Brow furrowed, he walked farther along the wall, pressing his ear against it. He punched a few more sections, his fist blasting through the stone. Each time more water gushed out. Cracks started to appear along the wall. What would happen if it caved in? Fryda shuddered at the thought. They would be buried like Jaruman.
Peoh put his fist through the wall again. This time it came out dry. His knuckles were bloodied, and it looked like bone had broken through the skin. He turned back to her. "Care to help move some bricks?"
A tearing sound split the air. Above her, two cracks raced along the wall, meeting each other. She dropped her spear and scrambled to remove the rubble from the hole. When it was large enough to fit through, she grabbed her short spear. Hunching her shoulders, she squeezed through the hole. Peoh followed, and not a moment too soon. He grabbed her and they dived. A thunderous crash boomed.
For a moment, Fryda could hear nothing except white noise. When her hearing returned, there was the soft trickle of water.
Peoh's tattoos afforded her some light. The wall had collapsed outward, into the pool. With the wall now removed, the strange pipe system that circulated the water could be seen. It was now destroyed, Peoh's punches having burst a number of the metal cylinders.
"This water system must run through the walls. I heard the same trickling while I was in the cell. It drove me near mad. Wherever these pipes lead, we'll eventually come back to where we left Jaruman."
And the skinwalkers, Fryda thought. It had been easy to say that they needed to return to find the dragon vial, but now that they were doing it, all she could think about was the skinwalkers that had been freed from their prisons.
"The integrity of this tunnel is damaged," he said, eying the ceiling nervously. "One moment and we'll get moving." A puddle of green water sat near the rubble. He knelt before it and washed his hands. The water seemed to glow, even as it touched his broken knuckles. When he'd finished cleaning them, his hands were completely healed.
Fryda rushed over to the pool and submerged her burned hand. In seconds, where Peoh's tattoos had left blisters, there was fresh skin. Her mouth dropped as she turned the hand over, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. "How?"
"Magical properties," Peoh said, admiring his own hands. "I didn't know for certain they would heal me. But I suspected this water, like the spire that contains it, came from the Infernal City."
Fryda followed Peoh into more narrow tunnels. They used the strange pipes as guides.
"You said you could save Aernheim," she said. "You really shouldn't be risking your life to help me." She now realized that her desires were selfish. Saving Jaruman. Getting the dragon blood. Going after Alfric. None of that mattered compared to the thousands of people who would be saved if Peoh survived.
"Remember when I said I knew your mother?" Peoh said.
"I thought you were deceiving me." Fryda remembered what Jaruman had said about Peoh being a great liar.
"I knew her," he said. "She was a beautiful woman. In more than just her appearance. She was kind and caring. I removed the bonds shackling her wrists. She had been enslaved by the orcs who live beneath the Scorched Lands. All the Fatherless had come from that city. Their trip beneath the earth and out through Babon's Pass must have driven the adults mad. Thankfully, you children survived. And what a blessing that is." He smiled at her. "Your mother taught me that vengeance means nothing. It's forgiveness that cleanses. I was so consumed with getting across the Scorched Lands and fulfilling my oath to destroy a southern orb, but she convinced me otherwise. It's for that reason that I'll help you. Don't worry, a skinwalker will not kill me. And I'll make sure you come to no harm either."
He spoke with such sincerity that Fryda couldn't help but believe him. Jaruman had warned her against trusting Peoh, but he hadn't known this man. He had known the old Peoh who wanted only to destroy a southern orb.
Footsteps sounded from around the corner. Fryda gripped her short spear above her head, poised for stabbing. Beside her, Peoh readied himself in a fighting stance, his tattoos glowing brighter.
As a figure rounded the corner and came into view, Fryda almost jabbed but stopped. Hiroc leaped back. He raised a gloved hand into the air and held a knife in the other. The sleeves of his robes were torn, exposing his forearms. Blood dripped from a recent cut on his left hand.
"Hiroc," Peoh said, letting down his fists.
"You know each other?" she said, looking from one man to the other.
"What are you doing down here?" Hiroc said to her at the same time.
