Hunger’s Ward had saved his life, but bright jolts of pain lanced through him even with it on. Fresh scrapes and cuts covered him and his head throbbed where he had slammed it on the ground. It took all of his will to drop Hunger’s Ward and wrestle his slowing Flow back under control.
Seas aflame. Narune was tempted to just lie there, but he picked himself up with trembling hands and looked up in time to see a spray of blood bursting from Ixchel as Azaag finally landed what Narune hoped was only a grazing blow.
His heart went still as she tumbled onto the ground, but she picked herself up far more quickly that he had, her face locked in a fierce grin. Narune scrambled back to his feet and sprinted over in time to parry Azaag’s next blow, leaving behind a casting of Devour to guard against the other.
Ixchel moved at the same moment, spinning around Narune and striking from behind his defense, cutting off Azaag’s hand at the wrist again—
—and again it simply turned, its hand sprouting back whole.
“Fuck,” Ixchel screamed breathlessly into the storm, amber Blade raised in the air. “That’s not fair!”
Azaag struck and they blocked together, but were sent skidding back across the slick tiles. They gasped and Narune looked around as Azaag straightened itself and began stomping toward them.
The halja had broken through their final barricades. Most of the bohío were ruined piles now, and the village looked like it sometimes did after an especially cruel storm—but the Islandborn weren’t defeated yet. They were still fighting.
He glanced at Ixchel and tensed—she held her arm, which was now lined with streaks of gray. She was losing control of her Channeling.
“I’m fine,” she said when he saw her looking. “Nothing deep yet; I can use my Flow to cut it out later.”
Narune closed his eyes for a moment. “Give me some space.”
“Narune—”
“It’s not going to be like last time,” he snapped.
She only frowned at him, her hair free from its braid and plastered against her face, and nodded sadly. “It already isn’t. We’re still holding, but if you turn, then we’re dead for sure, maybe even if you do kill Azaag, and I’d rather my story was ended by a halja instead of you.”
“I didn’t hurt you or Kisari last time.”
“There were only two of us on your side and neither of us were close. But you almost killed the others, and you fucking grinned at the cacica as if you dared her to give the order to fire.” When she realized that he wasn’t listening she shrieked with sudden ferocity and kicked at the ground. “Skies fucking aflame! Why am I so weak?”
“Aside from my mother, you’re the strongest warrior I know,” he muttered to her and then stepped forward. “I really just wanted to be like you two, so I’m sorry.”
He exhaled slowly and faced Azaag. The Jurakán was waiting. He hesitated for one final moment before opening himself to the screams.
The swirling storm of rage and power speared toward his soul. The Blackflow Narune had been Channeling tore free from his spirit in response, streaming out to meet the swirling pattern of the Jurakán. Colors flashed as they met, and Narune recognized them immediately—they were the colors of the Flows of Creation.
Narune’s eyes widened as Azaag came to a slow stop.
They were the colors of the Flows because the Jurakán was a storm of Creation.
Raw Creation lanced into his Blackflow and ignited it. Pain jolted through him, and every bit of his body felt as if it were aflame. His black Flowing Blade wavered for a second, then burst into a hot white color that shone like a star.
Narune stared at it in wonder, tail waving, and shivered as he somehow realized that every halja’s attention had snapped toward him. Narune glanced over at Azaag, the elder halja’s heart, ghastly in the harsh light, and then watched it lift a muscular leg—
—the leg slammed down and Stillness fractured across ground around the elder halja like threads of a spider’s web. But it was the unseen force rushing toward Narune like a gigantic tidal wave that drew his attention, and he raised his Blade reflexively against it before realizing how idiotic that was.
But then Creation gushed from his Blade and held like a cliff. Narune trembled and screamed as power too great for his mortal soil thundered through him, and then Azaag was there.
The elder halja was more animated than ever before, shocking Narune, and his axes came down in blurs. Almost without thinking, Narune moved away and parried, every block feeling light despite the force behind them, but Creation and Stillness exploded out whenever he and Azaag met. The tiles around them became a patchwork of gray and bared dirt exposed by plumes of gray dust.
