Kalanon's Rising

by Darian Smith

  He lunged at Morgin. His hand closed around the younger man’s throat and he leaped upward, thrusting Morgin above him like a trophy held aloft. Morgin’s head bashed against the stone ceiling and caved in like a dropped watermelon. He gave a little squeak and went limp.

  As they fell back to the floor, Brannon shoved the still body away from him. The eyes opened and the crushed skull began to fill out again even before it hit the ground.

  Ylani had picked up the knife again and was sawing through the last of Jessamine’s ropes.

  “You all okay?” Brannon dropped to his knee and checked Taran’s pulse. It was strong and the priest was breathing. He stirred at Brannon’s touch. It was a good sign.

  Morgin stood and shook his head. “You’re learning,” he said.

  Brannon scooped up his sword. “I try.”

  Ula’s wind flowed uselessly around the room once more. The Djin woman seemed trapped in a pointless loop of recasting the same spell over and over.

  “Nothing else will work,” she had said. The words played over and over in Brannon’s mind. Ula could return any Risen to the ground and banish any kaluki with her powers. She was a shaman and a prioress of Gradinath. The spell didn’t work because this was a powerful kaluki in a living body.

  The last hollow in Morgin’s staved in skull had repaired. How long had it taken?

  “Ula,” he called. “How long does it usually take to banish a kaluki?”

  “Moments only. But this one too strong.”

  “I know. Be ready.”

  There was a boom and a flash of heat. Brannon caught his breath and shot a glance at Draeson.

  Smoke and ash drifted around the mage and scorch marks formed a kind of star spreading out from where he stood. He held his hands in front of him with the palms facing each other and a small sphere of light hung between them, increasing in brightness.

  More of the smaller kaluki creatures poured through the portal, flowing across the floor like an oily tide or filling the air with membranous wings and spikes. Flailing amongst them were long thin tentacles that all reached out from the portal.

  The portal itself throbbed. Brannon was sure it had grown.

  Long fingers of lightning twitched out from Draeson’s light globe, burning and slicing through kaluki wherever they touched.

  Morgin lunged, slashing at Brannon with his sharp fingernails.

  Brannon leaped back, then jabbed with his sword.

  Morgin grabbed the blade in his hands and held tight. “You heard the shaman,” he said. His face twisted into a smirk. “I’m too strong for you now.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Brannon yanked the sword free.

  Morgin held up his cut hands. They had healed already. “You still think you can beat me?”

  Superficial cuts were almost instantly deal with, Brannon realized. But more significant injuries took time. He feinted to the left, danced right, and hacked into Morgin’s side. Neither Morgin nor the kaluki inside him were skilled in swordplay. The blade bit deep.

  Morgin hissed at him. The wound healed—again quickly—but not as quickly as the smaller cuts.

  This time Brannon was sure. If Ula could remove a kaluki from a dead body, then doing enough damage to this living one could, for a moment, provide a window of opportunity when the host would be technically dead, before the kaluki’s power could heal it. It was a plan that required perfect timing, but it was a plan.

  Morgin’s fist lashed out.

  Brannon dodged, but the other fist connected with his jaw. He fell, landing on his back.

  Morgin followed him down, pinning Brannon’s legs with his body weight and began stabbing into his stomach with his claws. The jabs came fast and furious, shredding Brannon’s intestines.

  Blood sprayed. Brannon screamed as each blow ripped his insides with burning hooks.

  “Let’s see just how much your precious earth spirits can heal,” Morgin sneered.

  The physician part of Brannon’s mind was screaming. Blood loss. Infection. Disembowelment. He pushed it aside and battered at Morgin’s arms with his fist.

  The pain was excruciating, but he forced himself to think. He stopped fighting, pulled his sword up, lifting the point to aim at Morgin’s chest. With both hands on the hilt, he thrust forward.

  Morgin twisted and the blade sank into his side, well short of his heart, the intended target. He jabbed his fingers into Brannon’s stomach and twisted.

