A heartbeat later, it imploded into dust.
Gasping, Narune wiped sweat off his brow and looked around. A swarm of halja bounded toward him, and the closest spiritseers had been pushed back onto the beach. Narune exhaled slowly, swallowing down panic, and forced Blackflow through his Blade before gushing out in the shape of Thousandth Sun.
This was what Narune had prepared for—he had used his Flowing Blade against the halja alongside his mother, but not his sorcery. Sanemoro insisted that it would take time to internalized his focus enough to control sorcery without thought. In the end, that meant practice, practice, practice—Narune grinned. No better practice than being shoved into a corner with teeth at your throat.
It wasn’t a question of whether Narune was ready; he needed to be ready. They all did—or they would die here, now.
Narune didn’t bother trying for finesse. He made only the briefest acknowledgment of all the shadows the power attuned to his spirit and blood made him aware of, then let the Flow explode out from the nearest ones.
A storm of black crescents snapped out from around Narune—many of them springing up from the shadows of the halja themselves. They left deep phantom cuts that soon hissed with decay; wounds that supposedly not even many halja could heal.
The effort drained him of strength and forced him to his knees, his lungs on fire as he gulped for breath, sweat streaming into his eyes and falling like tears. His Channeling began to slip free of his control, and the Jurakán used the distraction to draw close. That was a terrible idea. I can barely lift my arms now. I’m going to die.
Then he realized the mounds of broken halja around him and blinked. He rose while struggling to wrest his Channeling back under control. The air was so thick with halja dust that he felt like a fish buried in sand.
Narune’s Thousandth Sun had cleared a huge swathe of the beast-halja. He blinked, then whirled and saw that they had held at the edges too—a Redflow spiritseer had been brave enough to separate himself from the others. The youth grinned viciously from within a field of scorched earth, and at the other end Ixchel and the others were still fighting, and winning.
There were corpses of spiritseers on the ground, but he spotted survivors too—none of them in any shape to fight. Many of Ixchel’s friends remained standing though, and if they could push back the halja, then they might be able to save the wounded.
We can do this! We can—
—all three Empty Hunts appeared at once in a wave of jarring, sudden awareness that mimicked the explosive force of the spear-cords that erupted from their bulbous hands. All of them aimed for Narune in a wide, staggered volley.
He froze; his muscles still felt like they were made of stone and his Channeling was still too wild to risk unbalancing it further.
Narune’s jaw set and he raised his Blade and tried to cast Hunger’s Ward anyway. If he was going to die, then he would go defiantly. The Carrion Flow began to clot, but Narune didn’t stop—and then Ikenna landed in front of him.
In the strange slowness of a heartbeat stretched beyond its length, Narune noticed that Ikenna was already riddled with gray—Stillness embedded in his body. The damage inside must be worse, and probably hurt terribly, especially with him still using Amberflow, but the boy was grinning.
Ikenna landed with the lightness of the wind and in one smooth motion parried an early liquid spike. Then the tail of his Blade spun into a whirling burst of wind, drawing in the air around them. It then erupted between them with the enhanced strength of sorcery.
Dust, stone, and grass cut into Narune’s flesh as he was thrown back while Ikenna, whose body was lightened by his own Channeling spell, snapped upward on the wind.
Narune slammed back onto the ground and skidded across the beach, clawing at the sand while struggling to keep his eyes on Ikenna. His heart nearly stopped when he realized Ikenna had no control over the Channeling spell, and he guessed that was where the Stillness had come from. Ikenna’s momentum abruptly stopped and he fell.
Ikenna simply grunted when the spikes eviscerated him and his Blade burst apart in a splash of Amberflow.
Narune forced himself to his feet. Warmth flowed down across him, blood, sweat, and the feel of Flow in the air.
He needed to rush forward and strike the Hunts while they retracted their cords. From what he knew of each Flow, Narune would be best suited for it, even more than spiritseers of the Deep Flow—Hunger’s Ward would protect him their ridiculous strength in short bursts, which was exactly how the Hunts attacked.
