by Tammy Salyer
In vain, he pushed himself around, searching the throne chamber. For what, he couldn’t guess. He couldn’t hold a weapon, couldn’t search for answers in a Scrylle, couldn’t even spit in someone’s eye if he wished to. He was—
Wait.
There—his Mentalios. He remembered his hand catching on it and pulling it free from his neck as he’d choked on the poisoned syke liquor. With the distraction at the doorway by hostile and probably Balavad-controlled Dyrraks, Stave must not have seen it when lifting Ulfric.
A noise from the dais drew his attention. Urgo and Yggo perched there still, and, to his astonishment, were eyeing him closely. Him. They, descendants and evolutionary children of the dragørs of the Howling Weald, were ordained by Vaka Aster as well. As bruhawks, though, what unique gifts they were endowed with was unknowable. But they could see him, he was sure.
He had an idea.
In his agonizingly impeded way, he pushed himself to the wystic lens. On reaching it, he forced himself down to the floor, drifting as slowly as if he were snowflake. The two predators had plenty of time to observe him, their large yellow eyes blinking slowly on occasion as if amused at his pitiful ethereal wobbling. When he was close enough to the lens that it was his sole visual focus, he muttered the words he’d taught Safran four hundred turns ago that would link one’s sight to the bruhawks, focusing sharply on only one bird, Urgo. With thy eyes, these eyes too see. He had no reason to believe it would work, but he had hope, and by the Verities, he had the will to make it work.
But it didn’t. At least, not in the way he expected.
The first sensation he experienced since becoming disembodied was what he thought it would feel like to be shot from a bow. He whooshed—he could think of no other way to describe it. And then, he was not only seeing through Urgo’s eyes, it seemed he was Urgo. He felt his body as a bird’s body, with strange appendages sprouting from his back, flesh covered by a soft down and topped by heavier feathers, eyes that pierced the world rather than merely saw it, and, strangest of all, his mind was split, partly his own, partly a predatory, honed cognizance that buzzed with a singular focus.
Urgo did not appear to approve of his impromptu possession. The bird launched into the air so suddenly and violently that it looked to Ulfric as if he, or rather they, were going to smash into the ceiling.
NO! he cried, and Urgo echoed him with a shrill screech of his own. Fortunately, the bruhawk thought better of self-destruction and banked hard, soaring through the tall open window.
Panicked, Ulfric closed his eyes, and the world went dark as Urgo did as well. Verities have mercy! Open your eyes, Urgo! Watch where you’re taking us.
The world came back into sight, though it was speeding below them so far and so fast that Ulfric almost wished it hadn’t. Getting ahold of himself, he realized what had happened. Urgo had heard him and responded. He thought as calmly as he could, Well done, well done. Vaka Aster willing, we’ll get through this together…as partners. Listen, Urgo, please. You know my voice. It’s Ulfric. We’ve been friends for many turns.
The panic he and the bruhawk shared ebbed somewhat. Better, better. I’m not going to hurt you, boy. I don’t know how, but…let’s just say we’re in this together for now. Can you help me?
The bird’s thoughts were not accessible to him, but his senses seemed to be, and Urgo gradually grew somewhat calmer, more in control. Good, okay, that’s good. I think we’re getting somewhere. Thank you, Urgo. Can you take me back to the citadel and retrieve Yggo? We have some hunting to do.
As the bruhawk banked back toward the massive structure, Ulfric wondered: Would he be able to leave Urgo again, or was being joined with the creature his destiny now? He recognized the cruel twist of irony—sharing a body and mind had already become a familiar happenstance. Now, though it seemed he’d lost Vaka Aster, he’d gained a new form. The question was, what could he do with it?
Chapter Forty
On the way up from the bowels of the citadel, through sheer luck Jaemus came across his Mentalios. He swept it up and found it remarkably undamaged. Not even a scratch notched the crystal face. The moment he dropped it over his head, a thrill shot through him. He could warn the Knights now!
Before the thrill wore off, though, Stave’s agitated voice came to him: On your left, your left!