The rage of the Jurakán shrieked through Narune’s blood and spirit, but he was relieved to find it focused intently on Azaag for the moment, so he let it carry his blows.
Narune’s star-white Flowing Blade was a blur itself, slamming against Azaag’s axes again and again, and he cut at Azaag’s body at every opportunity.
Narune also drew on his sorcery, casting Hunger’s Ward only to see hot white lines spread across him, but these held against the blows of the halja if he focused Creation there, and his Devour now made Azaag stumble back as if the halja had tried to hit the trunk of a great tree-lord.
Laughing, he leaped back away from a swipe and pointed his Blade outward, casting Thousandth Sun. A shower of white flashes, like stars crowding the sky, burst across Azaag.
The great halja crossed its arms in mimicry of a guard and leaped through Narune’s sea of stars, its own gray light rippling across its body. It crashed down in front of Narune, covered in deep gouges that were already healing.
But Narune only grinned, pleasure and rage swirling inside. This felt right. How had the Halfborn of old not known about this power? No, they must have known. It was all too perfect and made too much sense. This was why all Halfborn were also bound to the Carrion Flow. They had been shaped so that the Jurakán could spark their Blackflow back alive— back into Creation.
Then how had they turned? Narune shook his head. It didn’t matter.
Still grinning, he charged Azaag. Thundering blow against thundering blow, each backed by the weight of Creation and Stillness. Other halja tried to strike at him, but Creation was the blood and spirit of the world and he had gained all of its sight.
Every insect, leaf, drop of rain, and gust of wind was now an extension of him, so he saw their attack the very moment they began them. He moved as if they weren’t there, stepping under the cords of Empty Hunt or carelessly parrying and then disemboweling Empty Furies.
All that mattered was Azaag.
The elder halja fought him tirelessly, its axes never halting, and the halja moved like a dancer, spinning and whirling, making full use of all four arms and axes. When Narune cut one, it simply regrew, and whenever he crippled it, it acted as if it had only ever had—and needed—one leg.
Slowly, Narune started to worry.
Almost as if the halja could sense it, Azaag leaped back and slammed its axes through the tiles and into the earth. Narune gasped, head thudding from the screams and body trembling from the power coursing through him.
Another burst of Stillness surged around Azaag, corrupting the ground around the halja, and then the pair of arms on either side twisted and snapped around themselves, becoming one, before reaching down and grabbing the long haft of a single axe each.
Then Azaag lunged forward.
Narune filled the air with a Thousandth Sun, then immediately cast Devour and leaped back. Azaag emerged from the shower of white strikes and slammed an axe into his Devour, shattering it. The axe continued into the ground and Stillness erupted outward from where it landed.
Narune stared, then raised his Blade in time to block another blow. He sensed that the show of strength was more spiritual than physical, more Stillness than raw power, and knew that the Creation inside him was struggling to meet it.
But it tried, and effort was burning his spirit alive.
&n
bsp; He wasn’t meant to hold Creation. Nothing was—that was becoming bluntly clear to Narune. Azaag spread its legs, taking a stance, then threw away its second axe. Its arms twisted and lengthened horribly to grip a single axe, and that weapon trembled with Stillness. The expanse of gray around Azaag grew wider. Narune licked his lips, sucking in a breath, and raised his Blade.
Azaag lunged and his axe came down so quickly Narune almost died standing there.
Within a stretched-out heartbeat, Narune forced all of Hunter’s Ward into his left arm, making it almost entirely white, and then reached up to grab the end of his Flowing Blade. He fed Creation back into it just as he caught Azaag’s axe—and was pushed down to a knee under the raw assault of Stillness.
This was no longer a battle between them, but one between Creation and Stillness, and in that instant Narune’s heart skipped a beat; this wasn’t a battle he could win.
