Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  I guess that’s why he’s a knight-priest.

  The Godspeaker broke the uncomfortable gaze when one of the men cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” the Godspeaker asked.

  “Of what crime is the accused charged?”

  Windrunner looked at Brinelle. She seemed as shocked as he felt, which was a small relief. But still … he hadn’t been called to a meeting. He’d been summoned to his trial.

  The Godspeaker erupted. “What crime? Treason against humanity! Attempted murder of thousands of innocents! This man has broken the wards in the portal and released the epitome of Destruction into this world!”

  Before he could consider his actions, Windrunner leapt to his feet. He planted his hands on the table. “I didn’t mean to!” A puddle formed under his hands as his sweat bled the bloodwood tabletop. “I didn’t know anything about the portal or the mazahnen. It was an accident!”

  “Silence!” The Godspeaker glared at him like Windrunner’s presence was offensive. “We will hear none of your lies.”

  “He must be given a chance to speak,” Master Kelsen, Windrunner’s ally, said. “It is commanded in the Laws.”

  “We know nothing about this man, other than he came through the portal with an army of mazahnen in his wake. Does that sound like the actions of a man with Creation magic? Who have we allowed to walk our halls, who you say we must allow to give his testimony?”

  Everyone around the table fell silent, several casting doubting glances toward Windrunner. Even Brinelle seemed to hesitate. “Windrunner is not a Varyah,” she said, though her voice was quiet and not altogether convincing.

  “How can you know that? Can we take the risk? We all understand the danger of keeping a Varyah in our presence. Their dark magic could taint us all.”

  More silence, even more uncomfortable than the first. Windrunner looked around the table. Everyone seemed to be leaning away from him. They couldn’t be frightened of him, could they? “What’s a Varyah?”

  The Godspeaker turned his glare back to Windrunner. “You would ask that, wouldn’t you? Feign ignorance to see what we know, to learn the extent of our knowledge so you can exploit it.”

  “Or I could ask it because I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Windrunner snapped. “I’m not some mysterious enemy trying to spy on you. I made a mistake and it brought me, and the mazahnen, here. If you’d stop fighting me, I’d try to help fix it. I’d try to find a way to stop the mazahnen, if you’ll let me.”

  “And what of the others? Will you allow them free reign?” the Godspeaker asked. His tone was so sour Windrunner wouldn’t have been surprised if he started spitting acid.

  “What others?”

  Silence. Windrunner looked at the men and women, but they seemed stunned.

  “You don’t know?” asked one of the priestesses.

  “He does,” replied the Godspeaker.

  “I don’t,” cried Windrunner. “What are you talking about?”

  Several conversations broke out at once. The Godspeaker continued to glare at Windrunner, but the others started casting confused and uncertain looks at him before turning back to their colleagues.

  “How could he have released them purposefully if he doesn’t even know what he has released?” asked one of the older men.

  “He’s lying,” the Godspeaker said.

  “Even if he’d wanted to release them, how could he have done so? We all know the kind of magic that boundary consists of. No one person could have affected it.”

  Windrunner didn’t understand. Why did they believe he couldn’t have affected it alone? He had. He hadn’t even been trying. It had just happened. What did that mean?

  “Then he had an accomplice.”

  “And where is this person?” Kelsen asked. He looked at the Godspeaker as if genuine curiosity had driven the question rather than accusation. “If he had help, surely this person would have come through the portal with him.”

  Even the Godspeaker seemed stumped by this.

  “It’s far more likely,” another man said, “that it was an accident, or coincidence. Or perhaps, even, the hand of Evantar.”

  Faced with that possibility, even the Godspeaker seemed unable to counter. He sneered and fumed, but he didn’t raise any more objections. Yet. Windrunner had no doubt he’d find a way to do so, as soon as he could.

  Brinelle released a breath beside him. The others seemed to relax as well, though the Godspeaker’s glower grew even darker. At this rate he should have his own personal storm cloud.

