by Sam Bowring
She cast a last look in the direction Losara had departed. ‘Bugs indeed,’ she said, and twittered merrily.
Abomination
Fahren tried to steady his hands despite the roiling in his guts, and closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of her as she lay there, so peaceful, still looking like that young girl who’d shown such promise. ‘Surely there is another way,’ he murmured.
‘You have the orders of your god,’ came Battu’s voice behind him. ‘If you cannot follow him, who do you fight for?’ Once again Fahren found himself wishing that Arkus had left Battu as he had been. It was true that, after being bound to help, Battu’s trustworthiness was no longer in question . . . but as a side effect Battu was now free to be as unpleasant as he liked, and the subservient, even friendly, demeanour he had previously carried was gone. Evidently he no longer felt he had to impress Fahren with decorum, as he had nothing left to prove.
Taking a deep breath, Fahren began to channel. His power entered Elessa’s corpse, and dimly he sensed the path her soul had taken when it had departed beyond the veil of the world, like footprints of the soul almost faded away. He let his power follow those footprints, felt it meet some kind of resistance, then slip through into an unknown other side.
‘Like fishing,’ said Battu. ‘Except the fish is already hooked and you create the line.’
It was odd to think that part of him was now entering Arkus’s Great Well of Souls. He let his power spool out, felt a warm glow travel back along it to suffuse him.
‘Do not be seduced,’ he heard Battu say. ‘Search.’
He concentrated, trying to find anything that recognised the body he channelled through. For a time there was nothing, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. Then he felt a contact at the end of his ‘line’. It bounced brightly as he seized it tightly, mercilessly.
It, he chastised himself. No kind word for that which remains of Elessa’s soul.
As he retracted his power, she struggled frantically. It sickened him to hold onto her so fast, drawing her towards him. The warmth he had been feeling turned stiflingly unpleasant, hot in his lungs. There was a faint popping as he dragged her through whatever barrier separated the Well from the world, into herself. For a moment nothing happened, and he dared to hope that he had failed.
Then Elessa Lanclara opened her eyes with a gasp. Fahren’s hands trembled as he lowered them, staring with disbelief upon what he had wrought. In all his life he had never done anything that felt so viscerally wrong . . . yet he had stepped through the door and there was no turning back.
‘Well,’ said Battu. ‘Didn’t think you had it in you.’
Elessa’s hand went unsteadily to her chest, as if she sensed she had no breath, and that her heart did not beat. Slowly she lifted her head, and Fahren forced himself to meet her gaze, though he wanted nothing more desperately than to bury his ashamed face in his hands. He tried to smile, and felt as if his face would crack like dropped crockery if he managed it. How much of her is left? he wondered. So long in the Well meant that parts of her would be gone, dissipated into the collective, perhaps reborn. Would she even remember who she was? Maybe it would be a blessing if she didn’t.
‘Fahren?’ she croaked, dispelling the notion that he might escape so easily. Then she looked about at the casket she was in, and gave a little cry that almost broke him.
‘Here,’ he said with an attempt at a comforting tone, going down on one knee and reaching towards her. ‘Let us get you out of that thing.’
She reached back, but then her eyes widened. Her hand twisted from reaching to pointing, and a blazing beam shot over Fahren’s shoulder. Battu staggered under the attack, the air around him dark with a hastily cast defence.
‘Elessa!’ shouted Fahren, over her howl of rage.
‘Call her off,’ grunted Battu through gritted teeth as the shadows around him wavered under the onslaught.
Fahren crawled along the side of the open casket until he could put a hand on Elessa’s shoulder.
‘Elessa! Battu is not the enemy!’
She did not seem to notice – maybe she did not even feel his touch. He gave her a shake and her gaze snapped to his, while the beam continued burning at Battu’s ward.
‘Please listen to me,’ said Fahren. ‘You must stop – Battu will not harm you. In fact, he helped me bring you back.’
