Tharadis dropped to a crouch, the blade passing over his head in a thrust that would have plunged into his heart. He grabbed the object he’d bumped into. Relief washed through him as he realized it was exactly what he had hoped. Gripping it tightly, he swung it forward and up in one furious motion.
Shoreseeker’s blade sliced Tirfaun open from groin to chin.
Guts slopped out of him. Tirfaun teetered back on his heels and collapsed, his entrails draped over his legs like a blanket.
Tharadis waited until his vision cleared. He wanted to see Tirfaun’s ruined corpse. He stared at it until satisfied, then wiped Shoreseeker on the grasses and sheathed it. As if to remind him why he’d come this way in the first place, his left hand throbbed. South. He’d wasted enough time already.
He jogged to the Runeway where it ended—or rather, where it began—and called upon his newfound power. A point of light, like a tiny star, flared into existence a few inches above the Runeway’s surface.
Tharadis willed it to move again. It created another hearthsflame, and again, it was different from any other he’d made. Like the harsh environment of the Face where the flowers normally flourished, this hearthsflame needed to adapt to its environment—that of the Runeway.
Another afterimage burned itself into Tharadis’s eyes. But unlike the last time, when he moved, so too did the image, rather than staying fixed in the center of his vision. This was no mere afterimage, he realized. He had imprinted the Pattern onto his eyes—which had then imprinted the Pattern itself onto physical reality. He’d created a glowing object, a disk that floated a few inches above the Runeway, shaped like the hearthsflame’s Pattern.
He stared at the disk a moment, amazed that he had created something out of mere light, and that he had somehow known how to do it. He reached out to touch it and found that it was solid—just as some part of him knew it would be. Then, wondering if he were truly sane, he threw his left leg up onto the glowing disk, testing it with his weight, before grabbing hold of one of the curved lines of light comprising the petal with his bandaged hand. Wincing, he pulled himself up onto the disk until he was kneeling on it, both hands gripping some part of the Pattern.
Light, he thought. I’m kneeling on a bunch of floating light.
With a shake of his head, he carefully leaned forward, putting more of his weight on his hands.
The disk tilted forward and began to move south down the Runeway, picking up speed.
Chapter 81: The Highest Volume
Orthkalu's mount collapsed without warning. Sensing its imminent death, he slid from its back just before its legs buckled. He nearly lost his balance when he landed, but once he regained it, he wasted no time looking back at the dead thing. It had served its purpose getting him this far, even if he had to jog the rest of the way, a mere two hundred paces. His heavy steps clanged against the Runeway’s surface. If all went according to plan, then Orthkalu would have no more need of the mount. And if it didn’t go according to plan, then he would be too dead to care.
Only two paths were open to Orthkalu: absolute power or utter destruction. He would soon find out which path he now stood upon.
With staff in hand, he rushed toward the Rift, as the humans so quaintly called it. But it was more than just a simple vent in the earth—more, even, than the strange barrier most thought it was. Incomprehensible amounts of concentrated shegasti poured out of it. Even at this distance, its power roared over Orthkalu like a storm wind. The agony of it was exquisite, unlike any pain Orthkalu had ever experienced. The Song deafened him, threatening to obliterate any remaining sense of self he had. He could barely fathom the staggering level of power he felt, and he hadn’t even reached the Rift yet. Here, the shegasti was so diffuse it would be invisible to human eyes.
Up ahead, the roiling orange light of the Rift, threaded with the blazing white that only sheggam eyes could see, beckoned to him.
The section of Runeway spanning the Rift looked so frail and thin in comparison to the Rift’s ferocity. Though Orthkalu himself had designed the Runeway, he’d almost expected it to sway and rock in the face of such power—but of course normal objects weren’t sensitive to shegasti and wouldn’t react to it in the same way a sheggam or a human would. When Orthkalu came within ten paces of the Rift, he had to sling his staff’s thong over his shoulder and crawl forward, clutching desperately at the folds and ridges in the Runeway, using them as fingerholds and footholds. Though he lay flat on the ground as he crawled, it soon began to feel as if he were climbing up a sheer cliff. Yet, strangely, instead of gravity threatening to pull him down, it simultaneously dragged him left and right, feeling as if it wanted to rip him in half and through both chunks of him to either side of the Runeway and into the maw of the Rift.