It took all his borrowed strength just to hold Azaag’s axe at bay, and above it, an entire ocean’s worth of Stillness weighed down on Narune.
Narune gradually sank lower, finally falling to both knees, and his star-white Blade trembled. Other halja closed in on him now that he was helpless.
But Ixchel and the novices stepped in around him, her face its own storm of emotions. “Protect him!” she shouted, but her voice sounded faint and distant against the screams and rage of the Jurakán. “The rest of you fucking shoot Azaag!”
Arrows peppered the elder halja, but they did nothing, and Narune could feel the Stillness grow heavier and heavier. Then, something crashed into him from behind and he heard a voice spear through everything.
It’s burning his spirit! Kisari shouted. He won’t be able to do what you want if you break him. Please, he can’t understand you!
Narune didn’t know who she was talking to. Within his spirit, Kisari used him to shelter herself from the Jurakán, but the screams were so intent on Azaag that not even Narune could really focus on her.
She hugged his waist tighter. Help him, please. I know he’s not strong enough, and if any more is forced through…
Azaag’s heart remained unmoving, the cavity wet and illuminated by Narune’s own Blade.
The Jurakán continued to shriek, deaf to everything but its own rage, but, through his shared mind with Kisari, Narune felt something else answer. The forest—ancient tree-lords as old as the Guardian and just as much a warrior as she was.
He closed his eyes, arms trembling as battles raged around him and Kisari gripped him.
The tree-lords responded to Kisari’s plea, and he felt them die one by one as they shared his burden, taking weight off his spirit and helping guide some of the Jurakán’s raw power themselves, pushing Creation up through the land around them.
The Jurakán swelled in strength as Creation gushed across Kayuya Village, and it was enough to push back against the Stillness.
Narune reopened his eyes. Bit by bit, with sweat and tears streaming down his face, he rose from the ground, shoving against Azaag’s colossal spiritual weight as he Channeled more and more power. The elder halja stared eyelessly back at him.
Eventually, Narune was back on his feet, gasping for breath, their weapons trembling between them.
Quickly, Narune, Kisari said into his mind. Terror that wasn’t his own rippled through him. Before it’s too late.
But Narune knew it was already too late. He had realized it slowly as he observed the two warring forces, and he knew what he’d need to do.
Don’t, Narune. Please—maybe I can help! She squeezed his waist even tighter.
You can’t, he said gently. You’ll be lost in my storm too, if you try. He readied himself, then Channeled the power around them with every fiber of his being. In that same moment he reached behind him and used his enhanced strength to launch Kisari back.
Azaag staggered and swung wildly.
Narune deflected the axe and continued stepping forward, Creation radiating from him like a sea being born. Wherever it passed, it healed the Stillness in the ground or tore it into dust if it couldn’t be saved.
Creation and Stillness faced each other through their avatars, each blow the meeting of depthless powers, and he understood neither of them.
But the elder halja wasn’t yet ancient, and was far from the Wound. Bolstered by the sacrifice of the tree-lords and the Creation they had sowed in the land around him, Narune tipped the balance ever so slightly, but it felt like obliteration. He pointed his Blade and cast Thousandth Sun.
The head of Azaag’s axe burst into dust and with it went the entire arm, but this time it didn’t grow back. Lines of star-white slowly spread across the monstrous creature and ripped apart the aura of Stillness it wore like armor.
Then, to Narune’s absolute surprise, the halja crashed to its knees and used its remaining arm to tear the cavity in its chest wider.
Azaag stood motionless, its fake, grotesque heart exposed.
Spittle pushed through Narune’s clenched teeth, the sight so bizarre, so unexpected that he paused. But the Jurakán didn’t care about the mysteries of the halja or the Stillness—the rage surged and screamed at him to pounce.
Snarling, Narune obeyed and thrust his Flowing Blade into the heart. The white lines fattened as Creation speared into the elder halja, and after a few moments Azaag caved in, then exploded in a burst of dust.