  “What ‘others’ are you talking about?” Windrunner repeated. Please don’t tell me it gets worse.

  The oldest, most wizened man at the table rose from his seat and retrieved a large, well-worn book from a shelf behind him. He flipped through the yellowed parchment, coming to rest on a dark ink sketch. He passed the open book to Windrunner.

  The room was silent as Windrunner gazed at the sketch. It showed a city razed to the ground, its few remaining structures aflame. It looked eerily like his home back in the Farmlands. The dead and dying were everywhere amongst the debris. He could almost smell the ash and blood in the black strokes of ink.

  A horrible, massive form was silhouetted against the smoky sky. It coiled around the entire picture, brandishing its serpentine head and tail to the onlooker. A thick vapor poured from its mouth, and its tail was tipped with a bolt of lightning. It looked as if its flesh was decaying while it still lived.

  It’s worse.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “It’s one of the Shahadán,” Brinelle replied. Her voice hitched on the name.

  A shudder ran through the company, as if mentioning the Shahadán made the room grow colder.

  “How does it fly?”

  “It doesn’t fly. It moves through the air as a fish swims in the water,” Brinelle replied.

  “And these,” he asked, pointing to the lightning and vapors. “What are they?”

  “The weapons of the Shahadán,” Brinelle said. “Its tail is a whip that sends bolts of lightning and flame to the earth. From its mouth come entropy and rot.”

  “Death, whichever way you look at it,” Windrunner muttered. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but failed.

  “They are creatures of pure Destruction,” the Godspeaker said. “And you, Windrunner, have released them into the world once more.”

  Windrunner wished the earth would open up and swallow him. It would be better than facing these judgmental stares. “But these … Shahadán. I didn’t see any of them in the portal,” he said. “Maybe they won’t come.” It sounded weak, even to him, but he had to hope something could go right here.

  “They will come,” a knight replied. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  A woman shuddered. “The mazahnen are their scouts. Once the mazahnen have appeared, the Shahadán are never far behind.”

  Everyone at the table fell silent, as if they were standing around a grave.

  “How can we stop them?” Windrunner asked.

  “You cannot stop them,” the Godspeaker said. “Once they have arrived, the Shahadán are indestructible. They will wreak havoc upon the world and nothing we can do will prevent it.”

  “They aren’t entirely invulnerable,” Master Kelsen said. “Normal weapons are not powerful enough to kill a Shahadán, but they are still weak against Creation magic.”

  “All of you guys together must have enough power …”

  “Doubtful,” the Godspeaker said.

  Windrunner glared at him. “Fine. Can we gather enough magic to kill them? There must be something out there strong enough to go up against a Shahadán.”

  Everyone, including Brinelle, stared at him like he was a madman. Or a genius.

  Windrunner could sense something change in the room. The priests and knights drew in breaths, suddenly seeming anxious. They glanced at one another or whispered to themselves. It was as if everyone was thinking of the same secret, but no one wanted to say
it aloud.

  “The Remnants,” Brinelle whispered. She sounded equal parts awed and horrified.

  “No,” the Godspeaker said. “Absolutely not.”

  “It may be the only way,” a fierce-looking woman, obviously a knight, replied. “The Shahadán must be stopped. If they are not …” She didn’t need to finish the statement.

  The Godspeaker turned his glower to the knight, at last giving Windrunner a respite from the hatred. “They have been kept secret for hundreds of years.”

  “Kept safe, for a time of desperate need,” the old man with the book replied. “None could doubt our need is great at this time.”

  Windrunner leaned toward Brinelle. “What are we talking about?” he whispered.

  “Hush.”

  Windrunner’s ally stood, glancing at his fellow priests and knights. Everyone instantly gave him their full attention. Windrunner could feel the respect this man commanded. For such a tiny old man, he could control the room even better than the Godspeaker.

  The Godspeaker glared daggers at him and sat back in his chair, seething.