Narune licked his lips and tried not to look at Ikenna’s trembling, dying body. I will honor you for the rest of my life. I swear it. After all, there was no truer or more glorious feat than saving a fellow warrior, especially one you both hated and feared.
Narune took a breath and closed his eyes for a heartbeat to drown out all his fear and worry, as well as the ever-insistent shrieks of the Jurakán, then leaned forward. He spun his Channeling back up to a frantic pace and then pumped Hunger’s Ward across his body once again.
He sprinted forward beyond the few remaining lesser halja. Seas aflame, he was tired, but he didn’t stop, not even when someone shouted his name.
The Empty Hunts stood uncaring and unmoving, their cords now vanishing back into their massive arms. The wild movements of their eye-things stopped and all three snapped to gaze at him with eerie unison.
Two of them lurched to either side, dashing with speed that defied their size, while the one at the center let the liquid gray pour from its hands to form gigantic, blocky blades that were more than half Narune’s height. It stomped forward, leaning as if it was readying to meet his charge with its own—
—and then the world suddenly darkened down to a circle with a boundary that was barely more than an arm’s length away from him.
Something burned in his awareness, a presence behind him that drew him. All the chaotic sounds of battle were replaced by drums in a rhythm all too much like a thundering heartbeat; one of the Empty Furies.
Their senses were bound to each other, now; Narune would only be able to see or hear the Fury, or anything immediately near either of them.
Though he couldn’t sense anything beyond the small bubble around them—besides the Jurakán, which had grown so wild and strong that it now terrified him—Narune could all but imagine the two Empty Hunts taking lazy aim.
Oh, seas and skies aflame—
Narune skid to a stop and threw himself down as spike-cords burst form the darkness to his left. Two sprang off his Hunger’s Ward, another gouged his shoulder, and a third just barely missed impaling his head. He squirmed and whirled his Blade with panicked desperation in the other direction, catching two cords from the other Hunt. The force of the deflection slid him across the grass and sent jolting pain through his arms. His Blade whipped back, but stumbling spared his leg from another spike-cord, and the Devour he had cast in desperation barely caught another.
The cords began to withdraw.
Narune’s body screeched in agony, from both fatigue and pain, and he felt more clots forming in his Flow. The Jurakán rushed closer during his loss of focus, but he refused the screams even as they threatened to overwhelm his concentration, fearing he would never emerge from the storm if he gave in now.
Narune scrambled upright into a crouch, feet skidding across the grass, and lifted his Blade as he gulped, praying with all his heart for the Guardian’s own luck—
—a massive blocky blade crashed into his Flowing Blade from out of the darkness. Narune was flung back onto the ground, his spine flaring with pain, his elbows scrapping raw against the ground. Not yet, not yet—
He turned, sensing the all-consuming presence draw near, and watched the Empty Fury lunge impossibly far through the air to reach him. Its accuracy was inhumane, its timing flawless. One of its massive axe-hands moved to slam down through him.
Narune wouldn’t get up in time. He didn’t try. He twisted as he rose, swinging his Blade in a curve, and used the
motion to cast Devour heartbeats before the Empty Fury crashed down.
The attack landed with the sound of two boulders smashing against each other. Narune felt his spell shatter and explode apart into fragments—but it had done its job. Narune continued twisting, using the momentum of his swing, and lurched back into a crouch, Blade in both hands.
Narune sprang forward at an angle as the second blade from the Empty Hunt crashed down and made his own terrible, messy thrust.
The Hunt almost cut off his tail, but that would have been better than a leg or an arm. The tip of his Blade pierced into the Hunt’s sinew as gray light rippled. There was resistance, then he stumbled forward and his Blade sank deeper. Flow rushed across what little of the Hunt emerged from the darkness, like a splatter of black paint, then Narune retreated before it could recover—
—and a huge plume of dust followed, washing over him.
