Along the Razor's Edge (The War Eternal Book 1)

by Rob J. Hayes

  Chapter 12

  I was a wilful child at the academy, in trouble as often as I earned praise. I was regarded as a bad influence on Josef, who was always much more obedient than I. Doing as I was told was never any fun, adventures always start off the beaten path. We were just one year into our training when I made it through the first of the locked doors that were forbidden to us.

  The length of time each Sourcerer can hold a Source in their stomach varies. Even a Source they are attuned to will eventually start to damage them from the inside. I didn't know why, when I was a child, and the tutors at the academy didn't either. It wasn't until I involved myself with the Rand that I learned the truth behind the Sources and behind us Sourcerers too. But that's getting ahead of myself.

  A vital part of our training was to learn our limits. Unfortunately, limits are affected not just by the type of Source but also by number of Sources and the frequency of use. I should point out that much of a Sourcerer's training is trial and error. Painful trials with potentially fatal errors.

  There are two types of Source that no Sourcerer is advised to sleep with inside their stomachs. Empamancy is the control and manipulation of thoughts and emotions. I thought it a weak school of magic at first, until Lesray Alderson very nearly convinced me to kill myself. I hate Empamancy! A sleeping Sourcerer with an Empamancy Source inside of them cannot control their magic. There are stories told in the annals of the Orran Academy. Stories of Castle Uoping and of the Sourcerer who forgot to retch up their Source one night. A madness gripped hold of the castle. The few survivors told of walls bleeding in the night and spectres wailing for their lost lives. Men and women went crazy, hacking at themselves with knives or murdering their own kin. The Sourcerer woke to find their mistake writ full. Hundreds dead, and only a handful of survivors all broken beyond repair. It's a lesson well worth learning.

  The other Source is Impomancy, the school of summoning and binding monsters from the Other World. It is said that nightmares stalk that world and dreaming of them while holding an Impomancy Source will give them a way to cross over, unbound and uncontrollable.

  One of the first things the tutors at the academy pressed upon us was to respect the magic that Sources granted us.

  The first Source I tested my limits with was a Portamancy Source. A fairly powerful school for those well-trained in its arts and able to fully utilise the true abilities it offers. I was not well-trained in those arts and have never been. It remains, to this day, one of my weakest attunements.

  Most of that first year was spent learning to control our breathing and being drilled with the theory of Source use rather than the practice. It was maddening to be given tastes of power and then kept away from it for so long.

  I could create portals, but they were small things, about as large as a fist, and I could project them only a couple of meters at best. It was a far cry from those who could use Portamancy to cross hundreds of miles with a single step. But I was young. My control of portals these days is somewhat more advanced. I once trapped a man in a portal loop, endlessly falling the same couple of meters. There have been times in my life where I have been forced to improvise with methods of torture. I imagine it was as unpleasant as the poor bastard made it sound.

  Our tutors had long since stopped trying to keep Josef and I from each other. We were assigned to different dorms, but that was as far as their token attempts went. They knew once we were fully trained we would be almost unstoppable so long as we were side by side.

  It was late at night and we had just suffered through a full of day training. Tutor Inilass used to say we were moulding both our minds and our bodies into something strong, but not rigid. A Sourcerer needs to be strong enough to contain powers beyond them, but malleable enough that those same powers don't break them. Looking back now, I think that Tutor Inilass was a fool who barely understood the magic she was teaching us to use. Most of the tutors were fools. Maybe not the Iron Legion, but Prince Loran was something of a special case. I think maybe he understood the Sources better than anyone. Maybe he knew the truth, even then.

  Josef groaned as I shook him awake. He was never a quick one to come around from sleep and I gave him a minute to collect himself. I whispered my plan in his ear and he shook his head. What I was planning was against the rules and the tutors indicated that dangers were locked away behind the forbidden doors. Danger just made it all the more exciting. Ignoring Josef, I slipped from the bed and padded across the floor on silent feet towards the dormitory door. No sooner had I opened the door and peered out, then Josef was by my side. He might not agree with my plan, but I knew full well he wouldn't let me go it alone.