  “What help is the magic if we refuse to use it?” Master Kelsen asked. “If there was ever a time we needed the power of the Remnants, it is now. We must retrieve them.”

  “But they have been lost for hundreds of years,” one of the priests said. “How would we even know where to begin to look for them?”

  They looked to the Godspeaker, whose smirk told them all they needed to know.

  They weren’t lost to the Godspeaker of Evantar.

  A young woman, a few years older than Windrunner at the most, spoke up for the first time. “Even if we were to find them in time to confront the Shahadán, who can guarantee they would be effective? Who can say one of us could wield them? These are artifacts of pure Creation magic—far more potent than any of us could ever pray to achieve. It’s more than likely that kind of power would consume us.”

  Everyone was silent for a while. “I don’t think we have a choice,” Windrunner said.

  They turned to him, some with fear in their eyes, some with hope. The Godspeaker glared, as always.

  “If these Remnant things can help us gather enough power to stop the Shahadán, we have to find them. At the very least we have to try. If we succeed, then we can win. But even if we don’t, at least we’ll know to find another way.”

  The knights and priests looked at each other. A few seemed like they wanted to agree with Windrunner. Others had begun glaring at him the way the Godspeaker was.

  “A course as drastic and dangerous as this must not be accepted lightly,” the Godspeaker said. Several of the men and women nodded, a few reluctantly. Master Kelsen sank back into his chair and shook his head, but did not object. “We will explore our other options. The Shahadán have not yet arrived. We may find a better, safer, more reliable solution in the meantime.”

  “And what if you don’t?” Windrunner asked. “What if the Shahadán get here and you haven’t found anything? You’ve wasted all the time you could have been retrieving these Remnants. You’d be leaving yourself and your entire monastery—the entire world—defenseless.”

  “There is much more to Evantar than you could ever dream, boy,” the Godspeaker said. “We have knowledge that would make your brain explode. Do not underestimate us.”

  Windrunner’s fists balled at his sides. Did he call me “boy?”

  Before Windrunner could lunge at the Godspeaker, fist leading, Brinelle stood. Her hands were clenched like Windrunner’s. “You’re not going to do anything?”

  The Godspeaker’s eyes went cold. “I said we would look into other options.”

  “Like we’ve been doing with the Varyah?” Brinelle was trembling now, her voice rising to a shout. “You have kept us stowed away in this monastery for decades when our entire reason for being is out there. You’ve refused to allow us to hunt the Varyah, as we are ordered to do as knights of Evantar. Now an avatar of Destruction is descending upon our world and you still won’t let us do our jobs?”

  “Enough, Brinelle,” the Godspeaker said. He sounded angry and weary, as if they’d had this argument many times before.

  “What use are we to this world if we allow our enemies free reign?”

  “We will stop the Shahadán,” the Godspeaker said. “But the Remnants will not play a part in that. You will not convince me otherwise.”

  Windrunner couldn’t believe what the Godspeaker was saying. He would stay in his little monastery, searching for answers, when the solution was right before them? He would keep Windrunner here, when all this was his fault? “I’m trying to help here. I screwed up. That means I have a responsibility to fix it. I thought that’s what all this forced training was—making sure I’m fit to do my duty and help put things right again.” The Godspeaker was staring at him with unadulterated hatred, but Windrunner glared right back. “I’m in this whether you like it or not, Godspeaker. You might as well get used to it.”

  “Fear not. You will be first in line to battle the mazahnen, and the Shahadán if it comes to that. You will defend this place with your life. But you will not seek the treasures of Evantar.” He turned toward the others sitting at the table like Windrunner no longer existed. “We must begin our search. Set priests to scour the library for information on the Shahadán and Destruction magic. The knights will increase their training and begin forging weapons and armor for the battle, should it come.” The Godspeaker looked to Windrunner, as if surprised he was still present. “Out.” Windrunner couldn’t ignore the wicked, satisfied gleam in his eye. “You too, Brinelle. Someone must escort our guest back to his room.” He seemed to take as much pleasure evicting her as he did Windrunner.

