However, there was one thing that had not changed. The cat turned his head and snarled. He could feel it under his paws like a hot piece of metal. The breach where nearly a thousand years ago he had stood with Derodak and pledged his allegiance to the Rossins—giving them his name and his power—still existed.
It was the weakest point between the Otherside and the human realm, and even after it had sealed, a scar remained on the fabric of reality.
Now it was screaming once more.
The Rossin knew that there could only be a few more moments. He flicked his head in the other direction and felt another presence appearing near him, a familiar one. It should have been upsetting, but in fact this new arrival gave him hope.
However, there was no time to waste on waiting for reinforcements. The Rossin wheeled about and bounded down the steps—moving much faster than any human could ever hope to. He passed quickly from the newer parts, through to the Ancient mosaicked walls, and finally into the bare caverns. Along the way he found Deacons waiting for him in their dark cloaks. They held up their foci and tried to use runes on him. When that failed, they tried to use swords. The Rossin sprang on them and snapped them as easily as twigs. They had not expected his return, and the one of their number who could stop him was otherwise engaged.
By the time the Rossin reached the final chamber, he was soaked in blood and flesh, though the blood did not please him as it once had. A terrible sound split the air just as his paw was on the threshold. The great cat looked up at the carved Maker of Ways and saw it was crumbling away. Then the whole ground shook, forcing the cat to spread his paws and brace as it rumbled under him.
Then he smelled it; the hot, fetid odor of the Otherside; something that he had hoped never to experience again. His roar of outrage was lost in the tumult. He bolted through the door toward it.
For a moment all he could see was the geistlord, the Maker of Ways. He towered in the tiny cavern, because above it was more than just a cavern now. The huge form of the Maker was holding apart the breach, two large tentacles in the human realm, while his wide black green shoulders were braced in the Otherside.
Eyes like red lanterns were fixed on the new world, and behind him were all the host of the undead. Closest burned the Murashev, Herald of Doom, ready to burn brightly. For a heartbeat, the Rossin saw nothing but those dire figures. The Maker was pressing on the breach, his strength alone holding it open.
The power to summon the Maker was beyond anyone in the human realm, even Derodak. Thinking of him made the Rossin capable of pulling his eyes away from the looming geistlord.
Below, near one of the writhing tentacles, he saw Derodak and Sorcha Faris. The Arch Abbot was leaning over her, pressing his hand against her collarbone, his eyes boring into hers. She was limp and pale, but her eyes were focused somewhere else.
It was the Wrayth in her. The Rossin saw with all the accuracy of a Sensitive. She was being forced to use those powers to connect with all of humanity. They could not feel it, but she was their conduit, gathering their wills to make the breach and the summons.
Yet still the Arch Abbot had time to spare for the Rossin. He looked up, full of power, and then held out his leather-clad hand. The shield rune sprang up between them, burning scarlet and unbearably hot in the room. It was Derodak, and he was like none of his lesser children.
The Rossin paced back and forth before the burning flames and contemplated the end of the world that had been his home. His frustration burned as brightly as the fire between them.
To have come so close and then be stymied by his old enemy was beyond frustrating. Still as much as he roared and raged, the shield of flame still held him.
* * *
Merrick, Zofiya and her army, on board the Summer Hawk, reached Vermillion on the wings of the coming storm. The weather had turned against them, and it had taken much longer to make the capital than usual. Still the Empress drove them on, urging her captains to burn whatever weirstones they needed to get them there in time.
When they first saw the city, Merrick rushed forward and saw immediately the damage that had been inflicted on the great city. The streets were full of panicked people, and the palace was burning with a flickering light, the like of which he had never seen before. Screams and prayers to little gods wafted up from below borne on smoke.
He took his place with the Empress, the Fensena and Aachon on the prow of the airship and none of them spoke. Zofiya had told him the state that she had found the capital city in and that had been enough to shock him—this was something else.
The coyote pressed against the Sensitive. “Look with your real eyes, youngster.”
He was almost too afraid of what he would see to try, but Merrick finally opened his Center and spread it over the city. What he saw sickened him. The lovely capital full of life and commerce was a fractured and injured animal. Robbed of peace, it was descending into anarchy. The air was stained with the terror of her people for not all of them were dead. That would happen when the barrier to the Otherside was gone and they became fodder for the geists.
“Look toward the palace,” the Fensena’s remarkably calm words intruded on Merrick’s contemplation.
At first he thought the center of the city was on fire, but then he realized it was something else. Indigo colors stained the sky over the palace, while tumultuous clouds flickered with barely contained lightning. “The breach is opening,” Merrick whispered under his breath. He had read about it over and over again in his studies, but he had never thought he would live to see it happen again.
Behind him he could feel the rest of the Sensitives—his Sensitives—reacting with horror as their knowledge brought the reality of the situation home.
He turned to Zofiya. “We need to get down there, now . . . we can’t go to the port. We must go there.” He pointed down toward the palace itself, though he wished to point only to the horizon and demand to flee.
“And then?” the Empress asked him. “What shall we do?”
They were hidden from the people behind them. He slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. He would much rather have taken her in his arms and kissed her.
