From Cold Ashes Risen (The War Eternal Book 3)

by Rob J. Hayes

  This creature is dangerous. There is no fear in her. The rage eclipses all else.

  Without needing to think about it, I formed a Sourceblade in my right hand. It was a long, slender weapon, good for keeping a knife fighter at bay. I wrapped both hands around the hilt. It didn't even occur to me, at the time, how odd that was, but then it was not the first time I had managed to move my stone fingers.

  I blinked and Coby changed. Gone was the woman of raven hair and skin. Silva stood before me, as radiant as she had ever been. Her hair glowed with the dying light of the day, and her eyes were the endless, shifting blue of a sapphire. I wanted to believe. By the moons, I wanted to believe it was her. I wanted to drop my sword, run to her, wrap my arms around her. I wouldn't even have cared if she'd come for vengeance. If it had been Silva… If it had truly been Silva, I would have taken her in my arms and never let go. I wanted to believe it was her. I would have ripped the world asunder and myself with it to make it real. But it wasn't real. I couldn't believe. It could not be her. I knew it couldn't, because I had killed her. Because the hate I felt for myself was a constant reminder that Silva was dead, and it was because of me.

  "You don't deserve to wear her image, Coby," I screamed.

  Silva's face contorted into a snarl of rage that seemed so alien on her features. "You didn't deserve her!" Coby snarled. Silva had never snarled like that. She had never stood like a cat ready to pounce. She had never held a knife dripping with the blood of my friends. Coby make a mockery of the woman I loved. A hateful, twisted image of a woman who had only ever wanted to help others. And seeing her look like that twisted a knife in my guts.

  The shouting would bring people to investigate. While I knew the backup would be nice, I also knew that no one stood a chance against Coby. All that attention would bring would be collateral damage, and no one else deserved to die for my transgressions. Coby was there because of me, and she had already killed one of my friends. I would not let kill another!

  There would be no reconciliation between Coby and I. There could be none. She disliked me from the start, jealous of the attention her twin sister gave me. Jealous of the love between us. Do'shan had opened a wound and let it fester, and now there was nothing but hate and rage between us.

  "Why did you kill her?" I have a feeling that question had burned away at Coby, eating away at whatever sanity she had left. The desire to know what had gone wrong.

  "Does it matter?" I had my own anger to vent. "You knew she was going to die. Your fucking mother sent her there to die!"

  "For a cause. For a reason!" Coby spat, still wearing Silva's face. She did not deserve to wear that face. "To rid the world of the Djinn. Because of you she died for nothing. You betrayed her!"

  Only a fool argues against the truth, for even if you win, you are still a fool. "I didn't want her to die, Coby. I…" Pointless words. Excuses without meaning. Wasted air. Neither of us cared about intention. Silva was dead, and we were both in pain. We were both nothing but pain. Perhaps if things had been different between us, we could have worked through that grief together, but Coby was a creature of spite and malice and jealousy. And I'm not sure I was any different.

  No words could resolve the conflict between us, but sometimes a blade can cut straight to the heart of the matter.

  I have had many enemies over the years across many conflicts, but few could match up to the sheer violence of that brief fight. I had the benefit of skill. It's not often I can say that about a duel, but Coby was not well trained in the art of the blade work. Of course, her speed and strength went far beyond anything even the mightiest terran could hope for, and often it was all I could do to keep her from closing in and overpowering me. I kept her at bay with timely slashes and gouts of flame. Every time I blinked or lost sight of Coby for even a moment, she changed. One second, I was fighting Silva, and the next, it was a Polasian man with arms like Hardt's and a jaw like granite. The next time our blades met, she was a child, barely as tall as my waist and snarling with the sort of fury one can only expect from a toddler who has not yet learned restraint. It was off-putting, but then that was the point. Coby bent not just her own strength and speed upon me, but also the power given to her by Mezula. She used it well and more than once I was caught off guard by the shift. When I blinked and saw Tamura in front of me, I admit I hesitated. With Silva's image, I knew it couldn't be real, no matter how much I wished for it. I had killed her myself. But for a brief flicker of a moment I saw Tamura and my mind asked, what if it was real? That hesitation almost cost me my life. It would have if not for Ssserakis' intervention, whipping out with my shadow so quickly it very nearly severed Coby's arm. The Aspect leapt backward, eyes narrowed to the trick. It wouldn't work again. Coby was nothing if not adaptable. And all the while, Horralain bled out, slumped against the wall of the entrance to the depths. Dying.