  Brinelle seemed stunned, maybe even hurt, but she rose and nodded to the Godspeaker. “I take my leave.” Windrunner swore he could hear contempt in her words.

  At least they aren’t trying to pin some ridiculous crime on me anymore, he thought as they exited the library. For a moment he’d thought the Godspeaker would execute him on the spot.

  Now that his fear was dissipating, Windrunner fought against the rage. He’d seen how much the Godspeaker had wanted to punish him. Why? Because he’d released the monsters, or because he’d disturbed the peace of the monastery? For whatever reason, he was out to see Windrunner destroyed.

  “How could he think I brought the Shahadán here on purpose? Why would I want to bring death and destruction to thousands of people?” He paused, fuming. “I am not going to sit back and let other people solve this mess for me.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Brinelle asked.

  Make this right.

  Windrunner didn’t see a choice. He’d screwed up so badly the entire world might pay for his mistake. He couldn’t let other people fix this for him.

  Then again, the Godspeaker refused to do what needed to be done. There was no one else to fix it.

  And, if he could succeed, no one could ever doubt he was a man again. He’d own up to his mistakes, complete the quest, and make it right. Who could call him “son” or “boy” after that? He’d clear up this mess he’d made and prove beyond any doubt he was better than Maddox.

  Go on this one quest—survive a single, dangerous adventure—and then he could start putting his life back together, honor and dignity intact.

  He nodded to himself. “I’m going to find the Remnants.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He looked down the hall, as if seeing the journey to the treasures ahead of him. “Watch me.” He started walking. Let’s see if Brinelle will follow me this time.

  She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. She came around and stood before him. “The Remnants have been hidden, even from Evantar, for centuries. They’ll have powerful magics guarding them. Not to mention any other, more mundane kinds of protection. How do you think you could find them in the first place, let alone retrieve them?”

  “There has to be rumors. Legends. Stories of weird things happening that woul
d make sense if you knew there was Creation magic around.”

  “How could you sort through them in time to find the right ones, reach them, find some way to retrieve them, before the Shahadán arrive and Destroy everything?”

  Windrunner didn’t have a good answer for that. “I have to try.”

  “It’s a suicide mission. You’ll never be able to find them.”

  He groaned. “Don’t you get it? I don’t care that you say I won’t be able to find them. I don’t care they’re guarded by magic I don’t understand. This world is in danger because of me, Brinelle, and I’m going to do something about it!”

  Brinelle didn’t look intimidated. She was watching him with interest, looking into his eyes as if trying to read the truth behind them.

  He looked away from her, taking a few breaths to calm down. “This is all my fault, Brinelle. I’m not going to sit on my hands because some stupid, power-hungry man in charge says I can’t do anything about it.”

  Windrunner walked away. He’d dreamed of adventures his entire life. Now, whether he liked it or not, he was going to get one.

  4

  Windrunner woke well before dawn. Rather than the Evantar linens, he changed into his extra set of heavy wool clothes. They felt stiff and heavy. He slung his bag onto his shoulders and checked that his sword was clear in its scabbard before buckling it onto his belt. All that remained of his cloak was a ragged strip of wool. He sighed at its loss, but dared not wait for a replacement. He would just have to go without it.

  It was time to start getting his life back in order.

  Windrunner left his room and crept through the halls. He made several wrong turns before finding the room he was looking for—the library. Please don’t let anyone be studying this early …

  He cracked the door open and peeked inside. It was so dark he could see little but shadows. At least no one would be here to witness his crime.

  He lit a candle and moved as quietly as possible. He knew where to look for it. He’d stared at it every time Brinelle had brought him here for the ever-boring history lessons. The map of the portals was the only thing he’d found interesting. And he knew he would need it. Otherwise he’d have no way to find anything in this strange world he’d been transported to.