He jerked his eyes left, but saw only wall. Stave must have been talking, yelling rather, to one of the other Knights. By the sound, the battle he’d feared since hearing Balavad in the stairway had already begun. Doubling his pace, he used his lens to try to reach his new companions.
Knights? Stave? he sent.
Slag it, novice, where the—bleeding Verities, you bastirt! Stave’s voice faded for a moment, then came back. Bardgrim, get to the ’Gazians. Ulfric’s in trouble. We’re holding them back but—
His voice kept breaking off as if he were speaking through a damaged wave-speaker, but his urgency came through with perfect clarity.
Jaemus had to get to Cote.
If feet were capable of flying, he swore his were doing it. By the time he reached the door to the main floor, his ragged breaths stung like needles in his raw throat and a stitch in his side might as well have been the same sword that had skewered him days before. He was about to burst through the doorway but halted just outside the fall of light from the passage beyond. If he ran willy-nilly out there, he might run directly into one of Balavad’s Raveners, what Jaemus had heard the Verity call a “consecrated.” Or worse—he could run into Balavad himself (or was it herself now?). He’d left Winter’s Bite behind with Cote and was thus now armed with a single thing: his sole klinkí stone.
In a moment of rueful self-reflection, he thought, Gramsirene Vreyja always told me I should become a librarian. No danger, endless interesting things to learn. Why didn’t I listen?
Cautiously, he peeked beyond the doorway, trying to mute his hard breathing. The hallway outside was empty. The most direct way to the Himmingazians’ chamber was twisty, but it wasn’t too far.
Mustering what speed he had left, he wove through two more hallways, encountering as much stillness as when he’d come through last time. The citadel along with the city were preparing for the event Eisa had mentioned. Or were they already under Balavad’s thumb? He had one final chamber to pass through, and on the other side an antechamber led to his friends and his lifemate.
Outside the final chamber, his progress ended. The unnatural stillness of the citadel was broken by the sound of fighting, a lot of it, pouring through the archway leading to the room as wild hisses, grunts, clanging weapons. Peering carefully past the arched opening into the spacious room, he caught a brief glimpse of the Safran, Stave, and Roibeard surrounded by what resembled a Glister Cloud storm. Streaking blue lights, the Knights’ klinkí stones, shot everywhere, many times passing through bodies of misshapen Dyrrak warriors, who just kept charging as if they felt nothing. For a moment he grew dizzy, thinking he’d somehow been transported back to the warship, back into the battle that had ended with him being impaled by a sword and then shot through time and space into another realm.
But this was no warship, and this time, the Knights were alone in their fight. No captive Vinnrics were here to face this new Ravener horde. In fact, the only ally they had was Jaemus and his single wystic stone.
And if he went in there, who would be left to protect Cote and the others?
There was another way to the Himmingazians’ chamber, a longer route that took him around several other rooms and down lengthy halls. He knew the way from memorizing Eisa’s map.
His choices, such as they were, were two: join the Knights’ fracas or try reaching Cote and the Himmingazians.
Stave, he sent, I’m sorry but I have to see to my friends. He was beyond caring if the Knight thought him a coward. Yet the response he got surprised him.
That’s what I said, get to the ’Gazians. Ulfric’s with them. He has the Scrylle. You have to starpath them out of here.
As
if chased by a fleech, Jaemus rushed toward the Himmingazian chamber’s secondary entrance. Through smaller passages he assumed were used by servants and down a couple of additional detours, he wound away from the fight and arrived at the final short hallway leading to his destination.
Where he found his path blocked.
A man nearly Jaemus’s height and easily three times his girth stood at the door, his back to Jaemus. He carried a heavy club with a metal cap on the end and was beating it against the narrow door, trying to break it down. His skin was marked with a galaxy of the Dyrrak brands, showing he was both accomplished and well trained in their Phases—so, of course, he could break Jaemus like a twig. And Jaemus assumed that was his imminent fate, as the man’s skin had also taken on the ashen pallor of a Ravener.
Jaemus froze to the spot. He couldn’t run. Where on Vinnr would he go? And he couldn’t attack the man without a weapon. Of course, he had his klinkí stone, but it was too new to him, too small to do much with, too—ah, to the Verities with it. He had to do something! He couldn’t simply let the Dyrrak Ravener slaughter the Himmingazians.