“I will take the Conclave into the palace,” he replied. “It will be Deacon on Deacon fighting in there. You must do what you can to help your people.”
Her eyebrows drew together in an expression he recognized immediately, but he had no time for her demands. “I should be fighting at your side—that is my palace—”
“Darling,” he whispered to her, so that only the Fensena could have heard him, “if this does not work, you must be free to lead the people in whatever way you can against the geists.”
His brown eyes locked with hers, and her expression softened even in this dire moment. Since she was Empress, it was her choice to throw her arms around him and kiss him then and there. As always Zofiya made him breathless, but this time he most especially did not want to let her go. The taste of her in his mouth was like life itself, and death was not that far away.
When they moved apart, Merrick glanced over Zofiya’s shoulder, but none of the Deacons or soldiers at their back were looking at them.
“I will do as you ask,” Zofiya said clearly, “but only for my people.”
“No one doubts your courage,” the Fensena broke in, his golden eyes gleaming with the not-so-distant lightning, “but this is the way of things. We will either stop the Maker of Ways, or the rest will be flames.”
Merrick might have wanted the coyote to couch it in better terms, but it was true. The Empress did not attempt to deny it.
The Summer Hawk dropped lower and lower and everything began to come into dreadful focus. They could now see the blood on the cobblestones, and make out every little tragedy as it played out below.
The broken bodies below them were now visible as not only soldiers, but also Deacons of the Circle of Stars. Merrick recognized the spectacular damage immediately; the Rossin had been here before them. He could not decide if that thou
ght cheered him or not.
Regardless, they had to go down there. Quickly, Merrick wrapped his mind around the prepared Conclave. He had arranged his ragtag group of Deacons into groups of twenty, with one foci holding them together into Conclaves. It was the best way to shore up their forces, which were not all that experienced or well trained. This way, those that were could use their strength without losing control of the situation.
Merrick took a deep breath and led the way down the ladder off the airship. The naked human form of the Fensena scrambled down after him and took back his coyote shape as soon as his feet touched the ground. On his heels, the rest of the Deacons scrambled down. Among them were Aachon who led one of the Conclaves, and even the boy Eriloyn from Waikein who had insisted on using his new runes to fight. Most of them still wore their cloaks, though the newcomers’ ones were patchwork, or leather.
It was strange to feel the closeness of the Conclave without the presence of Sorcha in it as well. He felt for the first time really like the First Presbyter. Merrick could only hope it would not be the last time he experienced this sensation.
Just as the people disembarked, shots rang out. Two Deacons in Merrick’s Conclave fell, their places in the Conclave becoming sucking maws, but he reorganized the pattern of the Conclaves quickly. Terrible as it was, he’d expected it.
Somewhere up in the towers a few Imperial Guards still held on, and they were shooting at whatever cloaked figures they could, mistaking them for Derodak’s Deacons. As bullets zipped around them, Merrick shouted for his colleagues to get to cover, while above them riflemen on the Summer Hawk returned fire.
Merrick was holding his portion of the Conclave together, moving his remaining people in a cohesive group into shelter, while he stood still, concentrating very hard. That was until a huge bulk of a man threw himself on him, knocking him to the ground. For an instant he didn’t know what had just happened. The next thing he realized, it was Aachon that had barreled into him, and that there was blood everywhere.
Quickly, Merrick ascertained it was not his blood. Aachon lay atop him, and it took three Deacons to lift him up. They dragged him into one of the hallways of the palace, as bullets zipped around them, and used the big man’s cloak to staunch the blood as best they could.
The tall man grinned at those carrying him. “I’ve had worse.” Merrick checked him over quickly and saw that the wound had passed through his shoulder cleanly. “But I can’t hold my portion of the Conclave, you’ll have to take it.”
“Of course,” the Presbyter said, getting to his feet, glad at least the big man was not dead. He’d been gruff with anyone not Raed, but he had a powerful spirit.
Merrick felt Aachon’s blood on his skin, warm and vital. His anger flared suddenly that a good man—one of his own—had been targeted by those who couldn’t tell the difference between Deacons. His Center sped toward the group in the tower, and he felt their heartbeats like fluttering moths in his hands. So many things he could have done to them, but instead of the runes, that wild talent of his chose this moment to rise up. It was a lucky thing too; he did not want to kill anyone who might be saved.
Instead, Merrick hit the survivors with the hammer of regret. He made them fall to their knees weeping for what they had done, clawing at their faces in horror. None of them could lift a weapon or shoot another Deacon, so there would be no more mistakes.
“Go,” Aachon said, taking the compress and holding it there himself, “I’ll wait here and see how things go. Strange . . . I always thought I would take a bullet for Raed Syndar Rossin. Life is a funny thing.”
Merrick clasped his hand. “Then hold tight to it, we’ll be right back.”
Five lay Brothers were helping the wounded and, under the circumstances, that was the best that could be done. The Conclaves had lost seven Deacons, but the groups had a flexible pattern, though they did lose strength with each member gone.
Merrick now realized that he needed more power to finish the task at hand. The solution meant treading on ground that he had warned Sorcha off only weeks before—and that had not ended well—but there was little choice. Everything rested on these moments. As First Presbyter he would burn all of his Order, all of the new recruits to keep the world from suffering another Break.
