by Sam Bowring
He did not know what to do about Fazel and the increasingly bloody Elessa. They seemed certain, however, about what to do with each other, and Corlas saw no reason to intervene until one of them was destroyed.
We do not need the Stone in our very hands, sent Vyasinth. As long as it stays within the wood, there’s no place they can hide it where I cannot touch him, once he emerges.
You are certain he will emerge? said Corlas.
Nothing is certain.
Comforting. He grunted. He damn well better emerge, he thought, or I will destroy Fahren and Battu, and all who helped them.
Surprisingly, at that point both targets of his enmity stepped into the clearing. The Throne held up a hand for caution, while beside him Battu wore an expression somewhere between grimace and grin. And then, further up near the coiled root, Charla appeared with two others – he recognised Jaya, and there was a Mire Pixie too. His brain fuzzed as he tried to comprehend these two strange groups, old alliances seemingly fallen away. Fahren and Charla saw each other at the same time, and instantly their wards sprang up. Battu backed away, unable to erect his own ward while he stood so close to Fahren.
Battu. Oh, how this man had dogged him through life. Images cascaded through Corlas’s mind: the Shining Mines shaking around him as blue whirlpools boiled in the sky . . . cold steel sliding into his side as beyond, on a hill, the Shadowdreamer rained down destruction . . . the night Battu had sent his minions to capture his child . . . Losara being taken, far away where Corlas could never go, never find him . . . the weaver bird, Iassia, spinning his lies and chirping merrily at his own treachery . . . Battu, Battu, Battu.
Everywhere things were happening, yet his sight narrowed to this man, this twisted, baleful man. Blood rushed in his ears, and the core of his being howled for Battu’s head. He took a step forward, shooting out his hands, and Battu’s eyes flickered to see the vortex coming. A shadow ward showed the slightest sign of coming to be . . . then the vortex lifted Battu from his feet, sent him soaring out of the clearing with limbs trailing.
Not enough! Corlas cursed. His reserves were still low, and it had consumed most of his power to fire off that one spell. It would be dangerous to try another, yet he felt sure that Battu still lived.
•
Tyrellan saw Battu go flying and, quick as a cat, was on his feet. He ran along the branch and leaped for the next tree, sinking his claws into the trunk. Hand over hand he worked his way around, until his feet found another branch. There, below, Battu had landed upon a soft cushioning of undergrowth. At the least he would be winded, but hopefully he was also stunned from the foreign magic that had hit him. Tyrellan knew he might have only moments.
He drew his sword, clutched the hilt with both hands, and dropped head-first from the branch. As he fell he held the blade before him, leading him towards the ground. Battu opened unfocused eyes, which rolled to see Tyrellan plummeting. He frowned uncomprehendingly, tried to raise a hand, but was slow to do so as his coordination momentarily failed him. The sword, with all of Tyrellan’s weight behind it, drove through his chest with a crunch and into the earth beneath. Battu’s back tried to arch but he was pinned fast, his legs kicking out straight.
Tyrellan balanced for a moment on the end of the sword, his lean muscles bulging, his agile body still horizontal.
‘Greetings, my lord.’
Battu wheezed through ruined lungs. Tyrellan let his legs curl in, flipping down gently by Battu’s side. Battu’s mouth opened and closed as if trying to capture escaping words, the fingers of his prostrate arms dancing across the ground as though he might find something there to save him.
‘Seems all your betrayal,’ said Tyrellan, ‘has amounted to nothing.’
With jerky little movements Battu turned his head, to stare in horror at Tyrellan.
Tyrellan raised a rock, and brought it down on Battu’s face.
•
Like a sudden awakening, Battu came back to himself. He floated as if in sluggish water, turned over to see his body beneath. Beside it, Tyrellan looked up as if he could see him, while the world around faded to grey. Realisation dawned.
The First Slave had killed him.
Anger came, but sparked only briefly as he felt an unmistakable pull, and knew the Great Well of Assedrynn awaited. Then it was only fear he felt, fear of the fate he’d tried so hard to avoid.
No, he tried to shout, clawing at the air as if he could swim back to his body. But this was no journey in the Shadowdream, and there was nowhere to travel save the ultimate destination. The great risk he’d taken had been stymied by bad luck and an opportunistic goblin, and the Dark Gods would be waiting for him to account for his sins. The most he could hope for now was that the light would win, and the Great Well of Assedrynn would soon be broken, releasing him from whatever torment they saw fit to visit on him.
Maybe there was one last thing he could do, at least. Vengeful to the end, as Battu was, the idea came naturally, offering itself up with a malicious wink. Was it wise? He did not wish to give Tyrellan reason to bring him back as an undead slave – and yet maybe that would be a way to escape Assedrynn. At any rate, wise was never a word that had bothered him overly.
Battu released a part of himself, his legacy flowing back into the world. Then the pull became too great, and he journeyed on towards the Dark Gods, in dread.
•
Bit of havoc round these parts, said Fazel, pushing aside a fireball that went roaring away to hit a tree near where Jaya and Lalenda peeped out from hiding.