  Brannon bit down on a scream and blood filled his mouth. He needed a better weapon. Needed to do more damage. “Draeson!” He voice came out as a croak. “Draeson, blast him!”

  “I’m a little busy!” called the mage.

  Brannon turned his head to see the black creatures filling the room, spilling past Draeson and his light globe. A long tentacle wrapped itself around the mage’s ankles and pulled tight. Draeson fell and disappeared beneath the black tide.

  The winged creatures swirled overhead and blacked out the ceiling. Brannon felt his vision blurring. He diagnosed blood loss. Even his earth spirit enhanced body couldn’t keep up with the constant slashing of Morgin’s claws.

  Suddenly Morgin screeched and the stabbing stopped. He fell backward, freeing Brannon’s legs.

  Brannon’s inner organs immediately began knitting back together in a wriggling mass of pain. He scrambled back, away from the kaluki, blinking furiously as his vision cleared.

  Morgin was clutching at his face where three sharp-edged throwing stars jutted from his eyes and cheek.

  “Not so fun when people throw things at you, is it?” Taran said. The young man was leaning against a sarcophagus, half held up by Jessamine. He had a fourth throwing star in his hand. He threw it and it embedded itself in Morgin’s shoulder.

  Brannon stared. A priest proficient in Child of Starlight weaponry? Taran’s words to him the night Latricia had died played back in his mind. “You don’t need an average priest.”

  Morgin pulled the star from his eye and dropped it to the ground. Blood and ichor dribbled down his cheek. “You think your little tricks can hurt me?” His punctured eye closed over, color spilling back into the iris. “My brothers and sisters will take care of you.”

  The swirling, winged kaluki began to swoop downward. Taran drew a dagger and began to slash at the air above him, trying to keep them away.

  Brannon struggled to his feet, one hand still clutching his belly. The deepest gouges were now shallow cuts but the echo of the pain still clung to his insides.

  Ylani stepped forward. She had a glass jar in her hand. “I can’t hurt you, Morgin, but I can slow you down.” She threw the contents of the jar into his face.

  The caustic smell of formaldehyde filled the air. Morgin screamed and lashed out, catching her in the shoulder and sending her flying. “You bitch!” He rubbed at his eyes, stumbling.

  Brannon felt the rush of battle fill him. “Now!” he yelled. “Draeson! Strike now!”

  There was an explosion. Black chunks of kaluki rained down over them. A massive bolt of lightning blasted from the direction of the mage and slammed into Morgin from behind. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere.

  Morgin howled. “Fools!”

  Brannon ran forward, his sword raised.

  Jessamine beat him there. The blond girl had the knife used to free her in her fist. She slashed it across Morgin’s throat and blood spilled down his chest.

  “Ula!” Brannon shouted. “Now! Do it now!”

  He brought the sword up under Morgin’s ribcage. He could see the edges of the gash already beginning to close.

  “Not this time,” he murmured to the kaluki. “We have enough monsters here already.” He shoved the sword deep, piercing Morgin’s heart. “Heal this.”

  A gurgle sounded from the ruined throat, even as the cut vocal cords knitted back together.

  Brannon held the kaluki close, keeping his sword in place while Ula’s wind rose at last. When it happened, he felt the tug at his own core, and the corresponding one
that shook the kaluki free of Morgin’s body.

  A dark, glittering mist was pulled out on the wind.

  The remaining kaluki creatures paused. All eyes turned to Ula.

  The Djin woman held her hands out in fists. “Kaluki,” she said in a voice that boomed. “I banish you now!”

  The mist swirled like a miniature tornado and dragged toward the portal. It touched the silvery surface and melted into it.

  The surface of the portal darkened as though the touch of its creator had somehow tainted it.

  The smaller creatures screamed and, en masse, ran for the portal, retreating back to their realm. Only some of them made it through before, with an enormous boom, the column collapsed, and dark ooze splattered all over the floor.

  The portal was closed.