Into the Rift, Orthkalu mused, though his thoughts were but tatters flailing in the winds of the Song of Pain. Slowly, he put one hand in front of the other, his progress slow but careful. Too soon for that.
The Rift wasn’t ready for to accept him yet, but it would be soon.
Chapter 82: Race
Wind roared over and around Tharadis as he shot south down the Runeway, clothes ruffling and snapping. The air threatened to rip him off his disk of light. He had no idea how fast he was going, but it had to be three, four, maybe five times as fast as a horse could gallop. He learned that by tilting the disk forward, it would go faster. Now, the front edge of the disk hovered a mere three inches above the Runeway. He was worried that if he tilted it any further, the edge of the disk might catch on something. He didn’t know what would happen if it did, but he wagered it would end with him as a quarter mile-long smear of red on the Runeway.
Objects whipped past him at lightning speed, more distinct in the distance, yet appearing as little more than blurs as they shot by. Yet even the distant objects—trees, hills, houses, fences—were difficult to see with so much air hammering his watering eyes, even under the combined light of the stars and both moons. He dared not open his mouth; even breathing through his nose was like drinking from a waterfall.
Rather than hanging on to the outer edges of the disk, he clutched the inner whorls and sweeps of the Pattern—though his fingers weren’t actually touching the disk. A sharp pressure kept them from meeting its surface—if it could even be called a surface—like two lodestones repelling each other. Already his fingers were cramped, especially in his left hand, yet he dared not flex them or loosen his grip. It took everything he had to hang on as it was.
With sudden alarm, Tharadis considered what would happen if something hit him in the face. A bird, or even a fly for all he knew, could be like getting hit with an arrow. But he couldn’t slow down too much. That sheggam headed south for a reason, and now all the others were doing the same. Something was about to happen down there, and he knew that it had to be related to the Rift. He had no idea what the sheggam could want with it, but he knew that anything they wanted could only cause more death.
Still, he couldn’t afford to be reckless. He shifted his weight back, lifting the front edge of the disk a little. It was a good thing he did.
Up ahead, two pale forms raced ahead of him on the Runeway.
They could only be sheggam.
Had he still been going fast, he would have been spotted before he could do anything about it. Now, though, he slowed further, until his clothes didn’t ruffle at all, as he considered what to do. Silently he slid Shoreseeker from its sheath. Thankfully the disk itself made no noise as it sliced through the air.
The sheggam’s massive, naked forms were hunched over, running more like wolves than men. They, too, were traveling fast, though powered only by their own muscle and nowhere near as fast as he’d been going.
He heard the sheggam’s heavy, pounding strides as they ran—but something was off. Their footfalls were muted, as if they were running on soft earth rather than the metal surface of the Runeway. And they were coming from the wrong direction.
Tharadis turned to the right just as a third sheg
gam leapt with its claws stretched forward, jaws opening to emit an ear-splitting roar.
Tharadis swung Shoreseeker as he slammed the front of the disk down. The sudden jolt nearly threw him off and threatened to yank Shoreseeker free from his grasp as the blade hacked through flesh and ribcage—but both hands held firm. His wounded left hand, gripping the disk, screamed with agony. His right hand ached with the impact of the blow.
More loping forms emerged from the shadowy landscape, veering towards him. Three, four—then a dozen, then even more. All appeared to be the beastly sheggam; none carried arms. Quick as they were, many of them would fail to reach the Runeway in time to intercept him. But a few were already on it up ahead, joining the pair he had first noticed. They were charging straight for him. He glanced over his shoulder. More had fallen in behind him. To the front, to the back, to both sides—sheggam swarmed towards him.
