The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  Finally Heather spoke. ‘I guess this is as far as it will take us.’

  She slid off the eagle’s back easily and held up a hand to help Frankle down. He clambered off far less gracefully but landed on both feet, then turned to catch Daemi as she slumped, exhausted, from the great bird’s back.

  As soon as her feet touched the ground, Daemi hobbled a few steps, waving Heather and Frankle’s offered hands away, then collapsed on the ground, her head between her knees, sucking in deep breaths.

  Heather watched her for a few moments then turned away. She would be okay, she just needed some time to herself.

  The eagle had lost interest in them immediately and was pecking idly at the furrows it had carved into the soil. It was almost funny to watch, as if anything it found there could be enough to satisfy its bulk. Perhaps it was simply another sign of instinct taking over.

  That thought brought other, more troubling ones to the surface. Frankle interrupted her thoughts, his mind having followed a similar path. ‘It’s completely wild now, isn’t it? Whatever humanity had remained before, it’s gone.’

  Heather only nodded in reply, silently examining the magnificent creature that had carried them so far. She wasn’t sure how she felt about what she was watching. There was a sadness to it, but overriding that was something more, a sense of triumph perhaps, of victory. As though the shackles that had held a mind separate from its true nature had finally slipped off.

  ‘Do you think that’s what becomes of all the wildlers eventually, Heather?’ Frankle asked, his voice tiny. ‘Do they all reach a point where coming back becomes impossible?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a choice in the end. Maybe it’s what they always wanted.’

  The eagle raised its head then and fixed them both with a piercing gaze. It let out another great cry in response.

  Heather gripped Frankle’s hand, and he returned the squeeze as they watched the eagle launch itself into the sky. Dust billowed around them as its enormous wings lifted it up into freedom, and in seconds it was far above them, curving into a soaring turn as it circled ever higher. It let out another cry, this time of farewell, and shot off toward the north.

  ‘It’s gone then?’

  Daemi was standing behind them and they dropped their hands quickly as if caught.

  ‘Uh, yes,’ Frankle stammered. ‘I guess we walk from here.’

  ‘Seems fair enough. If I was a giant magic eagle, I wouldn’t want to get within bowshot of that place either.’ Daemi nodded toward the silver castle glinting in the distance.

  ‘Do you feel—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Daemi cut Heather off. ‘Let’s march.’

  Her tone brooked no argument. Heather and Frankle grabbed their packs and fell into step behind the tall guard captain. It was clear, now they were back on solid ground, who was in charge.

  ‘Daemi?’ Frankle spoke up again after a few steps. ‘What are we planning to do once we get there? I mean, do you have a plan?’

  Daemi grunted, then finally replied. ‘We walk up to the gate and introduce ourselves. Then we take it from there.’

  She quickened her step to shut down any further conversation as her two young companions shared a silent smile and hurried to keep up.

  27

  ‘So, wielder. Once again you seem to be at the centre of trouble.’

  Wilt looked up from where he was sitting by the fire, under the watchful gaze of two heavily armed guards. Walking toward him was Captain Mont, one hand still clutching the hastily written reports his junior officers had given him, each one trying and failing to make any sense of the mess that had been made of the rear end of his column overnight.

  Captain Mont stopped at the fire and frowned at the young man, little more than a boy, who seemed to have been the lone survivor of the attack. ‘Care to explain why you still stand when by the latest count fifteen of my men and at least thirty others won’t wake to see the morning?’

  Wilt stood up, dusting himself off and pulling his shoulders back. He knew there was no point trying to explain. He barely understood it himself. The eyes of every guard who had passed him since the attack last night had marked him as guilty. ‘I told you before, Captain. I’m not without my talents.’

  If Wilt’s defiant tone shocked the captain, he hid it well. He turned and waved at a subordinate standing behind him and held out his hand. ‘Show me the blade.’