  Chapter Forty-four

  The world was somehow quiet. The screeches of kaluki, shouting of allies, and Draeson’s explosions were gone and the regular sounds of life, even Brannon’s own panting as he caught his breath, seemed nothing by comparison.

  Brannon searched the room for signs of movement, but there were none. They had slaughtered the last of the small kaluki creatures and the collapsing portal had severed the tentacles of the larger one before the thing itself had managed to come through. Brannon would be eternally grateful that whatever creature they had belonged to was no longer at risk of coming into this realm.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked.

  “I be fine,” Ula said, the words sounding thicker than usual in her mouth, as though the battle had strengthened her accent. “It surprise we be alive. Good surprise.”

  “Very good!” Brannon laughed. “Taran? Head injury?”

  The priest shrugged. “I’ve had worse. I’m okay.”

  Draeson looked at the now pale tattoo on his arm, then at Tomidan Sandilar. Ylani cut the last of the ropes holding the boy in place and he ran to Taran and wrapped his arms around the young man’s legs.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Brannon said. “There’s no way that child is ready to bleed for your dragon right now. Or ever.”

  The mage nodded. “I’ll be fine for now, but the fight took a lot out of me. Let’s just not do that again, okay?”

  “Agreed.” Brannon took a deep breath. The room was a mess. Kaluki body parts were scattered everywhere, blood covered much of the floor and there were Morgin and Shillia’s corpses to deal with. He wondered vaguely who would deal to that, given that Morgin had been the town’s undertaker. Probably a town physician. Possibly even himself and Jessamine.

  He glanced across at his apprentice. The fact that she was even alive and in one piece was something he’d barely been able to hope for an hour ago. Not only had she survived the ordeal, but she had contributed to Morgin’s downfall. He couldn’t be more proud.

  Jessamine herself, however, looked pale. The bloody knife dropped from her fingers and clattered onto the stone floor, sounding very loud in the silence.

  “Jessamine? Are you all right?” Fool that he was, he’d forgotten the girl wasn’t a soldier.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I, um . . . ” Her lip quivered as she wiped her hand on her skirt. She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “I guess it’s just as well I didn’t take that physician’s oath yet after all.”

  Brannon smiled and squeezed her arm. “You did well,” he said.

  She turned in to his shoulder, clinging like a child. “He was so strong,” she said, her body shaking against his. “I tried fighting him but . . . Then I just kept trying to reach the real Morgin, trying to get him to stop. I was so sure he would kill us both.”

  Brannon awkwardly patted her back while she sobbed. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  He looked around the room for assistance.

  Ylani caught his eye and barely concealed a smirk.

  “Help!” he mouthed.

  She pointed to herself with big, innocent eyes. “Me?”

  He glared, which only made her chuckle.

  After a moment, Jessamine pulled back. Brannon gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You were amazing today. Now I want you to go back to the inn and get some rest. Ambassador Ylani will go with you and take Tomidan as well. Check him out and make sure he’s not hurt, okay?”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay.” She retied her ponytail, seemingly unaware that she smeared a streak of red in the blond by doing so. “Come on, Tommy. Let’s get out of here.”

  Ylani, still with a hint of a smile, took Tomidan’s hand and peeled him away from a grateful Brother Taran. “Come on. Let’s go somewhere safe.”

  She was heading for Jessamine and the exit when her face paled.

  “Brannon!” She pointed.

  Ula’s eyes had lost the whites. Her face was unnaturally still. The beads in her hair began to glow.

  “Take them. They shouldn’t be here for what happens next.”

  Ylani looked from the Djin woman to Brannon. Her lower lip caught in her teeth. “Brannon . . .”

  “Go,” he said. “This is what I agreed to. It’s all right. Some battles can only be won by sacrificing troops. I’m just glad it wasn’t any of you.”

  Ylani hesitated, her eyes on his for a long time.

  “It’s all right,” he said again.

  She nodded. “I know. But it isn’t.” She leaned in and kissed him on the lips, gentle and slow. The feel of her was warm and good and breathless. “You’re a good man, Sir Brannon Kesh,” she said, breaking away. “I’ll never forget that.”