One running alongside the Runeway turned its head just in time to see Shoreseeker cleave through it. The sheggam instantly collapsed, nearly wrenching Tharadis’s shoulder out of its socket. The pain didn’t slow him. He hacked left and right, cutting down more and more sheggam as they closed, smashing muzzles with Shoreseeker’s pommel when their snapping jaws got too close.
Motion up ahead snagged his attention. He glanced forward just in time to see the sheggam in front of him, now numbering five, leap for him.
Tharadis kicked his feet down at the same time he yanked the front of the disk up, throwing all his weight back. His chest crashed into the disk painfully as it jerked to a halt.
Three of the sheggam went down in a tangle of limbs and snapping jaws. The other two danced to either side, paying their fallen comrades no heed at all. Tharadis sensed more than saw all the others rushing in.
He leaned forward. The disk sped ahead towards the two.
He swung Shoreseeker at the one on his right, earning a trio of slashes on his left thigh as the other sheggam raked at him with claws. Tharadis only felt a tugging in his skin; he knew the pain would come later—if he lived that long.
The three sheggam ahead were still struggling to get to their feet.
Tharadis had no choice. He quickly sheathed Shoreseeker, gritted his teeth, and with all of his fingers threaded through the disk’s Pattern, he threw all of his weight down on the front edge.
The disk shot forward. The three sheggam looked up.
At the last moment, Tharadis pulled up on the front edge. Sheggam blood and flesh exploded as the disk ripped through them. Shards of gore-smeared bone sprayed up, pelting Tharadis so hard they would doubtless leave bruises. The angle had been just right; any lower, and the sheggam would have simply crashed into Tharadis. The disk cleaved through them like a giant axe, its momentum slowed only by its own angle, and not at all the several hundred pounds of flesh it had just destroyed. Whatever this disk was, it seemed to only follow its own rules.
Something, an errant limb perhaps, bounced up underneath the disk, smashing into the tips of Tharadis’s fingers where they protruded. The pain made him gasp. At least one of his fingers was broken, though he knew it could be more. Still, he didn’t slow, not until he was several minutes ahead of the leading edge of the pack. Only then did he allow himself to catch a proper breath.
After a few moments of resting, he pulled Shoreseeker free from its sheath again, eyes tearing at the pain caused by such a simple action, and sped ahead. He had a long way to go, and he expected to confront more sheggam along the way. He just hoped that he would make it in time, that it wouldn’t all be for nothing.
To the east, dawn began to brighten the sky.
Chapter 83: Intoxication
Once across, Orthkalu staggered to his feet. Through the mindless act of putting one hand in front of the other, he had finally made it to the other side of the Rift. As the Song of Pain waned, his mind cleared and he could begin to hear his own thoughts again. The heat on this side of the Rift was sweltering—an effect of the Rift’s influence that any true Patterner would expect. Orthkalu, of course, was not surprised.
As he blinked, Orthkalu saw five human soldiers forming an arc around him, spears leveled warily at him as they kept their distance. Judging by their terrified expressions, they were certainly not expecting to encounter a sheggam on this day.
Smiling at their misfortune, Orthkalu swung his staff into his hands and swiveled its rings into position.
No flash of lightning, no beam of light. No visible effect of his staff’s Pattern, save for the five ashen smears where men once stood.
Orthkalu sensed before he saw a sixth soldier charge over the nearby rise, shouting blearily as if he’d just woken up. Orthkalu didn’t even bother with a Pattern. He turned aside the man’s first thrust with his staff, tripped him, and brought the staff’s iron-shod tip down on his head, crumpling helmet and skull alike with a satisfying crunch.
Because of how attuned his senses were to the Patterns comprising his environment, Orthkalu knew no other humans lurked by. All that remained was a small guardhouse and a simple wooden sign staked into the ground. The sign declared construction halted. It was no wonder the sheggam nearly wiped out the humans all those centuries ago—these pathetic creatures were stopped by mere words. He swatted the sign away and, gripping his staff firmly in front of him with one hand poised on its rings, began to craft a new Pattern.