Some things never change, replied Elessa.
Scant paces away, Fahren and a Sprite woman were locked in their own struggle. Corlas was heading towards them. Meanwhile, Battu’s presence in the trees seemed to have faded. Fazel took no solace from that – such an end was what he had coveted.
A cloud passed over him, and he drew strength from the shade it cast. Dully he knew he was gaining ground. He forced his way forward, thrusting into Elessa’s ward, and curled shadows to rip it apart. She fell backwards onto her rump, her skeletal leg stretched out before her. He had but a moment to press his advantage before she erected another ward . . . but if he killed her, once again hope of finding peace for himself would be lost. With a heavy heart he extended a finger, yet he desperately did not want to end her, this one who had nearly bested him before.
So he hesitated.
Light expanded from her as she returned to her feet. Fazel stood dumbly, wondering what had happened. There had been a clear opportunity for him to attack, and yet he had not taken it, even though that went against his express orders.
What is this? he thought.
What is what? she responded, though he had not meant her to hear him.
He turned a hand upon himself and, hardly daring to dream it possible, directed a little power inwards. The beginnings of a spell that would destroy his animated bones forever began to form. He expected the attempt to fail, for his hand to turn away of its own accord, as the directives inlaid in him took over – but they did not.
At his feet the Stone flipped over, vibrating.
There is no Shadowdreamer.
What?
His soul has gone out of this world. There is no one tying me to Skygrip Castle.
For the first time in years, Fazel experienced delight. How long, he wondered, had he been free? Since the moment Losara had disappeared into the Stone? Had he simply been following orders out of habit, because he was so used to obeying them? It had not occurred to him for a second that things might have changed.
He increased the power of his spell. All that remained was to release it.
Wait! she sent desperately, even as her beams of light played over his still-standing ward. He could drop it now, he supposed.
What?
Don’t leave me! You cannot leave me!
You’d consign another to the fate you so deplore?
Fazel glanced at the Stone. Something was happening, for it was thrumming violently, making little bounces over the ground. Not much time, perhaps, until someone came out of it – someone who might constrict him again.
Please, she sent, you share some responsibility for what has happened to me.
No, I don’t.
Please. You were a good man, once.
Her remaining eye blinked, and he knew that if she could have, she would have cried. Then, maddeningly, he remembered himself as the man he had been, who had travelled Kainordas helping his people. He had removed blights from crops, chased down thieves and murderers, beaten back monsters and shadows wherever he found them, healed hurts and overseen disputes . . . and for some reason, at that moment he remembered a little sundart with a broken wing, too badly hurt to be saved, which he had put out of its misery.
He had been a good man, once.
He sighed.
Hardly able to believe what he was doing, Fazel dropped the spell that would finish him and redirected his attack to her. Hoping to re-create the moment they’d just had, he tried to rip into her ward – but now she was expecting it, and he hit a wall.
They could fight like this forever, he thought despairingly.
A rent appeared in the air over the Stone, beyond which he could see a realm of tumultuous flashing colours. It was happening. He was running out of time.
He dropped his ward and walked towards her.
What are you doing? she screamed.
A light bolt hit his arm, shattering it at the elbow. Ignoring the blow, he strode into her light, and instantly his bones began to smoke. A thousand white-hot spots cooked him, the extremities of his charred body turning to white ash. All his power went into keeping himself moving – it was as if he struggled against a great wind, as her ward tried to fling him out even as it destroyed him. If he could just avoid a spell or two . . .
She flung a fireball at him, too close for him to push it away. It burst where his stomach would have been, exploding his spine to fragments. His torso hit the ground heavily, and pain thundered in his bones. She stared down at him in consternation.
You seek to end yourself without saving me, she said accusingly.
No, he said, and his remaining hand seized her leg.
Opening the floodgates as wide as he could, he poured his power into her. She shrieked as shadow filled her, her knees trembling as she fell to them. His vision swam with blazing light as he flung his remaining arm around her neck like a grapple, hauling his bones up against hers. Every last drop went into her . . . all his reserves, and then even the magic that animated him. She shuddered in his grip, her bones clacking against his, her ward failing as she tried to shake him off. He held on as tightly as his fading strength allowed, and her hand came to rest on his chest, exploding it with fire.
•
Fahren heard Elessa’s cries, could sense the fonts of power behind him, but facing Charla and Corlas together was taxing despite their weakened state. Something was happening, however, and he knew his attention was needed. With a great push he knocked Corlas from his feet, the man’s sunset ward seeming to have all but set.
‘Stop this, Corlas!’ he called. ‘I do not wish to kill you!’
‘What a coincidence,’ said Corlas, pushing up on his elbows. ‘I don’t wish you to either.’ He flicked a finger at Fahren, and Fahren tensed for more Old Magic – but nothing came. Corlas scowled, exhausted by the look of him. Charla ran to his side, covering him with her own waning ward. The moment of distraction was what Fahren needed, and he dared to glance at what was happening in the middle of the clearing.