“Excuse me!” he yelled, his voice a reedy whistle. He tried again. “Heyo! Brute-force man! Back here!”
The Dyrrak Ravener turned, saw him, and held his club out as if to tap Jaemus on the shoulder.
Down the hallway, Jaemus stood with his arm extended, his lone wystic stone sitting in his palm. It occurred to him that to an observer it might look like he and the Dyrraks were offering to trade weapons.
Come on, Jae, think, concentrate, make this stone do what Ulfric threatened he’d do to you all those times.
Unfortunately, his powers of concentration were being sorely tested by the muscular and definitely violence-seeking Dyrrak who was now taking slow, deliberate steps toward him.
“Ssss…” the creature hissed, sizing him up.
“Erm, now that I have your attention—” With a heroic effort, Jaemus simultaneously focused as hard as he could on making the stone fly and flung it toward the cursed Dyrrak’s chest with all his force.
Where it struck! Then clattered to the ground and lay still, not the least bit of light in its wystic heart.
Too distracted and frightened to call upon his will and channel his Verity spark, Jaemus might as well have tossed the wystic stone into the ocean for all the good it would do him now.
The Dyrrak didn’t even acknowledge the stone’s impact and lunged toward Jaemus.
Jaemus took a lumbering backward step, managed to turn, then felt the club hammer him between the shoulders, sending him reeling forward uncontrollably. His legs tangled and he splatted to the ground, breathless and nearly paralyzed with pain. Still, Stave’s ruthless training must have kicked in, and he shoved himself onto his back and threw his hands up to block the finishing blow he knew would be coming.
The Dyrrak loomed over him, seeming to want to take his time to enjoy finishing Jaemus off. Though empty, his gray eyes still seemed to be assessing him, maybe as curious as all the Vinnrics about Jaemus’s green-tinted skin.
Never going to live this difference down, I guess. Especially since I’ve only got a moment of living left.
The Dyrrak began to swing the club up over his head for a final blow. As it reached the apex of its arc, Jaemus got his knees up and feet on the floor and scooted himself backward, using his elbows to help propel him—
But his head was blocked. Not by a wall but by…boots?
He looked up. Directly into the crotch of another Dyrrak.
“Get up, Knight,” the woman standing above him said.
“But there’s a—” he began, wondering how it was she didn’t notice the marauding Dyrrak Ravener about to turn him into mush.
The next instant, an angry hiss came from the enemy, and the woman stepped over Jaemus and began rushing down the hallway to meet it. Several more Dyrrak fighters followed, all vaulting Jaemus or passing beside him as if he were no more than an awkwardly placed vase.
He reached out to the wall and pulled himself to his feet as down the hall the Dyrrak warriors who, thank the Verities, hadn’t become monsters set upon the one who had in a brutal melee. The sounds of clubs hitting flesh and the Ravener hissing made Jaemus’s stomach turn. After a decidedly wet and heavy thud, it was over and the Ravener lay in a bleeding, broken, unmoving heap.
Jaemus got his breath back and felt only a twinge of the original pain between his shoulder blades. Despite this, he could think of no words to say when the woman whose boots he’d met pushed through the crowd of fighters and stepped up to him. It was Chancellor Aoggvír.
“Do you know what’s happening, Knight?” she asked.
“You mean beyond…” His eyes fell on the bleeding mass. “That?”
“Hysteria is running through the citadel. Half, maybe more, of the citadel venerates have been turned into those things, and the Ecclesium is missing.”
Jaemus realized he was about to have to be the bearer of what would likely be the worst news anyone in this empire had ever heard. But she needed to be warned. Clearing his throat, he said, “Balavad, the Verity of Battgjald, has somehow returned and he’s changing your people into…those. Raveners is the name I’ve heard the most. If you can, you have to warn the people of Dyrrakium. And—sorry about this, but I think the Ecclesium is helping him, er, her. Balavad, I mean.”
Her hard eyes never left his face as he spoke, but she listened without interruption. When he stopped, she looked to the fighter beside her.