‘Bring me back?’ she echoed, confused.
The beam sizzled out as she raised her hand before her eyes, turning it for inspection.
‘A strong one, that,’ puffed Battu, the shadows around him fading.
The horror on Elessa’s face was more than Fahren could bear.
‘High Mage,’ she said, ‘what have you done?’
•
Elessa wound her way haltingly through the graves of the Inviolable. Smooth white pathways ran out before her, leading off in various directions through well kept gardens and graves. They passed polished glass plates set in the ground, beneath which lay perfectly preserved bodies. It was a serene place, though the last thing she felt was serene. Beside her trod Fahren, and the man who had been Shadowdreamer the last time she had known of him. For nearly twenty years now she had not been confined to a body, and functions that had once been mechanical and instinctual now demanded intense concentration. Worse, the flesh atop her skeleton had the sensation of a heavily constrictive cloak. Certainly as she touched things she knew they were there, but there was no depth to that knowing, no pleasure or pain. The sun was shining, yet there was no heat on her skin.
In the Well she had floated free, part of a collective, but as an individual her memory was fragmented, her sense of self uncertain. All that remained were the barest structures. Maybe it was a blessing, considering the supreme wrongness of what had been done to her – the last thing she needed was more of herself present to feel such deep violation. She had been at peace, in paradise, yet now she was back, pulled harshly into a world she should never have seen through these eyes again.
The High Mage – now the Throne, it seemed – was gabbling away about something, his voice piercing with a metallic ring. In fact, everything she heard seemed that way, as if sound was not entering through her ears, but being magnified directly into her mind. It was the same with sight – she was not really looking, but rather knowing things instantly for what and where they were. With such elevated senses, it all fast became busy and confounding. If she’d been able to feel her guts, she would have emptied them.
He was talking about why he’d done this thing to her, asking her to forgive him, bringing up their time together as student and teacher, maybe in an effort to reignite her identity, or make her somehow feel a part of things again. She felt about as much a part of things as a bird drowning in mud. She tried to listen, but anger distracted her . . . of all the people who might inflict this on her, she would not have suspected Fahren! Certainly the presence of Battu, and Fahren’s evident alignment with him, was something she did not yet understand. Of her mortal life, the night she remembered best was her last, when she had died at the hands of Battu’s minions – and yet here the man was, walking beside her, casting her dark glances. She thought of the dagger wound that had been her undoing, ran a hand under the white dress they had buried her in. There – a patch of smooth skin like the hide of a drum stretched tight, ringed by the ridges of a blade’s entry, where she had sealed herself to stop the bleeding. She had never actually healed properly underneath, so the slightest tear and the wound would gape open . . . yet in her present state it would not harm or hinder.
What did she look like? She suddenly needed to know. Was her face grey and rotting, her eyes dim and lifeless? Had she been bruised when she’d died, or even as they had put her in her grave? Was every scratch now permanently affixed?
‘A mirror,’ she said, interrupting whatever Fahren had been saying.
‘Sorry, Elessa?’ he said.
‘Bring me a mirror!’ she shouted.
He took a step back before her wrath, pale and stricken. What did he expect, that she would happily return to this wasted carcass?
‘Allow me,’ said Battu. He waved at grass nearby, and dewdrops rose from the ground. He whorled them together into a sphere, then flattened it out into a circle. As it drifted towards her, she wondered vaguely how such a prettily shining thing could come from such a man. Then she noticed it was backed with shadow, a thin film that stopped the other side showing through, ensuring she would see her reflection clearly. It arrived to hover before her face, the watery surface taking a moment to still . . . and then she saw herself.
Whatever abhorrence she had feared to find staring back blankly, what she actually saw stunned her. She went on looking, on and on, and time must have passed, for Fahren started talking again. He was explaining about something she had to do, something involving that goblin Tyrellan, the one who’d stuck her with his dagger, whom she had cursed forever in return. She turned her face this way and that, but could not bring herself to believe that so little had changed. A moment of relief came to her, a relic of vanity that left her grounded as she rediscovered something human in herself . . . but the moment passed quickly. Perhaps she looked normal, yet how could she be, when she felt so different? The vanity was nothing but an echo of a woman’s concern, not one for a ghoul.
