Remnants: Season of Wonder (A Remnants Novel)

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  “No,” Niero said, lifting a hand in his direction, even while keeping an eye on the advancing men. “Only the weapons of old. I don’t want the Drifters hearing gunshot and deciding that now is the time to come over.”

  “You think they don’t know we’re here?” Killian asked, unsheathing his sword. “Who do you think sent them our way?”

  “No guns,” Niero insisted.

  “Trust me, the Sheolite elite cannot be killed by a bullet anyway,” Azarel said, drawing an arrow across her bowstring. “You must not only take them down, you must cut out their heart or decapitate them.”

  “She’s right,” Ronan growled. “By all rights, I killed the tall one the last time we battled.” I saw him then. Sethos, the tracker we’d first encountered at Nem Post and later in Zanzibar.

  “Fantastic,” Vidar grumbled, shoving his gun back in the holster at his hip and gripping his long halberd with both hands. “Next you’ll tell us that their blood is green, right?”

  I didn’t even smile. What had Azarel meant? I drew my sword and wished I had time for a drink of water. My mouth was completely dry. Sethos and another were focused on me, their intent clear and cold.

  “I don’t suppose our angel friends are here now?” I asked Vidar. If nothing else, I thought their presence would comfort me.

  “No,” he said grimly.

  “We must keep them from getting any closer to Dagan’s fields,” Niero said quietly. “Everyone understand that?”

  “As well as away from the waterfall,” Azarel added.

  “But your priority is to stay with your Remnant,” Niero said.

  “Agreed,” Ronan said, sidling slightly ahead of me as the Sheolite advanced.

  “Agreed,” Killian said, guarding Tressa and Dagan.

  “Agreed,” Bellona said, moving closer to Vidar.

  “I am Sethos of Pacifica,” cried the tall tracker in the center of our enemies. His voice was low, his tone confident. He tossed his braid over his shoulder and glanced over us, one to the next, taking measure. “You are outnumbered. We only want the Remnants. They are practicing the high gifts and must face a judge. You knights may go in peace. We’ll call it a peace offering.” He carefully set the tip of his sword on the ground and rested his gloved hands atop the hilt.

  Ronan’s chin lifted. “There is one Judge. And you are not him.”

  Sethos kept staring at me, ignoring Ronan. He lowered his chin and sent a wave of such dark intent that I took a step backward. Just like in Zanzibar, I felt bleak, empty sorrow, in its purest form. As if they took a thousand grieving children, bottled their tears, and then sprayed it from their very pores.

  He laughed at my stumbling, lurching step.

  Ronan growled and took a step closer to our adversary, essentially blocking me. Niero closed the gap from the other side. And I felt immediate relief from the intense pull of our enemy.

  “And you are the lovely one that escaped us within the bowels of the city,” Sethos said, pacing casually, his gaze moving on to Tressa. He shook his head as if amused. “How thoughtless of us not to search there. There you were, all that time, the rose growing among the sewers of men.”

  “Perhaps it would not have been quite as easy as you make out.” Killian took a step forward, sword at the ready, jaw set, daring them to advance.

  “And you two,” the man said, ignoring Killian, glancing over to Azarel and Vidar. “You knew we approached, even though we were cloaked.” He clearly spoke not of what they wore, but something else —

  “You can’t hide ugly for long,” Vidar said, setting his halberd tip in the dirt as our adversary had with his sword. Bellona nocked an arrow and lifted her chin toward Sethos, legs spread-eagled, looking fearsome. Azarel stood ready, her first arrow already drawn and aimed at his chest.

  “I am on royal orders from my ruler, Keallach. Those four,” Sethos said to Niero, pointing at me, Vidar, Tressa, and Azarel. “Give us those four to face justice and we leave you to live. It is a generous offer, since anyone consorting with those of the high gifting are subject to immediate execution. I shall not offer it twice.”

  I quickly glanced at Azarel. Why would he include her with us? Was she a Remnant? Or was it because she was a consort of Kapriel?

  “Keallach has no jurisdiction over us,” Niero spit out, striding forward.