That had to be a good sign.
Narune whirled, stumbling, tired. He was blinded by his own sweat as much as by the Empty Fury. The Fury had already moved after Narune with its usual lack of self-preservation. Its blows were wild and intense, and it took all of Narune’s effort to keep it from butchering him. He parried just as wildly, took blows on what few parts of his body were still protected by his Hunger’s Ward, and left his inky wounds on the Fury.
How long until the other two Empty Hunts fired again? Well, Narune almost welcomed that moment—he was so tired. He had been exhausted even before the battle.
He deflected another wild blow from the Fury, missed a return, and gasped as it slammed an axe into his chest, drilling pain through his half-reformed Hunger’s Ward.
I’m sorry, Mother. This was one of your worst fears, and I let it happen like an idiot. At least Narune had fought beyond his best and nothing more could be asked of a warrior. Maybe one of the others would live to tell the end of his story—
Ixchel—glorious, fiercely grinning Ixchel—spun down from the air like a whirling leaf, dismembering the raised arm of the Empty Fury. She landed lightly in a crouch, ducking beneath the casual swipe the Fury made at her even as it continued to advance on Narune, its odd, eerie drumbeat echoing without pause.
She cut its legs with two brutal swipes of her Blade, laughed and screamed exactly how a warrior shouldn’t, and then leaped onto its back before cutting at it like a butcher. She kept going even after Narune felt the Fury’s cage of darkness lifting.
The rest of the world and the chaotic sounds of battle snapped back into place.
Ixchel pressed close to him and pointed with her Flowing Blade. He turned and watched in shock as the final two Empty Hunt swept aside wounded spiritseers even as more raced toward them and raised their arms. The spiritseers all struck at the two Hunt, ripping through their sinew, but the giants ignored their own deaths and let loose a final volley at him and Ixchel.
The spear-like cords thundered over the grass.
“Together,” she said simply, moving to his right and sending out a crescent of wind.
Narune licked his lips and nodded as they stepped forward to catch a few cord-spikes early, then they moved back as one, twisting and evading, their Blades dancing through the air along with them.
Narune pulled on the last of his strength to cast Devour as many times as he could while Ixchel used her command over wind to jerk the lowest cord-spikes into the ground or send rippling gust of wind around them.
A few slipped by—one caught Narune across the side of his head, scraping off his Hunger’s Ward, and the effort of feeding the spell more power almost tore his Channeling from his control.
Then, he was done. He hoped that also meant it was over.
Narune dropped Hunger’s Ward, let his Flow and Blade sputter away. He breathed hard as he fell to his knees and clenched his teeth as he fought to shove the over-eager Jurakán away.
Ixchel fell to her own knees too, but she gestured and laughed and he looked up to see the others leaping onto the two Empty Hunts.
He glanced around, shocked, and saw… that they had won. Won because they had survived—the only kind of victory that mattered to the Islandborn.
Narune lowered his head, ears and tail limp, and wept. Ixchel curled an arm around his shoulder and pressed her bloodied and sweat-stained forehead against his.
The two of them stayed that way, together, without words. It was like all the breathless moments that had followed their sparring, back when they had been sproutlings and life had been so much simpler.
Chapter 24
Colibrí stood at the edge of Kayuya Village, closer than she would ever normally come, and waited. She was in full war garb, spear in hand, her face grim, but the sentinels on the nearest war towers paid no attention to her, their gazes instead locked on the forest line. The sentinels patrolling the edges of the village itself, however, threw a few wary glances her way, but none of them came to question her or insist that she leave.
Yabisi had given word—or the sentinels simply acknowledged that they had greater concerns.
It had only been a few days since Peacemaker’s attack, but word of it had spread quickly across the islands, and now everyone danced along the edge of either fear or anger. Colibrí herself couldn’t tell which burned more strongly within her own chest.