She waved her hand and shattered Battu’s mirror to mist. It sprayed against him and he grinned, beads dripping from his nose. Inexplicably, she felt an odd affinity with him. Battu understood what had been done to her more than Fahren did, she felt sure – at least he was not nattering away, trying to distract her from dealing with her own desecration.
‘How could you?’ she said to the man she had once revered. ‘It is not the way of the light. I should not be here.’
Fahren wiped his cheeks with his sleeve – how long had he been crying?
‘We are in very great need, Elessa,’ he said. ‘Please, you will not be long amongst us, but your presence could save us all.’
Something else sparked in her then, very deep and dim, a firefly trapped in a jar that sank into the sea – the love she had once held for her land and her people, her family and friends. Days spent in the shining sun. Holding Kessum’s hand.
No, she thought. I never did that. I only dreamed about it.
A sob wanted to burst from her chest, but all that emerged was a grating rasp, and no tears formed in her dry, dead eyes.
Maybe she could try to endure for a while.
A Chase at Dawn
Losara re-entered Kainordas via the Nyul’ya river. A couple of leagues past the Mines he spotted a supply group – Greys working large carts, guarded by some Blacks and Graka circling overhead. Despite their swords and resolute bearing, and the size of the army they journeyed to, they looked vulnerable out here by themselves. This was still Kainordan soil.
As he watched them from the shade of a willow tree, there came a rustle from above. Looking up, he was surprised to see a Varenkai lying on a branch, spying on his soldiers. What tales will you tell your masters? he thought. Will you set them upon my supply route?
He stole up the tree trunk and out along the branch, coming to rest underneath the oblivious Varenkai. As he looked up into the man’s eyes, so unsuspecting of the danger, he felt like a lurking monster.
At least he could make it quick.
He came half into being, real only from the waist up, and froze the scout’s heart. The man gasped briefly, went stiff, and slowly toppled from the branch.
Just one, Losara thought. But there will be others, and plenty of them.
Another non-accomplishment for the day. At least the encounter with Eosene had made him realise that there was no easy way to be open and honest with his people. They were just going to have to trust him – or, at the very least, do as he commanded. Some secrets, it seemed, were meant to remain so.
He rejoined his army to discover that nothing had changed. Both his people and the enemy seemed more organised, perhaps. They were settling in, which irritated him. He did not want to get bogged down too long.
He pooled by two Graka sitting in their camp.
‘. . . attack soon?’ one was saying.
‘We can only hope. I don’t think his Greatness realises quite how much we black and stony fellows heat up in this infernal sunlight. I feel like I’m sitting in a blacksmith’s forge.’
‘Why do we wait? Why doesn’t he send that mander in to gnash them to pieces?’
Losara made a snap decision. If he was going to keep his secret to himself, at least he could make it known that his actions were not to be questioned. Quickly he formed, seated on a stone beside the Graka.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you’re just going to have to accept that I have my reasons.’
The two Graka stared at him, open-mouthed.
‘And it seems,’ said Losara, ‘that we may have to remain here for some days, but rest assured I still intend to crush the enemy.’ He tried to give his words conviction. ‘So it would be better if you ceased your doubting, and instead endured this adversity with the stern stuff that we shadow folk are made of.’
The Graka scrabbled to their knees. Losara did not wait to hear their supplication, but dissipated and left. Hopefully the story would spread throughout the camp, a reminder to all that Losara was still focused on winning . . . and perhaps, just a little like Battu before him, that it was dangerous to question him out loud.