  A guard stepped forward and handed the captain Wilt’s weld blade. He had surrendered it immediately just hours before, not wanting to get into any further scuffles with an exhausted and traumatised column of well-armed soldiers.

  ‘And this? Moonsteel, isn’t it? I’ve heard of the stuff, but never seen it before.’ He waved the sword back and forth in the air. ‘Perfectly balanced.’ He flipped it quickly and caught the flat of the blade, offering the hilt to Wilt. ‘Take it. From what my guards tell me, you know how to wield it well enough.’

  Wilt reached out slowly and took the offered blade. A throb of warmth radiated up his arm as his fingers closed around the grip.

  ‘However, I will have to insist you travel in a more secure manner for the remainder of the journey to Sontair. Up front, with me. You’ll be quite comfortable, I assure you.’

  Wilt nodded, keeping his face blank as he slid the blade back into place on his hip.

  ‘Word has already been sent ahead, and my superiors in Sontair are eager to make your acquaintance. Even more so since your little adventure last night, I’m sure.’

  The captain looked him up and down once more, as if giving himself one final chance to change his own mind. ‘I can trust you not to try anything foolish, can’t I?’

  Wilt smiled and nodded his assent. It was clear the captain was well aware he could walk out of any prison they put him in. What he was trying to do was restore order in his men. Wilt understood. Besides, he could do with resting his feet for a while.

  ‘Good.’ The captain turned to leave. ‘We’re still two days’ march from Sontair. Let’s try our best to make them uneventful.’

  Wilt sat alone in the dark wagon, his eyes closed, smiling as the cold wind rushed past his ears. He felt the heat of the enormous feathered body beneath his legs, leaned with it as it banked and swooped in the invisible current of air, and heard a high yelp of joy in reply.

  Wilt, that sounds like Heather.

  Wilt kept his eyes closed, aware that he was experiencing another place and time, through another set of senses.

  Daemi. It must be. Why can’t she see anything?

  The feel of his hands wrapped around another’s hips, the tension in his fingers, the tightness of their grip, gave him the answer. Daemi was terrified.

  Maybe that’s why the vision is so clear now. Maybe her fear has lent strength to the connection you share. See if you can make her open her eyes. I want to see where they are.

  Wilt frowned as he concentrated, trying to force his will back along the strange link that joined his and Daemi’s minds. It was like a weld, but different, not as responsive to command. The vision warped and bent in response, and far away the great eagle they were riding banked again, fighting against the air now, twisting and bumping its riders uncomfortably.

  ‘Ugh.’

  Frankle let out a groan as they tilted to the side again, and Daemi felt his hands lock over hers. At least she wasn’t the only one suffering.

  As if in response, Heather let out another whoop and Daemi’s eyes snapped open. She snatched a glimpse of Heather’s hair streaming in the wind, high clouds rearing up around them and a thick green carpet stretched out far below. The Tangle.

  The image shut off as quickly as it appeared, and Wilt was back, alone in the tent.

  What happened? That was Heather’s hair, I almost—

  Wilt tried to drop into the vision, reaching for the connection that had joined them, but it had danced away and his mind was left clutching at nothingness.

  It’s gone.

  Try again! We have to make sure they’
re not in trouble.

  It’s okay, Higgs. Daemi was scared, but they were perfectly safe.

  Wilt thought again of the rush and height the vision had shown them, the stomach dropping clamour of it all.

  At least, not in any direct danger.

  How can you be sure?

  I … It’s like you said, Daemi’s fear lent the connection strength, but when there’s real danger I see more. It’s almost like I become part of her. I think we only saw that glimpse because she was scared. She’s scared of heights, I think.

  Daemi? I didn’t think she was scared of anything.

  Well, I wouldn’t mention it to her if I were you.

  His thoughts were interrupted as the lock on the rear door of the wagon slid open with a heavy clang.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  The flap of the canvas covering whipped back and Captain Mont pulled himself up and in, looking around the spare, dim space with a critical eye. ‘Not too dark in here, is it? I could get you a lantern or something.’