The tip of the staff dipped and danced in the dirt as Orthkalu swiveled the Pattern-etched rings into the proper configurations. It was difficult doing both at the same time, even for someone of Orthkalu’s talent, but he’d practiced for this moment for many, many years. He was ready.
In response to his new Pattern, the Runeway began to flex, bits of it grinding into new positions, twisting and buckling and folding as if a hundred invisible hands were reshaping it. There wasn’t enough metal to complete the original design, but he wasn’t limited to that. He was no longer dependent on the intellect of human Patterners. Orthkalu was here now, and he could do much more than they ever could.
As the final pieces bent themselves into the proper alignment, the edges of the Runeway began to glow a soft white. The shegasti pouring out of the Rift shifted in hue from orange to a deep red. Like wine, but far more intoxicating.
Finally. The Runeway was complete and serving its true purpose.
The Rift was his to claim.
From now until he was finished, Orthkalu would be vulnerable. No matter; he’d called his feral army. They would protect him from whatever threat might come this way. He snatched one of the human spears and thrust it into the middle of his palm. The pain of that small wound was a tickle compared to what the Rift could—and would—do to him. He pulled the spear free with a grunt and tossed it away. Blood and mist pouring from his wound, he walked to the edge of the Rift, knelt, and plunged his hand into the boiling red light.
Orthkalu screamed.
Chapter 84: Growth
Red lightning cracked through the Rift.
Power surged into Orthkalu through the wound in his hand. Woven through that power was pain. Orthkalu felt as if the two forces in opposition were ripping him in half.
But instead of obliterating his consciousness, the pain merely … loosened it. He felt the tethers of his mind, normally so tightly intertwined with his corporeal form, drift away from it. He could no longer see, hear, smell, or taste the world … but he could still feel it. Eddies of primal energy jostled his floating consciousness. He could feel connections upon connections, as if he were a spider sensing each tiny tremor from its ensnared prey through the threads of its web. But for Orthkalu, the Pattern of the World was his web, and man and sheggam alike were his squirming prey.
As his mind sailed high above his body, he was inundated with information. So much that it overwhelmed him at first, but soon, he was getting a clearer picture of things than his eyes could ever provide. Only now was he coming to realize just how limited his Patterning skills had been. Even though he was the greatest in all of Sheggamur, he now knew he had
been but a worm crawling through mud, thinking it had been a giant.
Now, though, he truly was a giant.
His body, he was amused to discover as he turned his awareness back toward it, was following suit.
As if drawing physical mass from the shegasti filling the Rift, enormous masses of muscle, skin, and bone burst of his body. Some appeared as boneless, whipping tendrils, others as nearly-formed limbs, flecked with patches of black hair. Bones, claws, and even teeth protruded at random from the growing mass that was Orthkalu’s body. He had never cared for physical beauty or appearance, but even he could tell that he had become something truly monstrous. His body, if it could even be called such anymore, throbbed and spread like a pale stain across the ground. It was not how Orthkalu imagined a god would look, but he was not displeased.
All would look upon him and tremble.
Once the full power of the Rift was drawn into Orthkalu, even the apoth would fear him. And since the Rift was the balance to Andrin’s hated Wall, once the Rift was drained, so too would be the power sustaining the Wall. It would crumble as dust before him. These human lands, these Sutherlands, would fall under his rule, and Sheggamur would quickly follow.
Something snagged his attention.
Orthkalu cast himself north, far ahead of the Rift. He couldn’t quite tell what had drawn him, but it was small and fast—and coming straight towards him.
It was almost here.
* * *
Tharadis was almost to the Rift when his disk of light began to unravel. Luckily, it slowed as its whorls started to fray, giving Tharadis enough time to slip off the back. He watched as the remains of the disk tumbled onto the Runeway and vanished. He wasn’t sure why it chose that moment to fall apart, though he suspected that the Rift was the primary cause.
Up ahead, the Rift glowed a deep red, threaded through crackling red thunder, intermittently splitting the air with peals of thunder. How that happened or what it meant, Tharadis didn’t know, but he was certain nothing good could come of such a change.
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