  As we fought, a storm rose around us. My melancholy retreated and my ire grew, the anger fuelling my lightning. It licked at us both as we traded blows, but the storm was mine, was me, it could not harm me. Coby, on the other hand, simply didn't seem to care. Lightning burned across her skin, and my blade often followed it, drawing red lines across her. But every time I blinked, every time her image changed, the wounds were gone. I realised then that I couldn't win. How I could I hope to beat a creature I didn't understand. My strikes meant nothing to her. My magic all but useless. More than once I tried hitting her with a kinetic blast that would have dashed a man of Hardt's size into bloody pulp, yet Coby took the full brunt of those blasts and barely moved.

  There was but one piece of good news. Even as I couldn't beat Coby, she could not get past my layers of defence. Between my blades, my magic, and my horror, I kept her at bay long enough for people to come and investigate the noise. Before long we had an audience, and with them came people I could trust to help. Ishtar and Tamura turned the tables on Coby. As strong and fast as the Aspect was, even she knew her chances of taking on all three of us at once were slim.

  "You can't hide behind your minions forever, Eska," Coby snarled, already backing off from the fight. "Eventually I'll catch you alone. You know I will." Before I could stop her, Coby launched herself sideways, crashing through a stone wall as though it were nothing to her. She snaked her way into the crowd, as I gave chase.

  "Don't lose her!" I shouted. "Don't take your eyes off her." It was useless, of course. Hidden amid the crowd, all it took Coby was a moment, hidden from all eyes, and she was someone else. Anyone else. Still, I forged my way into the crowd for a while, shoving people aside with my stone arm, and casting every which way, trying to catch a glimpse of the Aspect as she fled. Useless. She was gone, for now. Coby had failed to kill me, but she had done something almost as good. She had taken away my staunchest protector.

  My bodyguard lay dying with huge gashes torn out of his torso, blood running out of him like a river. I call Horralain my bodyguard. I once called him a monster, a thug, a lackey, a beast. One thing I never called him while he was alive, was friend. I name him that now. He was not a kind man, nor a good person. But he was my friend and I miss him as I miss all those who I have lost. All those who have been taken from me.

  I sent Imiko to find Hardt. Someone had seen him storming out of the depths hours earlier, but no one had seen him since. Tamura fretted over Horralain's wounds and said, Only the living can die. He looked to me as he said it and I knew what he meant. Josef was the Biomancer with the power to heal, knit flesh and restore good humours. I was the Necromancer, and my magic lay not in healing the living, but preserving the dead.

  We all watched Horralain die. Words were already beyond him, but he was not beyond fear. Right up until the end I could feel it, yet I could do nothing about it. I was there, watching him, holding his hand the moment that he died. Another friend stolen from me. I saw something leave him then, a wisp of energy, a faint blue light that was all his. It was an oddity about my Necromancy that I could see the moment his spirit left the body. And I knew with a h
orrifying certainty I could stop it. But I also knew that it wouldn't be him, not really. Whatever I put back in his body would not be Horralain. It would be piece of him, bound to me, to my magic. A sick mockery of the man. I wouldn't do that Horralain, to my friend. I wouldn't do it to anyone. Instead, I turned away to find the ghost of Deko laughing at Horralain's corpse. Well, that was a bit too much to take. It's fair to say I let my anger get the better of me.