  “You’re wrong,” said the man, matching his pace. “He shall rule all.” They clashed ten steps ahead of us, the rest of us taking on our adversaries moments later.

  “Stay with me, Dri,” Ronan said over his shoulder as we ran.

  “Right behind you.”

  Ronan and I had prepared for this, over and over. Our trainer’s voice echoed in my head. Keep your back to his, Andriana. Closer! Lunge, then draw away. He will protect your back, leaving you free to defend your —

  Two scouts and a tracker were moving directly toward us, even as Niero and Sethos engaged, swords clanging.

  Ronan feigned right and surprised the first scout, plunging his sword into his kidney, then narrowly missed the second by inches. The third made it around to me. He didn’t pause, driving toward me so fast, I bumped back into Ronan.

  “Dri?” he grunted over his shoulder, his adversary’s sword coming so close it sounded like it’d just missed my ear.

  “I’m fine!” I grit my teeth and pushed toward my assailant for several steps. While Ronan and I wanted our backs to each other, we had to have some room to move.

  But then I saw that Tressa had the same problem as I — Killian had taken on two in front of him, and one had come around to her. Except that given her inability to fight, she could only lift a shield, blocking each blow, or jump his sweeping sword every time it threatened to slice through her legs.

  I growled and turned in an arc, bringing down my sword down with such force, it surprised my attacker. It hit him on the shoulder just as he was driving his sword toward my thigh. His sword tip paused a hand’s width from my trousers, as the man faltered, my sword still embedded between his shoulder and neck. He went to his knees, gasping, and I wrenched my sword free and turned away, hoping that not looking into his eyes would keep me from feeling more than the first tendrils of the man’s fear now worming its way into me. I supposed I should bury my dagger in his heart to make certain he was dead, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  I ran ten paces, taking on Tressa’s attacker, one of the elite. “For men who claim they simply want us to speak with their king,” I said, blocking his second strike, our swords paused above our heads, “you surely seem intent on killing us.”

  “We’ll maim you if necessary to take you back to Pacifica,” he spit out, turning and striking with enough force that I only barely held on to my sword. My whole body seemed to vibrate from the impact. “Continue fighting us,” he said, his red face inches from mine, “and you may well die.” He didn’t stop, pressing and pressing and pressing me back from Tressa, as well as away from Ronan at the same time.

  An arrow plunged through his shoulder, making him arch, its bloody point flashing in the sunlight. As he whirled, Azarel’s second arrow cut through his chest. But I only caught it in my peripheral vision, because Vidar cried out, and I turned to see him fall to his knees. “No!” I cried, seeing his attacker lift his sword to strike again.

  Bellona narrowly saved him from the tracker’s death plunge — a downward stab between his shoulder blades — by slicing the Sheolite’s arm and then tackling him with a warrior’s scream of rage. They tumbled over and over through the grass. When he rose, Niero cut his head off with his crescent-shaped blade and leaped over him to go after Sethos again.

  Which was good, because I’d caught the tracker’s eye again. I saw him behind the scout, already on the attack.

  Ronan was still grappling with his two attackers, casting me a desperate look, wanting me to — what? Help? Run? He had no room to come to my aid.

  The tracker advanced on me, calmly cracking the shaft of the arrow that stuck out of his ches
t and flinging it away. He did the same with the second. And then with a snarl he lunged with his sword, fierce and sure. I took the impact of his strike, again and again, growing weary, each parry more difficult to manage, each a little later, a little closer.

  And then he slid his blade down mine, twisted, and sent my weapon flying.

  My eyes went wide as they followed it, watching it turn end over end and then settle in the dirt. Even in exercises, it had been a year since my trainer had been able to do that to me. I had daggers at my belt, but he still had a sword. I needed some distance.

  I turned and tore for the nearest trees, knowing he was right on my heels. If I could only get a ten-pace lead, I might be able to turn and fling my dagger with enough force to take him down. But even as I ran, I knew I was making a terrible mistake. Putting distance between me and every knight the Remnant had … And yet, what choice did I have?