  He stared at Wilt, hands on his hips, waiting for a reply.

  ‘Uh, no, it’s fine.’ Wilt coughed, finding his voice.

  The captain glanced around the small space impatiently before finally grabbing a crate from the corner and settling down on it. He leaned forward and stared at Wilt as if trying to decide something. ‘I’ve had experience with you wielders in the past, you know. Redmondis. Black Robes.’ He waved one hand in the air as if dismissing the terms. ‘Not interested in the labels, just in how useful an individual can be. What I’m wondering is, how useful can you be?’

  He punctuated his last words with a pointed finger jabbed toward Wilt’s chest. When Wilt didn’t react he sighed and lowered his tone. ‘What do you know of those creatures that attacked us? You must know something.’

  Wilt stared warily at the captain, wondering how he could even begin to answer such a question. How to describe the strange dark things that seemed to be formed from the welds themselves, that he had dived into, sunk through, drawing them down into oblivion far below?

  ‘The creatures, they’re … not of this plane. They’re from the depths, from the place where all wielders draw their power.’

  ‘Like welds, you mean?’

  Wilt nodded quickly, glad the captain knew something he could build his description around. ‘I think they’re formed of the same stuff and that they are drawn to the fears of their victims. Attracted by them.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Captain Mont leaned back, considering the words. ‘So perhaps we’re not entirely powerless.’

  After a moment he seemed to remember where he was and snapped out of his reverie. ‘I wanted to thank you, for not making a scene earlier. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Your men have seen too much strangeness recently. I understand.’ Wilt smiled. ‘I’m getting used to making people nervous.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ The captain clapped his knees and stood up. ‘I suppose we can’t blame them for that. I would like you to do me a further favour though. Try to think more about those … things. About how you fought them. Something tells me we’ll be seeing them again soon enough. I’d like to have a plan of attack next time we run into them.’

  With that the captain left, closing the cage door behind him.

  28

  Petron, Nurtle and Jared stood side by side at the foot of the great throne that held Cortis’s remains, eyes locked on the shrunken figure, their minds alert, ready for anything.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Petron whispered.

  Nurtle squeezed Jared’s hand in hers. ‘It moved, Petron. His hand. It definitely moved.’

  ‘Perhaps it was just the—’

  ‘It wasn’t just the wind. Can you not feel it now, the growing pressure? Prepare yourself.’

  Nurtle’s tone brooked no argument, and Petron sunk to his knees, pulling a large chalk out of his robe and scratching a long line on the ground between them and the throne. As soon as he was done, he stepped back and clapped his hands together.

  Immediately the chalk line flashed in response and seemed to burn away, leaving no mark on the stone floor.

  ‘Leave us!’ he called to the guards still standing at attention behind them. ‘You cannot help here.’

  His tone was one of command and the guards responded instantly, hurrying from the room.

  ‘Is it Cortis, or something else?’ Nurtle whispered.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Petron frowned. ‘Whatever it is, I mean to have words with it.’

  Petron clapped his hands together again and whispered strange syllables as the air warmed and thickened.

  Nurtle nodded in recognition of the incantation and stepped back, drawing Jared with her.

  ‘But we can—’ Jared protested, only to be cut off with a shake of Nurtle’s head.

  ‘We cannot help him. This is Petron’s battle. Our presence can only aid the enemy, just as with the guards. Shield yourself, my love.’

  With that she finally let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around herself, sinking down to the ground and whispering her own words of power. Jared mimicked her, wrapping himself in a protective cocoon of welds, dropping away from the world and the growing danger spinning into existence before them.

  Petron stood alone in front of the throne, eyes twin coals that burned with fury. ‘Wrexley,’ he whispered. ‘They will pay for what they did to you.’