  I reached out with my good arm and gripped the ghost by the neck. The surprise on Deko's fat fucking face was worth it. The ghost thought he was beyond the mortal world. He was wrong. Necromancy, my innate magic, raised the ghosts around me, drifting reminders of my guilt in their deaths. Well, it was time to stop feeling guilty over Deko's death. Rarely has anyone deserved it more. Necromancy made my ghosts, and I could use the magic to unmake them, too. I heard gasps, a few hushed whispers. Caught in my grip, Deko's ghost became visible to everyone. Most of those in our little community recognised the Pit kingpin. They recognised, too, the fear on his face as I unravelled his ghost. Lightning crackled around me, summoned by my anger and hatred, and Deko thrashed and flailed, but he had no form and could do nothing but fear the end as I crushed him for a second time. I could have done it in an instant, but I didn't. I drew out Deko's second death long enough that I felt the satisfaction of it. Long enough that the satisfaction turned to guilt and disgust. Eventually I let him fade into oblivion. In truth, I wish I hadn't done it. I gave Deko's ghost a few moments of terror, and then nothing. It would have been a far greater punishment to bind him to the world for eternity, forced to witness everything and never again affect anything.

  When all was done, the people dispersed back to their work, and my friends came to comfort me. There is no comfort for the guilty. None of them could see Horralain staring down at his own body, or the confusion on his brutish features. None of them could see the sadness in the eyes of his ghost.

  Chapter 19

  Josef was always the patient one. Where I would run off and attempt something with barely a thought of a plan, Josef would consider it from every angle, and plan for every possibility. Of course, I often dragged him astray. I would brook no argument, rushing headlong into my schemes and adventures. Josef would simply rush to catch up, dragged along in my wake. Some tutors named me a good influence on my friend, and others damned me as a bad influence. They were all right. We all influence everyone we touch, sometimes for the good, sometimes not. That is the nature of life. Heroes and villains are for stories. In the world outside of songs and books, we are all just people.

  Months of study and experimentation passed. Thousands of deaths weighed heavily on Josef's conscience. I would say it was not his fault, that he was forced into it every time. He didn't want to take a single life, yet he was made to take two hundred and sixteen over and over again. Every time, the experiment failed. Every time, something was missing. No matter how many tweaks the Iron Legion made to his plan, there seemed to be no resolution. Of course, that didn't stop him from trying, and Josef's conscience paid the price along with all the innocents that he was forced to kill. He saw them all, every man, woman, and child. Every screaming face contorted in pain, and every weary acceptance of an end long in its coming. It broke him. Again. How could it not?

  In my arrogance, I always thought myself the stronger of us. I never broke. Well, almost never. Josef was broken time and time again, through actions both his own and those done to him, and the consequences of those actions. But every single time he put himself back together again. I might have the strength of conviction, but Josef always had me beat in resolution.

  These are not my memories. They are Josef's.

  Josef sits at the desk and pulls a new book in front of him. Loran is gone for now. He regularly leaves for a day or two, and during those times Josef is free to do what he will. There's no trouble he can get up to. All the Sources are hidden away, and the entire complex is underground, sealed by Geomancy. There's nothing for Josef to do but read. Which is fine because he enjoys reading.

  He reaches across and picks up the pasty the tahren steward, Inran, has brought him. He takes a bite and grimaces. It tastes of nothing. No, that's not right. It has flavour. It used to be a flavour Josef enjoyed, but not anymore. He neither enjoys, nor detests it. It is flavour without taste. It's not the pastry's fault. It's his fault. Something is happening to him, something he doesn't want to admit, doesn't want to think about. He's changing. He cares less, feels less. At least when Loran drugs him, he can blame the Sweet Silence. He can hide in the fog. At times like this, he has no drug to blame. Something is happening to him. Something bad. Something he can't contemplate. Read the books. A distraction.

  Josef flicks open the cover of the book and stares down at the words. This is not an encyclopaedia or Sourcery manual. It's a journal. It's Loran Orran's journal. It had been hidden away on the shelves, just another book. Only it wasn't. Maybe with this he can understand the Iron Legion a little better. And maybe if he understands the man, he can escape the monster.