Narune fell to his knees as his Blade sputtered to nothing. Stillness remained in the land, but it was quickly being destroyed. Rain still fell, the sky was still too dark. Narune missed the sun. He missed his mother.
He hesitated for a moment, then exhaled and tried to stop the Jurakán, ignoring the pounding in his skull and the overwhelming rage that clawed at the back of his eyes—but it felt almost pointless. Facing Azaag had forced him to Channel the storm, spin it more and more, and now it was rampaging beyond his control. It was slowly consuming his spirit—and when Narune tried to force it to calm, he watched the black-turned-white lines of his Hunger’s Ward become gray, then crumble and bleed.
The battle inside him raged on. He fell over, all his muscles clenching at once, as his very spirit was undone. There was no salvation from this all-consuming pain—the Jurakán would scrape and burn his spirit away, living him filled with its indiscriminate fury, or he could try fight against the storm—against its rage and infinite motion, against its very nature—which, just like with Flow, would create Stillness. Only this time the corruption would root deeper inside him than it could ever normally reach.
Narune didn’t know what that would do, but the very thought terrified him.
He suspected this was the choice the Halfborn before him had faced—but at the Primordial Wound, where both Stillness and Flow were deep beyond imagining, it probably hadn’t been so agonizingly slow. Especially if they had spurred the Jurakán out of desperate need, like he had.
Right now, he wished it had been over in an instant for him too.
He trembled, vaguely aware of his surroundings, and he tried to make sense of the blurring images. Ixchel stood over him, alternating between screaming orders and protecting him—it seemed like there were too many halja still, but for some reason everyone was laughing and smiling. Narune was confused until he spotted an Empty Fury staggering through a barricade nearby.
It moved like it was water-minded and swung at empty air.
Further beside him, sentinels held back a screaming Kisari, who was still struggling to reach him, and Narune felt the cacica’s words more than heard him—she didn’t want anyone near him. In spite of that, hands pressed against his side.
“He fought for you,” Sanemoro’s voice said to the cacica. “Give him a chance to fight for himself.”
The cacica nodded, then Narune’s eyes fluttered closed. He wanted to laugh. They have more faith in me than I have in myself.
The Jurakán continued to rage on inside his spirit, a storm above all other storms, and he didn’t know what to do.
Chapter 33
The warban
ds sprinted through the forest without pause. They didn’t sleep, they ate on the run, and took the most forward path. It would have been impossible without the Guardian, who led from above them like an omen of death, her crystalline horn radiating power. True to her word, the predators of the forest didn’t punish them for forgetting the tree-lords’ decree of survival.
Words could not describe how glad Colibrí was for this; Tessouat had come and confirmed their greatest fears. They had sent him back with all the Blueflow spiritseers he believed skilled enough to keep up, then redoubled their efforts in the hope that they wouldn’t be too late. The Islandborn were used to loss, but losing their wardens would be a wound deeper than anything they had ever suffered before.
Maybe it would even cut deep enough to murder their hearts and spirits, as Peacemaker no doubt hoped.
Don’t. She forced the dark thoughts from her mind and focused on her place among the other warriors. They ran along the slick root-roads, sticking mostly to the central layers. The only sound in the air was the pattering of water and their labored breaths.
Colibrí had never ran for so long before, but her body would have to give up long before her will did. Those around her held faces that told the same story.
Thankfully, the Guardian and spiritseers eased that burden a little with their sorcery, and they made good time. They reached the edge of the forest before long, slid and leaped down from the middle layer to the lower ones, and then reached the forest line.
They broke out of the forest and found a living nightmare.
Halja ranged across her sight, and for a moment Colibrí was struck by how much it looked like the Primordial Wound. The war towers had been abandoned and corpses littered the edges of the village. Even from this great distance, she could see more bodies on the ground—and none standing. Maybe the survivors were deeper into the village, beyond the bohío and caney that still stood.
“Go,” Warmaster Jhul commanded breathlessly, even though none of them had stopped running. “Remain in warbands. Take back pressure from the survivors—do as you were shaped to do.”
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