49
Hiroc
"Let's leave the spire now," Hiroc said. "The Council is ready to meet with you."
Peoh eyed Hiroc strangely, as though he knew that Hiroc was lying to him. He seemed strangely distant, different from the talkative man he had met in the spire's dungeons.
Furrowing her brow, Fryda looked at his glove but didn't say anything. "We can't leave yet. Jaruman is still within the cells." She had just finished explaining to Hiroc what had happened to her and Peoh in the spire. She looked so different, her hair flowing down to her shoulders, and the short spear in her hand. She was lucky he hadn't burned her with Enlil's fire.
Hiroc considered waiting in the current room while they went to find Jaruman. Sighing, he decided he couldn't let them go alone. "I'll come with you."
"You've changed," Fryda said before leaving down the right corridor. Peoh followed after her.
Hiroc heard something strange in the passageway to the left. Rather than follow the others, he decided to seek it out. He would be able to catch up with them. The passageway ended in an open room. It was filled with bloodletting mechanisms. Many differently shaped blades hung from metal arms. A half-dozen coats were hanging from hooks against the far wall. A figure stepped out from beneath them.
Hiroc gasped as he recognized the person holding a runic dagger. He wasn't surprised to find Ealstan in the spire. He had expected him to be here. After all, the last he'd heard was that Ealstan was looking for the missing page in the spire. He must have gotten in before Idmaer was arrested and the spire closed itself off.
"Hiroc," Ealstan said.
Hiroc wasted no time in removing his own dagger. Blood still dripped from the wound he had made earlier, but he wanted to be sure he would have enough. Grimacing, he slid the blade across his forearm.
"I'm surprised you're still alive and not one of those skinwalkers. I suspect Kipp showed himself a craven."
"Aye," Hiroc said, "Kipp saved us, but he was no craven. Because of you, Oswin died."
Ealstan chuckled. "A good end for a Fatherless. Tell me, did you strike him down with Enlil's fire?"
Screaming with rage, Hiroc called out for Enlil. His hand ignited. At the same time, Ealstan invoked Aern. The two fists met each other, one bursting with blue fire, the other shimmering with an invisible shield. Sparks exploded from the meeting of powers. A second time, Hiroc called upon Enlil. His fist met Ealstan's own again. The sound of contact ruptured the ground beneath them, sending shockwaves rippling along the stone.
Ealstan swept his knife downward. Hiroc blocked it with his own. "Enlil, hear me!" He brought his flaming fist onto Ealstan's face. Skin seared beneath the blow's heat.
Hiroc doubled over as an invisible force plowed into his stomach. Winded, he called out to Enlil, but nothing happened. Ealstan's magic pounded into Hiroc. He spun through the air and crashed into one of the bloodletting mechanisms. He groaned as he stood. Pain flared in his right side. He lifted his arms. A serrated blade had embedded itself between the ribs. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself from it.
"Enlil!" Hiroc cried. Still, nothing came.
Ealstan barked a laugh. He strolled among the mechanisms. Hiroc took the knife in hand. If he wasn't going to have magic to fight with, he would at least have a knife.
Another force threw Hiroc backward. He smashed against the mechanisms. Again and again, he was thrown around the room. Each time, a new blade cut into
him.
Hiroc lay on the ground. He tried to stand but couldn't.
He whispered Enlil's name. He wished only to have Enlil respond. He had spoken to him before, on Tyme's Hill, thinking it had been Aern. Why now was Enlil silent? He had never needed a runic device to speak with Enlil then.
"It seems that Enlil is no god at all," Ealstan said. "Aern is far superior."
While staring at the rooftop, hearing Ealstan drone on, Hiroc remembered what Peoh had said about spiritsoul and how some Talented could use magic without runic devices. He thought that if Enlil gave him power this one time, he would give every drop of spiritsoul he possessed. Hiroc yelled at the top of his lungs, unable to form any other words except, "Enlil."
Hiroc burst into a conflagration of blue flames. It seared away his pain and filled him with strength.