  Maybe I did pull Josef astray with me. Perhaps, if not for me, he would been a better student; a better Sourcerer. I certainly have a history of pulling people along on capers they would rather choose to leave well alone.

  We slipped through the academy corridors like a summer breeze, ducking into alcoves or open doors twice when we heard nearby footsteps. Josef was scared of getting caught, I remember the fear plain on his face, but I was not. To my young mind we were on an adventure and adventures were always exciting, not scary. These days I know that they are usually both; and I still can't resist them.

  I knew exactly which door we were going to explore. It was on the second floor of the Academy Archives building. The Archives were full of old treasures and priceless artefacts, or so all the other students said. I believed the older students without question at the time. It wasn't until later on I learned the Archives had a much more sinister purpose.

  The door was polished brass with no handle and no keyhole. The hinges were on the room side and there was a not enough gap between it and the floor for a breath of air. I had no idea how the door might open. My imagination ran wild with the possibility of what we might find inside.

  Josef followed along, always on the lookout for any tutors we might stumble upon, or any who might stumble upon us. It was against the rules for students of our age to be out of our dorms at night, and even more against the rules for us to be in the Archives building without supervision. Josef never wanted to come on my adventures, but he always enjoyed them once I dragged him along.

  We had a short conversation about the door itself. It is possible to enchant items, and nothing holds an enchantment quite like metal, but I got no feeling from the door, no tingling sensation or otherwise. I have travelled the world and I have never found an enchantment that is undetectable. Some leave shimmers in the air, while others make the hairs on my arms stand on end. Some magical traps are almost undetectable, especially to the unwary, but there is always a tell. My sensitivity to enchantments has saved my life on more than one occasion.

  Eventually I focused on the Source in my stomach and tapped into its power. I was young and inexperienced, and it took a lot of concentration to summon a portal, even more to sustain it while Josef reached through and fumbled against the other side of the door. Through the portal I caught glimpses of the treasures that lay inside and I felt my heart quicken. I had to calm myself to keep my concentration. I have seen portals snap shut on people before and I did not want to have to explain Josef's severed arm to our tutors.

  The door was bolted from the inside and Josef was panting by the time he managed to pull them back. In his defence, he was only eight years old and small for his age. After Josef withdrew his arm, I let the portal snap shut with a sigh of relief. I was quite sweaty and exhausted. Magic wasn't so easy for me in those days. Just carrying a Source in my stomach was uncomfortable enough, but drawing upon the power within left me feeling leaden inside. All thoughts of discomfort left me when we pushed open that door.

  The room inside was large and open without a window and no lanterns hanging from the walls. Yet there was light, bright and powerful. Josef hesitated but I stepped quickly over the threshold and gawked in wonder. In the centre of the room, in a glass case on top of a plinth was a crown made of fire. It sat on top of a red cushion, yet the flames did not s
et its cushion alight. I squinted as I stared at it, longing to reach out and touch it, to see if the flames were hot. I am as fascinated now as I was then by the Crown of Vainfold, and these days I know that the flames are hot as a forge fire but they do not burn. I have worn it only the once, and only then to save my daughter.

  To our left, secured to the wall by four steel staples, was a sword almost as long as I was tall. The pummel was a yellow jewel, but as I looked closer I realised it was a small Source, glowing with the power contained within. The blade drew the eye, it bubbled as though the metal were boiling yet also kept its shape. I remember staring at the patterns moving and changing on that blade for a long time. I might still be there now, but for Josef pulling me away, breaking the trance.

