My God...
Even Caeus was shocked to see those he remembered as himself now look so awful.
They were terrible in their sentinel armour. The shifting abomination of souls trapped within the strange metal. Sentinel armour, the making of which was long forgotten.
His brothers and sisters were now far larger than he remembered - bloated by power, perhaps, and by their unshakeable confidence and utter disregard for every aspect of life except theirs.
Life was theirs to take, to own, by blood right and their power and their whims.
Once, Caeus had known that kind of confidence.
No more, though.
Now...he felt...doubt? Yes. Doubt was setting in, somewhere between Caeus' throat and his gut...and it was...wondrous.
I can't defeat them all. I can't. But...I'm going to try. This has been a long time coming. Too long.
His hands, he noted, shook. A small film of sweat covered his entire body.
Is this how the human kind feel?
Drun the priest, with his faith in the sun and history, the Sard with their swift swords and their sharp minds, or Renir Esyn, born with no choice but to take a crown he didn't want?
Is this how they feel all the time?
They should have been crippled with it, this terrible and beautiful uncertainity...and yet they fought and railed against the darkness, no matter their doubt. No matter their fear.
Caeus smiled, enjoying his moment.
I am ready to die, I think.
'You think we did nothing?' said one Elethyn through a narrow slit in his sickly, shifting armour. Caeus could see the anguish of the souls trapped there. 'Two thousand years, bastard brother, and we have grown while you were stagnant. We are refreshed with the light of a thousand suns while you rot and wither. You were ever a fool for the allure of life.'
Caeus laughed because he knew it would hurt the Elethyns' pride, and he wanted them angry. Anger made even Gods stupid.
'You want my life, is that it?' Caeus turned, returned the stares of the thousand or more Elethyn all around him. 'You still fear me? Me, alone, who defeated you all, every one of you?'
'Old glories. Forgotten now. We live not for revenge. We will feed. You will be dead. Life, death, you were stuck on the one and forgot the other.'
So did you, thought Caeus, but guarded his thoughts more completely than he ever had.
'Then kill me, if you will,' said Caeus. 'If you...'
He did not finish his sentence, even, before their power burned the land and the sky for less, even, than a second...and then Caeus felt it. A dimming in them, a screaming storm of power within himself, bolstered not by the power of the suns but by his connection with the land, with his love of it. A thing of wonder that the Elethyn would never know.
On the other side of the world, for an instant, Rythe's twin moons blocked the light. And for the merest moment, Caeus drew on the power contained within every love and every life throughout the entire world of Rythe. He drew on memory and history, on the beasts and the higher creatures, the power of the Rahken and the Hath'ku'atch, the passions and joys on humans, the hapless meandering pleasures of the fish and the whales and the Kurmidon down in the deeps, the worms in the mud and the scorpions in the sands, the mirs in their trees and the skies, the helting mirs in their caves, happiest as ever in the dark. He drew on these things, felt them course through his veins in a burst of power so vast that one man alone could not contain it, nor bear to feel it. The heart of a billion creatures and the stench of the dirt and the chill embraces of the blackest, deepest seas, the roar and whisper of winds and dry leaves holding tight to the trunks of trees and he could not hold it, could not bear it without losing his very self to the feeling of belonging...
But he did not have to.
All he had to do was be a vessel, a simple channel, a focus.
That he was. Less than a second, a concentration of something so strong he buckled, then, let it fly...from him...to the Elethyn. The Sun Destroyers were momentarily robbed of their strength, insensible, lacking focus and power.
The sentinel armour sent the blast back at Caeus tenfold, and he had nothing to fear because it was happiness and love, not horror, not pain. He took it and it pulsed from him, to them, in waves, growing in power with each blast.
The pressure and power built in Caeus until he was giddy with it, roaring with laughter and howling with tears while the Elethyn screamed, at last, under the onslaught of pure joy.
When at last the suns' rays broke the edge of the moons, it was done.