  He turned his focus inward, reaching for the power that dwelled there, the knowledge formed from years spent sharing the bond between wielder and ward, and the anger that remained from having that link so brutally severed. Petron was not a true wielder, but he had shared such a deep connection with one for so many years that some of a wielder’s power lay within him, and his rage and hurt now helped his mind to fully access it. Inside him a furious whirlwind was turning, growing faster with every moment, urging him onward, waiting to be unleashed. He raised his arm and pointed a single finger at the corpse that sat in front of him.

  ‘Cortis. It’s time to answer for your crimes.’

  Petron’s words seemed to shock the remains on the throne into action. The bowed head lifted to stare directly at Petron, and its cracked lips twisted into an unnatural smile.

  A thick black weld shot from Petron’s outstretched arm and arrowed into the figure before him, and the surface world dropped completely away.

  Petron rushed through the weld, a torrent of power cascading beneath him as his mind tried to make sense of what it was seeing. The next moment he was through, staring out across a blasted, stricken landscape. A dead world. All that remained of what was once Cortis’s mind.

  The charge and rush of the weld had disoriented him, and Petron found his mind reeling, trying to grasp onto something to ground itself. What it found was the burning core of anger, the thick wedge of rage lodged in his heart. Rage at Cortis for what he had taken from him, at Wrexley for leaving him here alone, and underneath it all a deep fury at himself for allowing it all to drift out of his grasp.

  Just as his mind coalesced back into consciousness, it was blasted away by an all-encompassing voice that seemed to emanate from the welds themselves.

  So, finally the time has come. Foolish, petty man. You thought yourself capable of facing me here, in my realm?

  The words echoed through Petron’s mind, overwhelming it entirely. Suddenly, impossibly, looming above him was what looked to be an enormous serpent, its face twisted into a gruesome approximation of a man. Cortis. It was Cortis’s face.

  You think your anger at this lackey would somehow serve you? You think your fury can help you here?

  Petron knew the truth of the words that blasted through him. How foolish he had been, how arrogant, to think he could face this. To think he could do anything but cower in front of this ancient thing, this lord of the depths, this being from another, deeper realm. This monster that reared up before him, toying with his mind, weighing up the time when it would wrap itself around him and consume him utterly.

  Cortis has
provided me his final service, bringing you before me to become my next vessel. As a reward I may finally let him die. Petron felt a brush of pure pain, a flash of agony and despair so deep it almost sank him to his knees. It was Cortis, he knew so instantly. What remained of him, suffering in a trapped, eternal sliver of hell.

  As soon as the vision passed, Petron felt empty, all anger drained from him, replaced by a hopelessness so deep and all-encompassing he could no longer stand to hold it inside his mind. No one could. No one could stand before such power and survive. No one but—

  Petron felt the warmth before he saw it, before his eyes noticed the floating spark of light that seemed to dance in the currents of air just above the great serpent’s head. Its sight brought his mind back from the brink, back from the edge of despair it had been about to throw itself from.

  As his eyes found it, another voice whispered in his mind. Familiar. One he thought he would never hear again.

  Wilt. Remember Wilt, Petron. Remember our pupil. Remember how deeply he delved.

  It was Biore’s voice, yet changed. Energised, as though whispering to him from a time long before.

  Wilt has faced this power before and survived. He has the power to face it again. All is not lost.

  The serpent seemed to sense the change in Petron’s thoughts, its face twisting in anger as it bent lower, its gaping maw opening to reveal row upon row of sharpened, needle teeth.

  Ah. You still resist. You are stronger than Cortis was.

  The face of the serpent bubbled and morphed into a new form, and suddenly Petron was staring at an evil facsimile of Wrexley himself.

  Cortis loved him too, though he could never admit so. Not until it was too late. Are you stronger than Wrexley was? Can you stand to face death itself? Or will you abandon all just as he did in his final surrender?

  Petron almost broke then, at the sight of Wrexley’s features, so clear in his heart, now looming over him, spitting words of hate into his face. It was almost too much. Only the single spark of hope saved him. Its random dance in the air above seemed to weave new thoughts into Petron’s fevered mind, calming its rush and panic.