  Josef dragged me towards the final treasure in the room. From a distance it looked just like any other kite shield polished to a shine, the flames from the crown dancing across its polished surface. But when I stopped in front of it I realised the shield's surface was mirrored. Instead of seeing myself in the reflection, I saw an older woman, scarred and grim, a snarl on her face. She stood in front of rift formed of darkness and terror, and tears of sadness fell from eyes that flashed with the fury of a storm. At the time I thought it was my mother; I wondered what could have happened in the year since I had seen her last to turn her from basket weaver to the hardened warrior I saw before me. The truth, had I realised it then, would have scared me far more. I watched her lips move but could not hear the words. If only I had heard her warning.

  I returned to that shield twice more in the years before the academy fell to the Terrelans. In its polished shine I saw many things. I saw myself die at the hands of ruthless killers, beaten to death for the insult I had given. I saw myself leading a great army of monsters and men against a foe that could not be killed. I saw myself standing in a desert, staring up at a great portal, through which a God stared back. The glimpses it gave me of my future saved my life at least once, and may yet do so again, one day.

  Tutor Olholm found us. When we finally turned away from the shield the old man was standing in the doorway, watching us. Olholm was never one to get angry, but even young as I was, I could see the disappointment on his face. The other tutors were not nearly so passive.

  That fat fuck, Prig had survived and was waiting for me outside the garrison and he wasn't alone. As the soldiers escorted me back into the tunnels, I could see three figures loitering, lit by the flickering of a nearby lantern. The first I recognised as Prig, though he had a swathe of bandages wrapped around his neck. Even from a distance I could see the red that had seeped through. The bastard might have survived, but at least I'd repaid him for the wound on my cheek. I recognised another of the figures as Prig's friend who operated the wooden lifts. I didn't know the final man, though I guessed he had a similar intent to the others. They were waiting for me and I doubted it was to celebrate my defiant stupidity. No, without the overseer's protection they were going to fucking kill me.

  There are two options open when confronted with overwhelming odds. The first is to meet those odds head-on with blade, magic, or guile. The second is to show the odds your arse and hope you can run faster and for longer than them. I had no idea how to use a blade. I hadn't so much as tasted a Source in almost half a year. And I was fairly certain no amount of guile would get me out of the beating I had coming. So, I turned and ran.

  It has to be said that sprinting down a twisting staircase is not a wise decision under any circumstance, but fear has a way of making people stupid and I am no exception. I ran as though my death were chasing me, snapping at my heels. And it was. Without the protection of the overseer, Prig would kill me for stabbing him. It was a challenge to his authority, far beyond my casual defiance.

  I heard shouting coming from behind and up the stairwell. Heavy boots slapping against stone. Curses drifted after me and I heard Prig, already sounding out of breath, threaten me with violence unless I stopped. I laughed at that, shrill and wild. There is nothing quite so liberating as laughter. So, when the axe is falling, you might as well giggle at the executioner. Of course, laughing with broken ribs quickly turns into hissing in pain.

  I bounced off the walls of the stairwell, unwilling to slow my headlong decent. It hurt to breathe, hurt to run. I hurt all over just from being alive and yet I didn't slow. I ran into the pain, through it, letting it drive me onward instead of slowing me down.

  When that first stairwell ended, I burst into the corridor. There were a few scabs moving to or from their digging tunnel, and I cried out as I bumped into one. I think he shouted after me, an insult or threat no doubt, but it was lost amidst the shouting from Prig and his friends. I glanced back to see the three of them careening out of the stairwell, shoving the scabs aside as they continued the chase. It was too much to hope the fuckers all tripped and broke their necks, but I hoped it anyway as I turned sharply and launched myself down another twisting stairwell.

  I had to squeeze by another scab and that slowed me down. The pain in my ribs as I pressed myself against the wall and edged past them was almost unbearable. In some ways it would have been easier to stop, collapse, and let Prig catch me. But the fear of reprisal kept me going. I stumbled down the rest of the stairwell, my vision fuzzy from the agony and my breath coming in short, painful gasps. I knew then I wouldn't outrun them. Maybe I could on a normal day, but I was too injured to keep up my pace. Already I was slowing, my sprint turning to a defiant stumble.