He stood, power flowing through him. Ealstan thrust his hand forward. A dull thud hit Hiroc's chest. It was nothing more than a feeble prod. Ealstan continued throwing invisible punches. He cried out, and the bloodletting mechanisms lifted from the ground and flew at Hiroc. He tossed jets of blue flame, and the devices melted in the heat, even before they fell to the ground.
Hiroc concentrated on Ealstan's hand that grasped the dagger. Flames fired forward. Ealstan yelped as his hand burst into flame. The dagger clattered to the ground.
Hatred clouded Hiroc's vision, and Ealstan cowered against the wall. He slid to the ground, eyes wide. "How . . . you're the burning man."
Hiroc snarled and held out his hand. He could see Ealstan's face reddening beneath the heat. Sweat balled on his forehead and atop his mustached lip.
Through the anger, Hiroc remembered Fryda's words about Jaruman. Buried beneath rubble. Hiroc closed his eyes and exhaled. The flames vanished. He stood naked, healed of all his wounds, his clothes burned away.
Ealstan still cowering, Hiroc picked up the man's dagger. He grabbed Ealstan by the collar and lifted him to his feet. He pressed the dagger against the other man's throat. "You're going to start making amends."
50
Idmaer
The sound of the passageway door opening drew Idmaer to his feet. He hadn't slept long, a few hours at most, although it was impossible to tell with no light inside his cell. The only thing that made him aware of the time was Saega's constant visitations through the night. He'd come at least a dozen times. Maybe he stayed a minute, maybe an hour. All Idmaer knew was that those dozen visits had been filled with pain, unlike anything he'd felt before.
Beyond the agony, Idmaer licked his lips, the very action making his head whirl as wetness filled the cracks.
The cell door creaked open, and Saega entered. He inserted a flaming torch into the sconce beside the cell door and rested his fox-head staff on the wall next to it. He wore those deep black robes he'd been wearing all night.
"Good morning, Idmaer. I trust you slept well?" Saega seemed to exert intense effort merely to remain standing. "I'm looking forward to obtaining the spire today." He turned and smiled, the torchlight revealing the leprous sores overwhelming his face. Along his cheeks were lacerations that looked to be a result of scratching an itch without satisfaction.
Idmaer quaked at seeing the fox-head staff. Somehow, that weapon had crushed his bones without crushing them, made him bleed without ever bleeding out, snapped his spine without crippling him. It was no ordinary staff, that was for certain.
Saega looked from the staff to Idmaer. "You have become well-acquainted with Agnerod's Touch." He picked up the staff and ran his hands along the fox-head. "It is the king of staves, a relic from the First Empire. It can make a man feel pain without inflicting grave wounds. A pity, really, since most of the enjoyment in torture is in seeing a weapon's handiwork."
"Did you do it? Did you kill Aern?" Idmaer had asked those questions a dozen times. Each time Saega had treated the question with a blow from Agnerod's Touch. Wincing, Idmaer waited again for the coming pain. But there was none.
"Aye," Saega said. "I shattered the orb. This illness is my reward for touching it. I freed Aern from his imprisonment." He thrust a finger at Idmaer. "But I did it for more than that. It was your decision to allow the Fatherless into our walls that poisoned my adopted home. Had you not done that, Bodil might never have spent her evenings outside of my home. She might never have been taken by that barbarian, Wulfnoth. I might never have slain her by mine own hand."
Idmaer gasped. "You killed Bodil?"
Saega scowled. "A year after she left me to marry Wulfnoth, I went to their home after drinking too much firewine. I wanted to watch her from the window. Just to see her face again. But I found something else. She had mounted Wulfnoth, riding him like a wild animal. There was more passion in her lovemaking with him than I'd ever shared with her. I was filled with wrath, and it didn't subside. I waited there within the shrubbery until morning. Wulfnoth took Garmund tracking, leaving Bodil alone. I went inside the house and crushed her neck between my hands. I made it look like a feeble attempt at taking her own life. But anyone who knew her truly would have known she would never commit suicide. Wulfnoth had his suspicions, I suspect, but I convinced him to despise you. What he might have felt toward me was channeled toward you."