Caeus staggered, then fell to his knees. With stubborn effort, he crawled to the nearest Elethyn and, still laughing as a nexus of such a thing of beauty might, the Red Wizard drew the creature's visor up to reveal the thing's face. The armour was robbed of its power, the tortured souls that gave it strength destroyed. And the creatures within?
Just sad, withered husks remained. Things that looked just like Caeus, once, but now...dry, parchment skin stretched over bone.
So tired, he thought. So tired.
A thousand, at least, since he'd last slept.
Now would be a good time to start.
He laid his head against the hard armour of the dead Elethyn. To him, if felt like a pillow. He closed his blood-red eyes, and slept.
*
Chapter Forty-Three
Tirielle rounded on the witch Queen. 'They could all die! All, right now...and you'd have me sit here in your lair doing nothing...for what? I can help...I'm no little girl. I don't need to be coddled. If they fight, I would stand by their side. This...this is not me.'
Selana simply smiled and shook her head.
'Tirielle...your heart is big and strong. You are brave. You brought Caeus from his slumber, woke the Seer. You've suffered loss and pain. But you think you can stand against what comes in your shift, with your rahken blades, and take on the Draymar empire? No, Tirielle...I did not take you for a fool, not for a moment. I took you for a witch, a woman with sense and guile.'
That disarmed her, a little.
'But this...I sit, do nothing. Men are dying...I...I hear their pain, up there...'
And she did. Like echoes, through the thick rock. Cries of such terror, shouts of rage and joy and victory and defeat. Blood and steel and fire and smoke...all above. Her friends, the Sard, her new friends...
'Renir's a good man. You sent him to face a nation with a flimsy crown of gold to protect him and a head full of childish dreams. So, he's a king. A king of what?'
'And would you have sent the man to battle with no hope? With fear in his heart? Would that have served him better?'
'I...'
'Hertha had more sense than you, Tirielle,' said the Queen, but she was not being hard or harsh, but spoke the words sadly. 'She knew herself...fishwife or not, she was born to witching. You come to it late.'
'Witch, witch...I'm no witch.'
'You hear thoughts in your head, woman. You smell blood through stone, feel the pain of this land even though it is not your own. And Tirielle A'm Dralorn, your blood smells of witch, whether you wish it or not.'
'I do not. I wish to fight with my friends. I wish to see the Protectorate slain and avenge my people and...'
'Fool girl. The Protectorate you hate so hard are nothing but pretty dead statues in a lake of glass. They are all dead. You hate the ghosts of an army of fools. Think before you speak. You think Caeus put magic in this land on a whim, for his own folly? You think I created witch kin and bound your kind with my blood because I like stubborn women? No. We fight a long war, Caeus and I, each in our own way, with our own tools.'
'I...' She began, but then she started to think.
What, Tirielle? What is it you want?
The truth was, with the Protectorate gone, the Elethyn remaining, the Draymen pouring into the city above, friends and allies lost to death or fate so wide she could not see the shape of things...
'I am lost,' she said, finally, and she knew it for the truth.
'A
nd I found you,' said Selana. 'I don't ask trust or love. But I can show you your path. Witch kin are rare, and your blood comes from me, whether you wish it or not. As Renir could not fight his, you cannot fight yours. It is a gift, one forgotten through the ages...but no less valuable than those pure blades up your sleeves...and one that, with acceptance, could be far more powerful. Our kind won a small war, once. You want to fight? Fight with the tools you have. You have no armour, no sword. You are not a warrior. Do not try to be. The world has enough of those. You are a witch. Embrace it, Tirielle A'm Dralorn, and learn what it means.'
Tirielle hung her head and thought, and as she did so, she happened to touch the sharp point of the tooth broken so long ago, while a captive of the Protectorate. The tooth remained, ever a reminder...but...they were gone, weren't they? They were no longer the enemy.
Yet the war still rages.
And witch? Maybe. But the Queen was right. She wasn't a warrior. The world was full of warriors.
But her passion remained, her love of the land of Lianthre and even, yes, this strange new world she found herself in. She'd lost friends, lost allies, lost battles.