  I staggered out of the stairwell into a corridor that was dimly lit even by Pit standards. It was empty of other scabs and stretched away into darkness, only one lantern fixed to the wall and burning low. Everything was looking slightly darker than normal. I think maybe the strain I was putting on my body was too much. I stumbled into the nearest wall and stopped, just for a moment, to breathe. But the deeper the breath the more my chest burned, and it felt as though my ribs were digging into my lungs.

  There is a feeling that is hard to explain. It's a feeling that you've been somewhere before, that you've done something before, and you already know the outcome. It was the feeling I got as I dragged myself down that corridor. I could see myself stumbling forwards, Prig and his friends catching up with me. I also had the feeling that it did not end well for me. For a long time, I thought it was just blind luck that the feeling struck me when it did. It was a few years later, thinking back, that I realised I had seen that corridor before. I had seen it in the reflection cast by the shield back at the Orran Academy, and I knew it led to my death. Unless I changed things.

  I ducked into the nearest tunnel offshoot, the shouts of Prig and his friends close behind me. Tamura was there, staring up at the tunnel ceiling, lit by a small lantern on the floor. I hesitated for only a moment before staggering past him into the darkness beyond and collapsing down against the solid rock at the tunnel's end. I curled into as small a ball as I could manage and tried desperately to calm my breathing, staring out towards Tamura and the tunnel entrance with narrowed eyes.

  Prig and his friends stopped at the tunnel and stared towards me. All three were breathing hard and even from a distance I could tell Prig was snarling. The fat cunt's mouth twisting into thing of rage and the promise of violence.

  "Hey, old man. You seen a little bitch?" shouted the one who operated the lifts.

  I watched as Tamura lowered his gaze from the tunnel roof and glanced towards Prig and the others. He giggled then, high and full of a crazy mirth no one else could ever understand. Tamura was always like that. He saw things no one else did and found humour where no one else could. The more I got to know him, the less I thought him mad, yet the more I thought him crazy.

  Prig started down the tunnel, fists clenched. I froze. I wanted to push myself into the wall at my back, but I dared not move lest it gave me away. I was saved by Prig's friends pulling him back. I didn't know it then, but Tamura had a reputation. Not even Deko interfered with the old man.

  With an angry curse, Prig turned away an
d he and his friends moved off, searching for me elsewhere. That was the first time Tamura saved my life, the first of many, and he didn't even realise it. I stayed there for a long time, huddled against the tunnel wall. I stayed there while the footsteps of Prig and his cronies vanished into an echo and then beyond. I stayed there while Tamura let out a content sigh and went back to staring at the ceiling. Until my breathing slowed and the pain in my chest eased. Until it stopped feeling like bony fingers clutching at my heart.

  Eventually I pulled myself back to standing, holding onto the wall while my legs wobbled beneath me. Tamura hadn't so much as glanced in my direction. I wondered if he even knew I was there. I approached him slowly and quietly, aiming to move around him without disturbing his strange fascination with the tunnel ceiling.

  The tunnel seemed just like any other. As a rule, we dug them with a high ceiling, taller than I could reach, though I could never claim to be the tallest of women. I looked up as I passed and couldn't fathom what he was staring at.

  Curiosity, so many people say, killed the cat. Though, curiously, it is a trait far more common to us terrans than it is to the pahht. The pahht I have known would hate me comparing them to cats, but the resemblance is too close to ignore. I sometimes wonder if the Rand created them that way as pets. Though, in truth, the Rand consider all us lesser races as little more than pets or pests. Well, I consider them sanctimonious, smug arseholes.

  "Is this the same tunnel as before?" I asked, giving in to my curiosity.

  For a long time, Tamura said nothing. So long, I was close to giving up and leaving him in peace. I think we're both a little glad I had more than my usual amount of patience that day.

  "No." Tamura has always had a strange way of speaking. Sometimes his voice sounds lethargic, as through it's a struggle to get the words past his lips. Other times he speaks with such excitement, that the words tumble out almost on top of each other. "There are many tunnels," he said slowly.