Wrapping his silver fur cloak about him, Merrick opened his Center as wide as he could, taking the leaders of the other Conclaves into his own control. He was the spider at the center of the web. The master puppeteer. The heady sensation of so many minds, so much power, almost pulled him apart. It had to be the largest Conclave in Order history.
Now their true enemies could be seen. The Native Order had always been excellent at hiding itself, but they could no longer do that—not with the beam of the grand Conclave on them.
They too were knitted in groups, but something had passed through them and weakened them considerably.
The Rossin. The smell of him and the tang of his passing were now visible on every surface. Much blood had been spilled, but there were still many of Derodak’s children in the palace, and they were drawing together with every moment.
Heat enveloped Merrick, rage such that he had never really let out before. Sensitives were taught to be calm, controlled—but now all of that was washed away. He saw again his father murdered on the steps of his childhood home by a geist. Experienced once more the piles of dead he and Sorcha had uncovered on the way to Ulrich. And finally he saw Derodak stealing his mother into the tunnels under Orinthal. It was too much.
With the silver fur cape flowing around him, Merrick set off. His own personality felt very fragile as he held it before him, like a dim light that he could drop at any instant. The chatter of so many voices in his head, even as they tried to remain quiet, was still nearly overwhelming.
The Native Order had regrouped farther into the corridors of the palace, and they came at him again; the Runes of Dominion turned on them in floods of green, blue and red. Flames poured out of the corridors toward the advancing Enlightened, and Derodak’s children appeared out of the walls, with swords and spears.
The palace became a heaving battleground in an instant. Battle was joined, and it was Merrick who stood in the center of it all. Blood trickled and ran from the corners of his eyes and his nose as the pressure of holding the Conclave together took its toll. He couldn’t move to defend himself, but he was not without a protector. The Fensena was there, apart from the Conclave, snarling and ripping out unsuspecting throats in the corridors and rooms.
Merrick began to use the parts of the Conclave like a body. His arms flashed out, defending with the shield of fire, while the limbs of others called Chityre into being in the corridors. Shayst, the green fire, took power where it could, while Deiyant threw furniture to block oncoming advances. He saw all and killed all.
Soon enough Merrick realized that he had the upper hand and why. Derodak was not in the Native Order Conclaves. He was not present to hold them together in a grand cohesive union, as Merrick was doing.
And they were frightened. In the whirl of moving his people, the Sensitive had not much energy to use his Center to see beyond the current fight. Yet, now as the grand Conclave felt more seamless, he could sense their opponents’ fear. The Rossin had run among them, and their runes had no effect on the Beast. He had torn them down and left them in ruins, yet their leader was not here.
Derodak was below. He was making the ground shake, and anyone with ears could hear it, and anyone with humanity could feel the presence of the breach. However, Merrick could not reach Derodak, the Rossin or even Sorcha. They were sealed off in a bubble created by the widening breach.
You have to end this. You have to be there. Nynnia’s breath was on his neck, cool in the heat of battle. It was an instant of clarity in the tumult, and he knew what he had to do.
The talent he carried came from the Ehtia. It was how they had been able to work the weirstones and ruled the world for generations. The Order he had been raised in had hated and feared them becaus
e they were not measured and controlled. They were wild and unpredictable.
Merrick needed chaotic and unpredictable right now, so he opened the conduit. His body disappeared. It was not just the wild magic of his heritage—it was everything he had ever learned. He let it all flow out into the Conclave.
You are wrong, the talent bellowed at the Native Deacons. You are bad, evil and wrong. Look what you are doing!
No one ever thinks of themselves as evil, but Merrick’s wild talent made them see what they really were. They had been used and twisted. Their Arch Abbot had no care for them. They were fodder for his madness and had been bred as such. They were nothing more than sheep farmed for his use.
It was too much, too much for his targets and too much for the Conclave. The voices of the Native Order in Merrick’s head screamed in horror at what he had done and what he had shown them.
When he came back to himself, he was standing in a room full of bodies. Some were dead, some were howling and crying. The part of him that he’d lost in the Conclave would have felt something about this, guilt he supposed. In this moment he had nothing but emptiness.
Merrick wrapped the cloak about him, stepped over the bodies and strode to the main staircase. The sound of claws on stone was the only thing that made him turn.
The Fensena was trotting in his wake, blood staining his muzzle black, and his gold eyes gleaming above the filth. It was the kind of image that could have come from the dark times when the Break had happened: a wild animal intent on death in the halls of humanity.
It seemed fitting to have such a creature as an escort. With the Fensena following, Merrick went down into the depths of Vermillion to find his partner.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Where All Things Must Come
Sorcha felt everything—not just her own physical distress. The pain of her blood pouring out onto the sand that was apparently welcomed by the Otherside. The thousands of voices and concerns of the humans everywhere in the human realm rattled in her head endlessly. She was just a tiny mote in the middle of it. Bleeding out on the very doorstep of the Otherside appeared to be her fate, and even she found it difficult to care.
Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER) Page 28
