down toward the ground. Aven gasped as Pike’s full weight slammed on top of him, the contact with the floor emptying his lungs of air. Pike’s hand squeezed his throat like a vice. Aven summoned what strength he still had, swinging the lever against the side of Pike’s head. The blow had no effect. Pike growled, his fingers digging into Aven’s throat.
Aven dropped the lever and tried to pull Pike’s fingers away, but he couldn’t get a good hold on them.
“We go together,” rasped Pike. His broken nose was dripping blood into Aven’s hair. “For the people we let die. It’s our turn. This time, I’m turning the power up to high. Our families burned, so shall we.” Pike raised the weapon with his free hand and pressed the tip against Aven’s cheek.
Aven reached for the barrel of the gun, twisting it in the instant before Pike fired.
The blue lightning surged in a blinding torrent. Aven felt its heat sear his face, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t shut out the image of the man who’d once been a boy full of jokes, head now engulfed in fire as his hair lit like a torch, an inferno of crackling flames pouring out his ears and eyes.
Pike screamed and let go of Aven’s throat. Aven twisted and bucked, shoving Pike’s body away. The room went dark as the weapon ceased firing.
Aven collapsed to the floor, gasping like a fish out of water. The air was thick with the smell of burned flesh. Trembling, he rolled over and crawled toward the body.
He pulled the lighter from his pocket and pushed the button, its small light illuminating the area around him.
Aven let the flame die. That short glimpse was all he needed to see. His enemy lay still, the unrelenting hatred that had burned within him quiet and dead.
There was no sorrow inside Aven, only relief.
He reached out and felt for the lightning weapon, wresting it out of Pike’s limp hand.
In the darkness, he collected his pack of supplies and stumbled out of the cell, leaving behind the last vestiges of an old life, an old self.
Weapon in hand, he dragged himself through the darkened corridors, back the way he’d come, blindly feeling along the wall. He was desperate for fresh air and water for his dry throat. His face and arms felt scorched by the weapon. The corridor seemed to go on and on.
At last he rounded a bend and saw light up ahead.
It was only then that tears filled Aven’s eyes. He let them come. The wetness on his cheeks felt good and healing. Aven stopped at the severed neck of the ship and looked outside. The clouds were orange as the sun was beginning to set.
They looked similar to the clouds on his own world, the same shape and color.
But his mind felt different.
Pike was gone.
Aven thought of Winter and wished he could share his feelings with her, or the lack of them. He hoped she was well. He hoped the Makers were watching over her. His disdain for the gods did not feel as strong. Winter was so unfathomably far from him, and completely out of his hands. He could only hope the Makers continued to protect her.
As he reached in his pocket for Daeymara’s lock of hair, the flicker of movement drew his eyes to the horizon.
A woman rode toward him across the barren expanse, coming from the wooded foothills. She held the reins of a sleek brown horse that sped across the desert sand toward the wreckage of the bridge.
She was young, and not dainty in any way. Muscled legs flashed through slits in her tunic, lithe and strong like the horse beneath her. A long braid of black hair ran down her back, where a bow and quiver of arrows was slung over a shoulder.
Keeping his eyes on her, Aven moved back out of sight, watching her with mixed emotions. How she would respond to him was an open question. He had the lightning gun, but with the bow and arrows, she looked imposing. She seemed to be some kind of warrior.
Hopefully, she would prove to be a friend, or at least willing to help him, but she could just as likely be a dangerous enemy—or worse: a follower of a Beast.
Aven watched and waited.
Chapter Thirty-Two
SAVARAH
Riding at a gallop, Savarah neared the closest piece of torn spacecraft jutting out of the sand like the hind quarters of a severed lizard. The ship’s splayed rear section extended out like legs, connecting to long silver cylinders at what looked like bent knee-like joints.
She drew back on the reins as she neared the opening of the ship. Reaching up to stroke her horse, she whispered a command and patted the animal on the neck. she left the horse behind and removed her bow and arrow. If there were mercenaries still aboard, they would have weapons to rival both her arrows and skills.
The sand between the two torn sections of starship was covered with scraps of metal and plastic fabric, some of which blew and crinkled softly in the wind. The sun was just starting to slip behind the horizon when Savarah stepped between the two broken halves of the starship. She glanced back and forth at the shattered sections, searching for signs of stirring within.
It would have been far more prudent to wait until nightfall to approach in the dark, but she’d been rash because of the disgusting creature s
he’d already tangled with, and she was eager to be on her way.