  I made it to the first copse of pines and rounded them, turning to see where my enemy was. As expected, he was right there, already plunging his sword toward me, a grim smile on his lips. I scooted left, narrowly avoiding its tip, but then he had turned, swinging his weapon toward me on the left. Again, I narrowly moved in time, and the edge of his sword cut into the tree trunk, momentarily immobilizing him.

  I flung my dagger without pause. At the same time it hit him directly in the heart, an arrow went through his neck.

  Azarel, I thought with relief. Or Bellona.

  His eyes bulged, and horrible sounds came not from his mouth, but the bleeding neck wound. He choked and seemed to not know what to grasp at first — the dagger at his chest, or the arrow at his neck. Instead, he simply crumpled. His heart was still in his chest, his head still upon his shoulders, but I felt the tinge of death.

  Quickly, I turned away, trying to break the bond of emotion between us. His final desperation, his panic, threatened to take my knees from beneath me as surely as a Sheolite sword would. I gasped and reached out for another tree trunk, leaning against it as nausea shook me. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake this Sheolite as he faltered on the edge of life. It paralyzed me, what I felt then.

  Emptiness. Darkness. Agony.

  It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Was this what the Sheolites went on to in the afterworld?

  I was repulsed and yet inexplicably drawn at the same time. I closed my eyes and listened, deep within, and it seemed as if I could hear whispers, words I couldn’t quite make out … enticing me closer, closing in around me, opening up to welcome me in.

  But then I could hear dim shouts in the distance too. My name. Frantic warnings.

  I opened my eyes and looked directly across the field to Vidar, staring right at me, as were all the remaining Sheolites, still on their feet. The rest of the Ailith turned toward me too, confused, but Vidar was the one who seemed to understand what had happened. His lips rounded with the word no, his face a study of horrified alarm. What had I done? My cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  Sethos of Pacifica had his boot on Niero’s chest, the point of his sword at his neck. But he stared steadily at me, the hint of a smile spreading across his face.

  Another motion on either side of him caught my attention. Dark mist seemed to gather, incorporate, widen, lengthen, spreading among the Sheolites and stretching steadily toward us. It was so thick it blotted out the sun, and I blinked, trying to refocus on the task at hand, what I had to do to help us escape these predators.

  Somehow, in concentrating on the eternal evil place, I knew I’d given our enemies a foothold. Some sort of crazy, internal foothold

  But if I could do that, could I do the same for our side? I immediately knelt and lifted my hands, closing my eyes, my face rising to the blocked sun, as the elders had taught us, as the Hoodite children had shown us without pause. I did not fear the attack of a sword any more than I feared this dark, unnatural cloud that was steadily stealing through and around my people, my friends, Ronan.

  Maker, forgive me. See me. Deliver me and my friends. Wash away this evil like a good rain. Make a way for us. For you are mightier than the sword.

  I opened my eyes to the battle, renewed. Niero was again on his feet. I saw Sethos grimacing and stumbling backward. He looked furiously to me as if I were to blame. And then he tried the trick he had in Zanzibar, his hands becoming like claws, the tips pointing toward me, a scream so high — so eerie — emanating from his mouth that I wondered if it was real.

  I covered my ears and leaned toward the ground, the sound of it echoing about my mind as if it were eating away at my memory, my ability to think.

  Maker, Maker, protect me. Strengthen me! Drive them away!

  On and on it went, each second pulling more strength from my bones, stealing my breath, making my head spin in a wide, slow, dizzy circle. I thought I saw Vidar running toward me, lifting his halberd for a fierce strike.

  I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t call out.

  It was almost as if I was on the precipice of death, of disappearing.

  From far away, I thought someone picked me up and carried me. But I couldn’t open my eyes to see who it was. And in that moment, I was too weak, too tired to care. Even if it was Sethos.

  Because I felt like I was dying along with the tracker beside me.

  And it took everything in me not to slip away to the dark, empty place that seemed to have opened a window in my heart.

  CHAPTER

  18

  I came to slowly, shivering and trying to make sense of what was around me. Trying to remember exactly what had happened.