All of a sudden, a great wailing went up at the river. Some of the voices were abruptly silenced even as others rushed in to fill the gaps, thickening to an ululating chorus of terror. Losara froze for a second in the lee of a tent, fearful of what was happening, then changed course towards the sound. A couple of heartbeats later he arrived, and the sight that met his shadowy eyes left him appalled.
In the heat of the day, a great many Vorthargs had taken to the river to protect themselves from drying out. Prone bodies now bobbed in the water, while the living struggled between them to reach the shore. Bright spots in the water flared against them, making them thrash and die. It was hard to tell who was screaming in distress, and who in pain.
Losara expanded his senses and discovered a multitude of little spells perfectly disguised as sparkling motes, which seemed to be activating when they touched skin. He flowed beneath the surface of the water where he could see them more clearly, actual shining dots flowing past in large numbers – some concoction of the lightfists upriver, no doubt.
Clever, thought Losara, with more revulsion than admiration . . . and took physical form at the bottom of the river, his feet buried amongst stones to root him against the current. He threw up a shadow ward and, weaving his hands as if he was stretching dough, widened it all the way from one side of the river to the other. The little light spells began to catch in it, flickering and fading as they touched shadow. Losara made sure the ward was fastened securely, then left the water to reappear, dripping, on the bank.
‘What has happened, lord?’
Roma had arrived, his ponytail frayed from speeding through the camp.
‘It is all right,’ said Losara, the words like cotton in his mouth. He did not believe them, so how could he expect anyone else to?
Along a sizeable stretch of river, hundreds of the dead were drifting, swirling. Many had been Vorthargs, but there were others too. He saw an Arabodedas woman pawing at a still body, trying to drag it to shore, and reached out to help lift her free . . . but she gave a yowl as the water around her glowed with one of the last spells this side of his net. He dropped his hand, disquieted, as others scrambled up the bank in droves, and many sets of scared eyes turned to him.
It was far from all right.
Suddenly and strongly, he felt the need to do somethi
ng. Perhaps he could not tell his troops why they were delayed, but he needed to show them that they weren’t simply targets, waiting to be picked off at any moment.
‘They sent spells at us in the water,’ he told Roma. ‘I have stopped them, but we’ll need mages stationed here at all times to maintain the net I’ve set up. For now the river is safe again – have that put about.’
‘I doubt anyone will be going back in soon, lord,’ said Roma gloomily.
‘They will have to, as we both know. It is so damned hot.’
‘It is that.’
Downstream, bodies were snagging on rocks and submerged branches, or washing up onto the shore. At a bend further on, they were collecting in a large and grisly pile.
‘Maybe they will be more easily encouraged to return once the dead are cleared away,’ observed Losara.
‘I will see to it, lord.’
Up the river he noticed the shadowmander stretching its head out over the water, peering in curiously – could it sense the hidden light magic riding along in the current? There must be a way, he thought determinedly, to make the creature work to our advantage. And, as he considered it, an idea began to form.
‘I leave this to you, Roma,’ he said. ‘There is something I must discuss with Tyrellan.’
And then, he thought, perhaps we’ll give the enemy a surprise of our own.
•
Bel realised he had worked the blade of grass between his teeth until it was thread-like, and spat out bitter fibres.
The day, as he’d sat and waited, had been uneventful.
‘Others watch too, you know,’ Jaya had told him, which was true. On Bel’s wishes Brahl had set several scouts about with the specific task of tracking the shadowmander’s movements, yet that did not change the fact that Bel had to remain right here – and so with nothing else to do, he watched also. Jaya had grown bored with it, and had disappeared a couple of hours ago to ‘poke around’, scowling when he’d told her not to steal anything from the army. Meanwhile Querrus, who had been up all night, slept on his bedroll under the stretched canvas. That was now his domain entirely, for Jaya had managed to procure a sizeable tent for her and Bel. There had been some cat-calling from nearby soldiers as they’d erected it together, but any singled out directly by one of Jaya’s looks had been quick to fall silent.