"Bodil didn't deserve that," Idmaer said, shaking his head.
"She didn't. But I blame you and your Fatherless. It was only care for Edoma that stopped me from moving against you. But when an ally presented himself and Ealstan found the grimoire within your spire, I knew I had to act. For justice. For vengeance."
"You've harbored hatred against me this whole time?"
Saega grunted. He no longer seemed willing to talk. "Relinquish ownership of the spire. This mage you are hiding cannot stay there forever."
"I don't know anything of this man," Idmaer said. Edoma had mentioned him, too.
Saega frowned. "Is that so?"
A cold sensation drifted across Idmaer's ribs. It was the touch of the fox-head staff. Then came pain. A shooting tendril made him cry out in agony. An ephemeral blade twisted. Flesh churned and skin shredded. He knew it wasn't real, but it felt like fire and ice intertwined into a single sensation of terrifying agony.
"Maybe I will chain you outside where you are unprotected. By morning, you will be a skinwalker. Then I will bring you back here with Edoma. I'll chain her to the other side of the cell. How long before the wraith within you grows so hungry that it tears itself from the chains, heedless of the damage it does to your hands, and rips Edoma apart?"
"You can't do this," Idmaer said, his voice muffled from the swelling.
Saega's expression was cool. It was the look of a maniac who committed atrocities without batting an eye. He approached slowly, every footfall echoing in the stone-walled chamber. "I shattered the orb. I am more than capable of bringing her here."
Saega dropped the staff. He swept the black cloak over his shoulders. Strange mutterings came from his lips, and his body shuddered. It continued vibrating while his body expanded, his muscles inflating. The transformation was over as quickly as it had begun. The robes that had hung loosely over his small frame constricted around a body of a monster. A giant.
The force of an anvil crushed Idmaer's face. A garbled cry fell from his mouth. Even had he wanted to recite the incantation to transfer ownership, it would have been difficult through the broken teeth and cut gums. With a grand tug, Saega tore Idmaer's beard. His other hand struck again and again. Pain surged beyond sense. All Idmaer could see was white.
"You will relinquish ownership of the spire to me," Saega said, his voice deep and menacing between wheezing breaths. "If you do not, I will make you a skinwalker and bring Edoma to this chamber."
"You wouldn't . . ." Idmaer said, coughing up blood.
"Test me."
Idmaer saw in Saega's eyes a resolve that would not waver. Unless Saega received ownership of the spire, Idmaer would become a skinwalker. Edoma would be torn apart by his own hands. That was something he couldn't endure.
"Say it,
" Saega said. "My father was Alesand," he added, and held out the First Priest's medallion.
Drool fell from Idmaer's chin. With the shackles restricting him, he couldn't have wiped it even if he had the energy to. "I relinquish . . . ownership of the First Priest's Spire to . . . Saega, son of Alesand." Touching the medallion, Idmaer channeled what remained of his will into the words. He had been taught the transferal from his father, and he had intended to use them for his own sons. In many ways, preparing Hiroc as an acolyte had also been his way of preparing a son for the spire one day. But that would never be. As the last of Idmaer's will left him, Saega gained control of the spire.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Saega's body trembled again until it was the frail old man he had always appeared as. "I apologize if I got a little carried away. Obtaining the spire is far more important than you can imagine."
"What is it you're planning?"
Saega smiled. "You're not going to live to find out. But I can assure you that the world will suffer much before we're finished. The gods have been imprisoned for too long. The petty oath I made all those years ago means nothing now. We have a greater calling."
We? Who was the other person? And what was this oath he spoke of? The questions lingered in the back of Idmaer's mind, even as he wanted to collapse onto the floor and die. He fought to stand, arms hanging like anchors, dragging him down despite his best efforts. He dropped to his knees.
Saega crossed the room and hesitated at the door. "Ah, the spire is a wonderful gift. I feel it now, although afar off, telling me secrets." He went to the wall where Idmaer had hidden the grimoire's page. Smiling, he shifted the loose brick out and took the page in hand. "Thank you for keeping this safe for me."
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 25