  I took stock one sound, one sense at a time. The crack of resin from wood, spitting and hissing in a fire as it heated. Ronan’s strong arms and the broad expanse of his chest. His hands rubbing my arms as if willing the blood to flow again. The prayers of Niero and Tressa and Azarel, each beside me, their hands resting on my legs. Farther out, the murmur of conversation around us. Fear. Concern.

  I finally managed to open my eyes and looked around. Niero and Tressa were indeed beside me. Dagan, Socorro, Killian, Bellona, and Vidar stood around them, heads bowed, their lips moving in echoed prayer with them.

  “Hey,” I said, massaging my throbbing temples. “Quit acting like I’m almost dead. I don’t give up that easily.”

  Niero’s eyes sprang open first, and when he saw me staring back he closed his eyes and rocked back in visible relief. “Oh, Andriana, thank the Maker.”

  “Andriana, what happened to you?” Azarel said. “I’ve never seen anything like that with the Sheolites.” Her eyes darkened. “And I definitely did not like how Sethos was looking at you.”

  “How-how was he looking at me?” I remembered the scene far better than I liked. Every second seemed etched into my memory. I only hoped someone could put it into words.

  “Both as conquest and enemy,” Vidar said. Yes. Like I was both solvent and acid. Poison and serum. “It was as if when you reached the trees, you summoned him. I could hear you, somehow. Like you were calling us.”

  “Not just us. Sethos and his men too. What was that?” Ronan asked.

  “I-I don’t know.” I squirmed then, wanting some space to breathe, think, no matter how sweet it felt to be in Ronan’s arms. He let me loose, gently settling me to his side. But I felt warmth in my belly when I felt his arm still around my lower back. Still protecting me? Reassuring himself I was all right? He’s just being sweet, Dri. Just being your knight. Nothing more.

  They all remained where they were, waiting on me. “What happened?” I asked, trying to put it together. “After I passed out?”

  “Every one of them turned toward you, as if they’d been redirected. As if they were called to you,” Ronan said.

  “And I could see them, Andriana, as they truly are,” Vidar said, a shiver clearly running down his back. “Demoni. With scales that covered their temples and a ridge on their back.” He paced nervously, wringing his hands, and I could see he was injured. “Right here,” he said, gesturing behi
nd his neck, right above the shoulder blades.

  “I know,” I said. I hadn’t seen it as he had, but I had felt it.

  We shared a long, miserable look. Neither of us was anxious to run across them again.

  “There was something else,” Vidar said, shaking his head. “Something in and amongst the men, later on. Like nothing I’d ever seen. Dark and whispy and barely visible.”

  “Wraiths?” Azarel spit out.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “More like dark angels, moving from spirit to body. Taking form right before my eyes. Is that possible?”

  “You’re asking me?” Azarel said. “I don’t know! All we saw was that dark mist.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t seen them exactly. But I’d felt them.

  It was then that I noticed Niero’s grim understanding. As if he’d expected this. Knew it as old knowledge while the rest of us were spinning.

  “But at the same time, we weren’t alone,” Vidar said, eyes wide with glory, excitement. “The angels, from the Hoodite waterfall. I think they were there too. Wading in, fighting beside us. They came in when Andriana went to her knees.”

  “Yes. Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”

  “You saw them too?” Ronan asked, brown brows furrowed.

  “Not exactly. I just sensed their presence.”

  Niero stared at me, hard, then set to pacing, chin in hand. We waited for him to speak, but he just kept pausing, looking my way, then pacing again.

  “Whatever transpired back there, the Sheolite recognized this power in her too,” Azarel said, shaking her head, poking a stick in the fire. “She summoned them, in essence. Those from both realms. This is not good. Keallach and his minions wanted the Remnants before,” she said to Niero. “Now they’ll be ten times as interested.”

  “Why?” Tressa asked. “Why do they want us alive? Are we not enemies?”

  Azarel took a long, slow breath. “It’s complicated. Both Kapriel and Keallach were raised with knowledge of the Ailith.”