Thus far, the gods had only proven themselves to be fools. If they healed her for the sport of watching her go head-to-head with that monstrous animal, then what else might they try to do? Did they truly care about Isolaug’s death, or were their motives impure and Meluscia’s people deluded?
She approached the aft section of the starship, bow raised, eyes searching for the slightest movement. Ragged metal hung in strips, but there were no visible traces of movement within. It would be easy enough for someone inside to see her, while remaining unseen in the dark.
But if the ship had supplies of food...or weapons...
She heard a shout from behind and spun around. Savarah drew her arrow, aiming it at a figure who stood in front of a portion of wreckage from the ruined ship. The figure waved at her, then stepped down into the sand and began to walk slowly toward her, both hands out and open at his waist.
She quickly noted the weapon attached to a bag on his back. A sophisticated type that she’d seen carried before when the mercenary ship had visited her master. But the young man did not look like a mercenary. In fact, he wore a Guardian uniform, and if that were the case, he would have a VOKK in his head. What was he doing on a mercenary ship?
Savarah slid the arrow into its quiver. She still had her knives at her hips. They would be more effective at close range.
“Hello,” she called out in the tongue of the West, unwilling to reveal yet that she knew the language of Praelothia, a language he would know if he had a VOKK.
In return, he spoke some words she did not comprehend. He tried to smile without fear, but she saw the nervousness on his face. Immediately, she recognized he would be an easy kill—helpless and at her mercy. What his story was, she could only guess. His clothes looked dingy, and she saw blood stains against the white of the Guardian tunic. A smell accompanied him as he neared. Burnt flesh. She stood her ground, hands on her hips, allowing him to come to her.
He slowed as he neared, then stopped several paces away. He pointed at the bag on his back, then gestured with his fingers to his mouth.
Food, he seemed to be saying. And he was offering to share. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes uneasy as they watched her face for a sign.
To put him at ease, Savarah let a sliver of a smile cross her lips and extended her cupped hand. He unshouldered his bag and knelt, digging inside for something.
“So you have food,” she said in the Praelothian tongue.
His head snapped up, and surprise washed across his youthful face. Clearly, he did have a VOKK, and had understood her.
“Yes,” said the young man. “You speak, a... a known language. From a Guardian world.”
“I do.”
“How is that so? I was told this world might belong to a Beast…if you know what that means.”
She eyed him suspiciously, even more curious about his crashing on Hearth in a mercenary vessel. She disregarded his question. If he was a Guardian, he should be oblivious to her master’s deception of the Guardian Order. Did he know there were Guardians on Hearth? And then, how was he involved with the mercenary ship?
“First, answer my question,” said Savarah, maintaining a warmth in her voice. “Guardians don’t usually travel on ships like these. What were you doing aboard?”
The young man pulled out a piece of wrapping and looked up at her. There was an uncertainty in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He extended the wrapped food, and she took it from his hand.
“Why won’t you answer my question first?” he said, almost sweetly.
She raised a thin eyebrow and pursed her lips. The young man was concerned how his answer would affect her, searching to discover whether she would prove a friend or a foe. She decided to relent. After all, if he proved any form of a threat, she could easily eliminate him.
“Yes,” said Savarah. “This is, in fact, a Beast world. And, yes, I speak a language known by the Guardians.” She paused and tried to appear friendly. “Now, what were you doing aboard a mercenary ship?”
“I was captured with three other Guardians from my world. I was an Emissary.”
Savarah nodded. Her master had raised and trained some of the most impressive Emissaries to enter as spies into the Guardian order. Many had gone on to more prestigious positions. Chavereel and Rueik came to mind.
“So you came here, against your will—do you know where you are, and why they brought you?”
The young man scowled for a moment. Tiny flecks of dried blood stood out like freckles on his cheeks. “They told me they were stopping off at a planet called Hearth. I assume that is where I am. They were going to hand over a Guardian named Zoecara. And also an enormous animal they had locked up on the ship. They were meant for a king. The Divine One, they called him.”
He took out a wrapped piece of food from the bag and opened it
“The Beast on this world is called Isolaug,” said Savarah. “He owns the king you speak of.”
The young man nodded, then looked out toward the foothills.
Savarah turned and gave a low whistle. Immediately, her horse came trotting over. “You can take comfort knowing I am also an enemy of Isolaug.” She smiled thinly. “Would you care to share a fire with me tonight? I am filled with questions about you.”