But did that mean she shouldn't fight?
A fighter doesn't have to wear armour.
She looked up. 'You're right,' she said, finally.
'Your battle is far from done,' said Selana. 'You will return to your lands...but not alone. And when you do, you will know yourself as few do. With new allies...this war will not be won by men in armour or blasting fire from their eyes. It will be won, though. It will. And you will see it, Tirielle A'm Dralorn. You will see the end.'
*
Part IV.
King's Bane
Chapter Forty-Four
Klan Mard hadn't slept a single minute since losing most of his skin to the fiery lava within the great volcano at the heart of Teriythyr. On a clear day, here in the north of Sturma, he imagined a man might be able to see Thaxamalan's Saw and the whiteness of the range's many peaks. He had little desire to see snow again, and even these lands would be covered, frozen, within the next month, most likely.
He hated Sturma because the climate suited him. His skin hurt him constantly, and while he enjoyed, even relished the agony of his thousand lesions and oozing sores, the soft, cool rain of late autumn on these shores was a kind of relief. And that was why he hated Sturma. The weather lessened his pain and took an edge from his fury. Fury was the only thing keeping him alive, and the thing that drove the power within.
How could he fight on with comfort in his black soul? He, the last of his kind and something other at the same time...the Myrmidion, the crossroads of knowledge, the keeper of the Bone Archive. The last living being with the knowledge of the past to guide his future.
The gentle rain dripped on his face, onto his teeth because he had no lips left. His words were clear enough, though, even so.
'Your men fight like angry pigs, Ranth of the Hound Clan. Tomorrow, you will breach the walls.'
Ranth bristled at the mild insult, just like a pig. Klan didn't care. Show no weakness. Mard bowed to no man, and now men bowed to him.
It was more than a thousand years since the clans of the Draymen had united with a common cause. It had taken a stranger with no skin to achieve the feat. Klan was that stranger, now, and forever would be, no matter what land he travelled to.
'Dor Blackteeth. You blades look to be very clean. Did you even fight yesterday, or spend the day pissing your pretty swords all shiny?'
'Leather-man,' grunted the foul-faced man. He spat into the trampled grass at his feet and drew one of those shining swords. 'I killed thirty or more with this blade alone. You insult me, you insult my clan. You die, Leather-man.'
Klan ignored him. 'Your son, beside you. He's but a baby. Screams like a baby, too. And still worth ten of you.'
Dor's son, a long-armed butcher with a stolen heavy mace, took a step toward Klan.
'Like a baby,' said Klan and the young man's skin erupted with flame. Dor's son screamed, then, loudly, beautifully, while the clan leaders stared in horror. Magic was all but unknown on the endless plains. Pain and torture were not. But few men could elicit such screams as Klan. Few had such a wondrous skill.
The man tumbled to the floor, smoking and still and silent but for the sizzling of his fat as it cooled in the rain.
Dor Blackteeth eyed his blade. Klan could see him itching to kill Leather-man, kill him with steel or hand or his rotten ugly teeth. But Klan merely grinned back. A grin was all he could manage.
'Lessons are hard, Draymen. Learn them well. You want me your enemy? Consider this...my enemies are Gods. You think I care for your steel or your hate? I survived fire and the death of my entire people and I'm still here, right here, and you bastards...go to war. I have no more patience.'
'Big castle. Strong walls,' said an older Drayman. Klan didn't begrudge him his words. The man was beyond long-of-tooth - he only had one tooth left in his head, right there in the front of this mouth. He'd be dying soon, in battle or just of tiredness.
'Then bash the door in with Ranth's thick head. I care not. Get it done, Draymen. Legends, all of you...out there in the dirt and boring dry waste. You want this land, with the grass and wet dirt, the seas and rivers and lakes? You want their soft, white women for your own, you want their good steel and their stone...well, grunting like a woman shitting out a child won't do it. Kill them all, take this land. It's yours. Kill the man with the golden helm and they'll fall, soon enough. But get it done while it's warm enough to feel your fingers. Draymen cry like...him,' said Mard, pointing to the charred corpse on the grass, 'when they get a nip of frost on their balls. Now go, I'm bored.'