Fazel was wrapped around Elessa, the broken end of his spine wiggling in the air, his once-black bones now seared white. Although she struggled against him, his grip was strong, as if his hand was the last place any strength remained. She was truly undead now, to his eyes as well as mind, for much of her flesh had torn away, her skull revealed down one half of her head. Her hand plunged against Fazel’s chest, and she released a fireball. It burst between them messily, shattering his rib cage and spilling through what was left of his back . . . and yet they did not fly apart, but embraced each other in the flames. The last of her flesh smouldered to nothing and they collapsed, bones upon bones falling to the ground, puffing to ash as they landed.
Elessa and Fazel were gone.
Near the ashes and fading flames, a tear in the world was growing larger. As its edges crackled with all the spectrum, the outline of a body formed within.
‘Look!’ cried Fahren. ‘Corlas, let us put aside our quarrel a moment! Your son is being reborn!’
As Charla helped him to his feet, Corlas did not take his eyes from the silhouette forming in the gateway of the Stone. Meanwhile there was movement by the trees as Jaya and Lalenda stepped out of hiding. Slowly they all converged around the Stone, casting untrusting glances at one another as they formed a ring around it.
‘There is nothing to be gained,’ cautioned Fahren, ‘from further strife.’
‘Silence,’ said Corlas.
Another figure padded out of the trees. Tyrellan, his face impassive as he took them all in.
’Nothing to be gained,’ he echoed, warily moving to stand by Lalenda. ‘Losara will be represented too.’
‘It will not be Losara any more,’ said Fahren.
Behind Tyrellan floated a beautiful butterfly. It circled the goblin once and then landed on his shoulder, where it opened and closed its colourful wings. Tyrellan barely glanced at it, but instead met Fahren’s eyes.
‘Your have poor taste in allies, Throne.’
‘Silence!’ shouted Corlas, making them all start.
The gateway opened wide . . . and yet the figure inside had not taken a final shape.
Soul’s Reckoning
Losara’s recollections became like tributaries into the stream of Bel’s past. It was an odd feeling as his history reshaped itself, concurrent events mixing in with each other, remembered by the one they were becoming, yet also by the both that had been . . .
A boy ran through the Open Halls, the strip of fur tied round his head signifying that he played the hugger. A young Hiza chased after him, brandishing a wooden sword . . . while a boy also sat unseen in a dark corner of Skygrip, watching others play nearby, wondering why they took such joy in hurling a ball of string to one another. Should he try to join in, he wondered, to understand what it was they did? The ball came towards him and he stepped from the shadows to catch it – but it banged against his fumbling hands and fell to the floor. He crouched to retrieve it, looked up to find the other children whispering to one another, casting about worried glances.
‘Is this how?’ he asked, raising the ball to throw it to the nearest – but the boy backed off, shaking his head.
‘That’s all right, lord,’ he said. ‘You keep it.’
They left him there, standing alone, the end of the ball unwinding between his fingers. He looked about and realised that shadows had stuck to him, stretching elastic from the wall to his body, and shook them off in annoyance . . .
‘Ho ho, you rascals!’ chortled Corlas as Bel and Hiza raced past, knocking over a shield. ‘Get him, Hiza – I hear that one hugged an entire village to death!’
‘Grar!’ yowled Bel, and made for a tree . . .
The memories flowed both ways, to him and from him, going to the other part, which he could not yet control.
Losara.
Yes?
Why do you persist?
A pause.
Bel. A statement more than anything else.
Yes, that’s right. I’m Bel. We are Bel.
Lessons with Battu arrived . . . and those with Fahren flowed away. Heron looked
down into his crib, emaciated and miserable . . . and Corlas picked him up, jiggling him in the air. Tyrellan, thought of with affection, pointed a claw down a winding corridor . . . and now the First Slave was in the distance, riding along behind the shadowmander, terrorising his people.
Do not fight, Losara. You are the lesser. Take your place quietly so we may go on to win the war for the light.
Losara considered the words. Maybe, he said.
There is no maybe. You should never have existed. All you are is your magic. Without it, you are nothing.
Do you really believe that?
Let us see how you would fare in my place.
Suddenly Losara stood in the throng of battle, his feet firm on the ground.
No shadow to turn to and whisk off as, came Bel’s voice.
Metal clashed a finger’s breadth from his ear. He was pushed to his knees as two warriors battled by, a Saurian and a huge Arabodedas repeatedly clashing two-handed swords.
Get up, said Bel. You’re vulnerable down there.
Losara scrabbled to his feet, felt a scabbard bang against his leg.
You have no magic. The sword is your only ally. Remember the prophecy, Losara – the blue-haired man raises a sword high in victory.
Losara drew the blade, heavy in his grip. A Mire Pixie came at him, holding a small shield with one hand, claws extending from the other.
Your enemy, said Bel, for this moment.
No.
In this heartbeat.
No.
It is my memory, Losara. You are playing my part, albeit with your own weak carcass.
The pixie hissed, and Losara backed away. Around him he could feel the heat of bodies, the ground trembling with the thud of feet and the falling dead. Someone jostled him from behind, and he did not know if it was friend or foe.