She sighed, pushing away the dark thoughts, and then peered across the rows of bohío in the village. Morning was just arriving; the sun hadn’t yet even peeked over the horizon, but there was a splash of color that heralded its approach. Most of the light in the village still came from the dimming coral lanterns.
There were still some moons left until storm season—which marked the tail end of a Cycle—and that meant the sticky heat lingered just above unbearable at all times of the day. The coquí sang their song in spite of this, uncaring as always, and she envied their cheerful energy.
Kisari strolled slowly from the village, gaze cast downward. She wore several packs and cradled a lidded basket in her arms. A rolled tatami mat was strapped to her back and she was dressed in a beautiful, full sarong.
The sight all but screamed that she was being abandoned and that would probably be the talk of the village alongside Peacemaker’s brutal ambush.
The girl moved forward like she was in a trance. Colibrí had little doubt that Kisari would have come to her anyway, but she hoped the girl’s father had at least hinted about Colibrí’s willingness to take her in.
Kisari passed the limits of the village and then glanced up. Surprise rippled across her face.
Colibrí smiled at her and waved her over, then waited while Kisari ran to her.
The girl didn’t seem to know what to say, so Colibrí cupped her chin for a moment, then embraced her tightly.
“Thank you,” Kisari breathed.
“There is nothing to thank me for, Kisari. You know you’re always welcome in our bohío.”
She took some of the girl’s packs and made small talk with her on the way back. It was a long walk, but Kisari seemed far more at ease and like her usual self by the time they returned.
Narune jumped as they entered, then relaxed when he saw that it was them. His Gourd sat in his lap.
“You can sleep now,” Colibrí said.
Narune shook his head and smiled at Kisari. “I’m not tired…”
“Which is a problem I can solve,” she said, sternly. “Kisari isn’t going anywhere; you can speak to her when you wake.”
He frowned up at her, but she crossed her arms.
“Remember what Sanemoro said about your injures.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or would you rather his heart stop beating from worry? Who would teach you then?”
Narune looked abashed and laid down on his mat. She went and knelt beside him, then stroked his hair; he normally complained whenever she did it in front of his friends, but this time he didn’t protest.
Colibrí frowned as she passed fingers through his hair, then invoked her power over him. Sleep, she commanded. It was a gentle compulsion, one that would fade qui
ckly, but by then it would be replaced by his own exhaustion. His eyes fluttered closed and she felt his mind become distant.
She continued caressing him for a while longer. Yes, it had been a handful of days since Peacemaker’s ambush, but Narune still jumped at every shadow and acted as if falling asleep was the very thing all their unseen enemies were waiting for.
In short, her son was getting a taste of a warrior’s jagged life, one she knew all too well.
Time at the Primordial Wound wasn’t divided between night and day, only battles and the lulls between them. Halja came whenever they wanted, without end, and you either fought, or you died. Many young warriors had a hard time growing used to that rhythm.
Colibrí herself could fall asleep moments after scraping by with her life, and was comfortable on any stretch of ground, storm or not. She could also spring up at the slightest alarm, fully awake, spear already in motion.
It was the nightmares that followed you home that made life so difficult, and she suspected that was another lesson her son was discovering. They couldn’t be stabbed away. Oh, Narune. Those fears of yours are nothing compared to what you might someday see. The truth pained her, but what could she do? He had Reclaimed his story, so it was now his to tell. Someday he would become a full adult, with oaths superseding her place as his mother.
Better this than dead, though. Her son had refused to share his memories of the ambush. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t have a reason to force the issue, either. All he had told her was that he had fought beside some other youths and that too few of them had barely managed to survive. She hated herself for not being there, but was still proud of him; the two thoughts seemed to conflict and it felt odd to hold them both.
She sighed and rose from Narune’s side. They would deal with Peacemaker soon and show him that he couldn’t bite at the Islandborn without being bitten back.
Colibrí helped Kisari settle in, placing her things around the bohío, and found that the basket she had been carrying was full of trinkets.
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