The young man smiled in return, “I would like that very much.”
Savarah raised an eyebrow. “That large creature that was aboard your ship. Is there any reason to think it will return here tonight?”
A stony gaze passed into the young man’s eyes. “Yes. I think it will.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
WILUIT
A light drizzle began to fall from the dark clouds as Wiluit silently stepped from the heavy underbrush into a sparsely treed vale. To his left, at the top of the vale, were denser woods. Winterfern wound thick around the sea of trunks.
He scanned the large ravine for movement. If he didn’t have the strong impression that Jauphenna was being stalked, he would call for her, but the quiet was his best weapon. He moved along the hilltop beside the heavy woods, guessing she would have gone in that direction, searching for he and Meluscia.
Dread began to knot in Wiluit’s throat. Fear that he would find Jauphenna too late. She was near to his heart. The memory of when he had first found her, filthy and in chains, was never far from mind. Though she was carefree now, she still carried wounds from her previous life. He could never forget what she’d endured for months, nor how she’d cried in his arms for hours that first day, clinging to him like a beaten and forsaken child finding shelter in a savior’s embrace.
Her mother and father had fled from him and Shauwby when they’d arrived. Why, he’d likely never know. Perhaps they’d been given sight to see the Aeraphim that surrounded the boy. Wiluit had put a rope down to Jauphenna and pulled her from the deep-dug pit beneath the house. In the weeks that followed, Jauphenna’s story came out in bits and pieces, or in fragmented whimpers in her sleep. She was fourteen when Wiluit found her but had been thirteen when the gift of prophecy had come upon her, and she immediately began to rain down dire warnings against her father and mother. And from all Wiluit knew, they deserved every lash from Jauphenna’s tongue.
Since the day of her rescue, Jauphenna had been as unpredictable as a winter storm.
She had disobeyed him, not for the first time, wandering off by herself. But doing so while their band was pursued by a Praelothian killer, that was reckless beyond her impulsive heart.
Wiluit halted when he saw a wisp of smoke drift from the trees below in the little vale. He paused to strap the staff to his back and took out his bow and an arrow. He made his way slowly down with a hunter’s careful step, keeping to game trails and moving without sound. The trees were sparse and thin, but the undergrowth was abundant, covering everything but the most-used game trails.
The smoke billowed just ahead. He stopped and searched through the trees. A fire blazed hot in a small clearing
, and the dark column of smoke rose thick into the air, telling Wiluit that the fire-starter had just placed more tinder on the fire, intending to draw attention. Wiluit concluded it was likely the man had seen him and wanted him to come. On the outskirts of the small clearing lay a body, half obscured by tall grass. The sight of the long black hair tangled in the thin, green blades drew Wiluit forward.
He clenched the leather-wrapped grip of his bow, eyes darting about the trees as he moved rashly forward. It was almost certainly a trap, but he had no other care beyond reaching Jauphenna.
There was no movement amidst the sparse trees, but the endless sea of winterfern covering the ground could hide a small army of men. As Wiluit came to the edge of the clearing, something told him his arrow would be futile against the deadly criminal that lay in wait. He knelt and pulled his staff from his back and secured the bow and arrow. Rising, he walked defenseless into the knee-high grass, making straight for Jauphenna.
At the back of his thoughts was the question of the staff he now held. It was enchanted in some way by the Maker, but its use had not been spoken. Whatever its power, he hoped it could help him now.
Jauphenna’s eyes opened as he knelt at her side. Her eyes made his skin crawl in morbid horror: there were only two black ovals that stared up into the sky, the irises and whites of her eyes either gone or absorbed into the nightmarish dark.
“Jauphenna, what’s happened to you?” cried Wiluit in desperation.
Her lips parted, but the movement seemed labored, as if she’d been drugged. Then sound came from her mouth, barely comprehensible.
“Poison,” she whispered, her speech garbled.
Wiluit put his hand to the side of her face. “Hold on. I’ve got to get you back.”
She suddenly grew agitated, her black eyes blinking.
“Close,” she managed. “Kill us.”
Wiluit looked up from Jauphenna and turned to find they were not alone.
A man stood beside the fire, black cloak flowing, caught in the wind-stirred flames. There were creatures behind the man. They glowed softly in the clouded daylight, and because of his gifting, he recognized what they were. A herd of Cherah. They were not untamed, nor were they like any he’d seen in the wild.