  He watched her leave, taking his best friend’s grandson and his apprentice to safety. He smiled. She was a remarkable woman, the Nilarian ambassador. And right now, those three were the closest he’d get to a family. They were his responsibility to keep safe, and he’d done it.

  “Not a bad last memory,” he murmured to himself.

  He approached Ula—or rather, the entity in Ula’s body. “You’re here to settle our debt. At least you’re prompt.”

  Ula’s head tilted to the side. “You have succeeded,” the multilayered voice said. “Was our assistance beneficial to the outcome?”

  Taran and Draeson drew close, staring. “What’s going on?” Draeson said.

  Brannon held out a hand. “It’s fine. Yes, your assistance was very beneficial.”

  Ula’s hand reached forward and wiped the line of clay from his forehead.

  He felt the enhanced strength leave his body. He was just Brannon again. King’s Champion, physician, war hero, Bloodhawk. It was enough. It was too much. He would never be able to wash himself clean of what he was, what he had been. Now, perhaps, he wouldn’t have to.

  “Take your sacrifice.”

  “Brannon?” Draeson’s voice had a sharp edge.

  He closed his eyes and waited.

  For a long time, nothing happened. The world remained dark behind his eyelids. Nothing made a noise. The air was warm and slightly damp from the exertions of the battle. None of this changed. Death did not come.

  “Hold out your weapon,” the spirits said.

  Brannon opened his eyes. “What?”

  He could have imagined it, but there seemed to be a tiny crinkle in the corner of Ula’s eyes. “Your sword, Sir Brannon. The weapon that struck the final blow. It is our chosen sacrifice.”

  “But, I thought . . . ” Brannon stumbled over the words.

  Ula’s mouth twitched at him. “We are not kaluki, Brannon Kesh, to be demanding death. Our requirements are . . . different.”

  “You want my sword?”

  “We do.”

  Brannon put his hand on the hilt and hesitated, somehow reluctant to give up the blade. He flicked his gaze to the floor, where blood was still wet, to Draeson and Taran’s concerned faces, to Ula’s impassive stone eyes.

  “It is more than a sword, is it not?”

  He sighed. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Ula leaned forward. “You have carried it too long. The sword and the guilt. Give them to us.”

 
; His heart felt suddenly too big and beating too fast. His hand was shaking as he drew the blade slowly out of his scabbard and held it out in front of him, a horizontal line. The face of the boy he had killed with it rose in his mind, the boy who had only tried to avenge his father. Who had been too young for battle.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  Ula held out her hands. “Let it go.”

  His fingers released the hilt and the sword dropped into her outstretched palms.

  At the touch of her skin, the strong Nilarian steel shattered to pieces.

  Brannon jerked back in shock. That sword had kept him safe for years. But it had kept him tied to the past.

  “You’re a good man, Sir Brannon Kesh,” the spirits said, echoing Ylani’s words from moments before. “Never forget that.”

  Then the stone color cleared from her eyes, and it was Ula again. She blinked and looked around. “Deal done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Blood and Tears, Brannon, what was that?” Draeson said.

  Brannon didn’t answer. He wiped his face with his palm. “We need to get on with clearing up here. I want as much evidence collected as possible before we move the bodies. We have a lot to explain when we get back to Alapra. Ula, would you mind grabbing some of the sheets from the morgue?”

  “Poor woman,” Draeson said, looking down at the mayor’s body. “She just wanted the best for him.”

  “Really?” Brannon said. “How do you get from wanting the best for your child to summoning monsters and murdering people?”

  The mage shrugged. “I didn’t say it was sane. But she did a lot for him and this is how he repaid her.”

  The mayor’s eyes stared blankly. Her freckled face was like an island in an ocean of her own blood.

  “I suppose it’s nice to see you have some feelings for the people you’ve been sleeping with,” Brannon said.

  The mage shot him a dirty look.

  “I wonder how she got past the ward on my door,” Taran mused.