  Year 607-O 12th of Raneese

  Progress! After years of experimentation and dozens of lives, I have finally succeeded in implanting Sources into two separate subjects. Josef Yenhelm and Esk. I can't do it. I can't refer to them by name. Not after what I've had to do to them and not after what I am going to have to put them through. They don't deserve it, I know that. But I don't have a choice. This must be done. It's the only way. If I don't bring back the Rand and the Djinn, there is no way to close the portal, and if it isn't closed, there is no way to prevent the second cataclysm. No names. They are Terran 24 and Terran 25, and they survived the procedure.

  Terran 24 is male, roughly 12 years old. From the Orran side of Isha, though I'm still certain that makes no real difference to acceptance ration. Fair skin and no previous major injuries. His attunements are Biomancy, Geomancy, Empamancy, Kinemancy, Morphomancy, and Aeromancy. He is a 5th tier Sourcerer.

  I injected Terran 24 with a Biomancy Source mixed in a plasmatic solution of 1:3. Bleeding occurred around the eyes and ears, and the subject had to be restrained to control the spasms.

  Terran 25 is female, roughly 11 years old. From the Orran side of Isha. Fair skin and suffering from extensive previous injuries to the abdomen and arms. Biomancy has been used on Terran 25 repeatedly to heal the previous injuries. Her attunements are Pyromancy, Impomancy, Portamancy, Necromancy, Kinemancy, and Arcmancy. She is a 5th tier Sourcerer.

  I injected Terran 25 with a Necromancy Source mixed in a plasmatic solution of 1:3. Bleeding occurred from the mouth, eyes, and nose.

  They both survived and appear to have retained their faculties, unlike the failure of Terran 22. That poor boy. I can undo the damage he does to himself, but I cannot undo the damage the injection of Sources did to his mind. Maybe the Rand can help. Once I bring them back.

  I have locked their memories of the procedure behind an Empamantic command. Further observation will be needed to determine the level of success. If they survive and retain their faculties, I will need to fashion scenarios for them to achieve the Auguries.

  It did not sound like the same mad man Josef had come to know. The passages in the journal speak of a man wracked by guilt over his actions but determined all the same. He flicks through the journal, looking for more entries, and finds one without a date. The handwriting is messy, as though scrawled in a rush or in anger.

  Idiots and fools. They call themselves tutors as though they have any knowledge worth teaching. They know nothing, and rather than take the opportunity to learn, to expand the boundaries of Sourcery, they bury their heads in the earth.

  I am on the verge of success, I can feel it. Five subjects have survived the procedure and two show real promise. Terran 24 and Terran 25 need to be nurtured and directed, not sent off to die in my brother's pathetic war.

  And, of course, Bell and Elsteth and Marrow have complained about my experiments directly to my brother. He'll order me to stop, I know it. He's al
ways loved ordering me about, ever since we were children. But I cannot stop. I cannot allow him to stop me.

  I have developed a new technique. It is monstrous. I know it is. Biomancy should never be used this way. It should never be used to take rather than give, but I don't have a choice. The only way to bring back the Rand and Djinn is to balance the equation. Life must be bought with life. I must find out the worth of a single life and this is the only way to do it. It is the only way. It is.

  Josef reads more. Flicking through page after page and discovering the truth. It was clear the man writing the passages was growing more agitated with each entry. More agitated and more monstrous.

  Year 611 – O 9th of Abaster

  It takes something from you. I realise it now. Now it is too late. Now it has taken enough from me that I have perspective.

  The lives no longer matter like they used to. I can remember they did, but how did it feel to take a life? I used to feel guilt at using my Biomancy to take another person's life and add it to my own, but not anymore. Guilt is a word with no meaning. A feeling I am now beyond. I have surpassed so many of the terran emotions. Ascended. Yes, I like that word. I have ascended. I am not longer a normal terran. I am greater. I am immortal.

  The Rand and the Djinn are immortal. Age and time mean nothing to them. But no matter how many lives I have taken, all I am doing is preserving what is left of me, and that is far too little. My flesh sags, my bones ache. My mind is as clear as ever, but the flesh fails it.