Grunting, complaining, all the while speaking in their witless language, the Draymen did as he bid.
You could rule easy enough with a man's heart in your hands, but that took time. Men like the Draymen, and their fierce women, too...they understood the coarse language of pain and fear. They bowed to power. Might be they weren't happy about it, but he didn't want dancing, capering fools. He wanted angry and crazy murderous bastards.
And he had them. Legions of them, and him at their back whipping them with words and fear toward the thing they hated more. The Sturmen.
The castle will fall today, he thought, and knew he was right.
*
Chapter Forty-Five
Do the Gods dream?
Caeus had no idea. Was he a god? What was a god, if there was such a thing, but a creature beyond the understanding of those who worshipped it? If that was all there was to being a deity, then maybe he was a god.
But dreaming? What could a god dream of? The universe, the suns spread like holes in the dark right across the endless void of space? Strange blooms in the dark as suns were birthed, or turned to gaping maws when they exploded in death? Worlds and the creatures therein, or those monsters that roamed the darkest reaches of the void, devouring themselves or moons or living on the detritus of creation itself?
No. Nothing so lofty. Caeus dreamed of his sister and a brief remembrance of mortality. Mundane, perhaps, but he saw her, her features, and felt the moment her body turned cold and she left his world of life and learning to live in the darkness.
He dreamed of Selana, as she was, even though she was now long gone and dead to him. As he dreamed of her, her voice came to him, and he remembered.
'There is not one world, brother, but two. And you forget...you always do. You forget the dead and the past and the darkness because you love the light so. You are a creature of life and it will be your destruction, brother.'
She looked, to him, beautiful still, and Caeus' heart seemed to ache...but a god would not know heartache or loss...would he?
'But I love you for it. I love you for your hope and your trust. I always will. Now go. Do not see me anymore. I will be dead, a thing of the world you do not see. Remember me, brother, perhaps when the suns go down and darkness rules once more. Remember me when you sleep, for I will not sleep ag
ain. The dead do not rest...as you are the Guardian of the world of light, the darkness needs a shepherdess, too. Easier, I think, to get lost in the dark.'
Her voice held power and sway, even twice removed through death and dreaming.
With a soft groan and her wisdom echoing down the ages, Caeus opened his eyes to find that he had slept after all.
Dreaming and sleeping weren't so difficult, after all.
He lifted his head from his pillow - the Elethyn's armour was now the creatures tomb, until it turned to dust out here on the still-roiling land of the Seafarers. He'd tricked his kind once, millennia ago. Last night, to destroy so many with the same trick had been...
Luck, he thought, and the thought actually made the mad wizard smile with honest mirth.
But he knew wouldn't trick them again. And they hadn't lied. His people had grown strong in the two thousand years since he had banished them. The time to fight alone was past. Pride could destroy not just him, now, but the entire world.
No gaudy trail of fire to mark his passage so that the Elethyn might find him this time. He was just...gone.
*
Gurt's armour, his weapons, too, were a ruin. He'd discarded them when their saviour Essgren brought he and the warrior Perr to their haven, this home under the earth. It had the feel of a giant burrow, tunnels heading this way and that. The few times Gurt wandered alone in the rahken's great home, he had soon been lost.
Embarrassing, really, for a man of Gurt's years to be lost quite so often.
In their shared room (just a large hole in the rock, really) Perr performed exercises. Fist and foot, stretching, kick, punch...
Very repetitive, thought Gurt, just tired from watching. Practise was a young man's game. Old men needed to save their energy.
The rahken, it seemed, had no need for privacy, and Essgren came, unapologetically, straight into their quarters.
Gurt did not mind at all. The reason he and Perr could move around at all was because of the rahken healer that came to stand before him.
Rythe Falls Page 18