The woman said, “The Ravener in the vaults… it would explain what happened to Venerate Edizriis, Chancellor.”
The chancellor nodded, then returned her gaze to Jaemus. “Why is Vaka Aster doing nothing to help us?”
“I, uh, I don’t know?” This was partially true. Stave had said Ulfric was in trouble, but he had no idea what kind. He was sorry for the state of confusion he’d caused the woman, but he needed to get to Cote. “Chancellor, the other Knights are in a huge fight on the other side of the Himmingazians’ chamber. I have to stay here to keep them safe, and I owe you—”
Where are you, novice?
Stave’s voice in his Mentalios link distracted him, and it took him a moment to finish his statement. “I owe you my life, but now I’ve got to get in there.” He pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “Take your troops and join the Knights. Roibeard—you know, the tall pale one—he’ll be able to give you better instructions than I can.”
Without hesitation, she moved her hands and weapon in an elaborate gesture he at first thought was an attack, then realized was a salute of sorts, and said, “See to your people. Faith eternal, Knight.” Then she waved at her group and the sped away back down the hall, leaving him alone with the red pulped Dyrrak Ravener.
Sidestepping around the dead man and doing everything he could to look nowhere but straight ahead, he reached the door. Before entering, he leaned over to scoop up his klinkí stone. For whatever good it will do me. Just then the door was pulled open from the inside.
With a greeting on his lips, he stood up—and was immediately struck in the face by a ceramic pitcher.
“Stop!” he yelled, jumping back. “It’s me, it’s me!”
Heleina, a Glisternaut navigator, dropped the container—or what was left of it—immediately. “Oh, Glint Engineer! I’m so sorry.”
He rubbed his temple and his hand came away slightly bloody. One thing about being smacked in the head, he no longer felt the stitch in his side or his bruised back. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” he said. And he would, wouldn’t he? As soon as his sprite spark kicked in. It wasn’t as comforting a thought as he would have expected.
He stepped in and barred the door quickly behind him. “It’s not safe out there. Where’s Cote?”
Heleina waved toward the front of the room, where Cote was kneeling over one of the pallets, the only one left that wasn’t shoved in front of the main entrance’s set of double doors to bar anyone from breaking in.
“
Jae!” he said as Jaemus ran up to him. The two fell into an embrace. After a moment, Cote pulled free and said, “The Knights are fighting the Dyrraks, who seem to have become more of those foul Battgjaldic beasts. They left Ulfric here when we were attacked. What do we do with him now?”
On the pallet next to Cote lay the Stallari. His normally dark brown skin was now as gray as wet ash. His eyes were open as if he were dead, and they too had a slight sheen covering the glow they’d lately acquired, dimming the Verity influence almost completely. Jaemus recognized the beginnings of the transformation that created the Raveners.
“Do with him?” he raved. “What happened to him?”
“They said he was tricked into drinking a poison sent by Balavad.”
“Is he dead?” Deep in his mind he knew Ulfric couldn’t be dead, because that would mean Vinnr would cease to exist. And Jaemus still existed enough to have been brained by a pitcher, so…
Cote was looking at him, just as eager for answers as Jaemus was. His lifemate looked remarkably well, if thinner, for a man who’d been close to death yesterday, but that wasn’t what Jaemus focused on. He looked confused, out of his depth. Makes two of us.
Bardgrim! Bardgrim! It was Roibeard’s voice this time. You have to open the starpath. Get Ulfric and your people to safety. We’re not going to be able to hold them off much longer!
“Jaemus?” Cote asked. “The Knights told us to bar the door from anyone but them. Do you know what we should do?”
He did, but he was having trouble believing it. He held up a finger to Cote and sent: I’m almost sure you just said I should open a starpath, but I’m also sure you’ve mistaken me for someone else, because there’s no way I—
Just—oh Verities, it’s Balavad! Watch out!…Stave, Safran, group up—we…
And that was the last Roibeard had to say for the moment.
“Jaemus,” Cote asked again.
Trembling, Jaemus whispered, “Did the Knights by chance give you a bag or container holding a bunch of celestial junk?”
