“When the magics were first broken, there were still many who could use both. The most powerful of those were the Tsenian, and they became guardians against the Shahadán and Varyah.”
What a cruel joke. His parents had probably heard the title in a story and thought it would be a good name for their son. Ironic that his magic would turn out to be that of his namesake’s enemies.
“Tsenian.” He had to pause, swallow, take a breath. His name felt heavy and foreign on his tongue. “If they guarded the world from the bad guys, why do the legends say they’re even worse?”
“At first they weren’t. But as time went on, and fewer Tsenian were born, they began to realize their superiority. They were the most powerful mages in the world—not even the Godspeaker or a master Varyah could challenge them. Some became tyrants. Others imposed their will on the world, whatever the cost. They were hunted until their bloodlines were wiped out.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Power does that to people. Even the best man can be corrupted by that kind of control.”
“Like the Godspeaker?”
She pursed her lips, but nodded.
Tsenian. He was named after that legacy? He wondered if his parents had known.
Brinelle leaned toward him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah.” There was no way he was going to tell her his true name now. With all the Evantar “no hill without treasure” nonsense he was afraid she’d see it as an omen or something.
Great. Now he had two things to keep hidden from her.
He went back to his staff, slicing off bark and wiping the bloodwood’s weeping off his hands. The methodical swipe of his knife over the wood brought his thoughts back to his original problem: Destruction magic, the Shahadán, the uselessness of making this weapon without the proper magic.
I don’t care what kind of magic I have. If I can’t make a weapon of Creation magic, I’ll have to make one of death. I’ll pour so much Destruction magic into this staff the Shahadán will be overpowered by it.
He stripped off bark until the smooth heartwood was revealed. Beneath the weeping blood Windrunner could see the light grain against a pure white wood. He rubbed his hands along the grain, drawing even more blood from the staff.
Blood …
What was it Brinelle had said? A weapon made with one’s own sweat and blood.
Windrunner flicked his knife across his left palm, opening a long, shallow gash. He watched his blood pool in his hand. I’ll make sure this staff has all the magic I can give it.
He dripped the blood along the staff, watching as it made the wood weep even more. Soon the entire surface was saturated. Windrunner took a cloth from his pack and began rubbing it along the wood. “No oil for you, my staff,” he said. “You will be a weapon of blood.”
7
P rogress on the staff, and Windrunner’s skill using one, went much slower than he’d have liked. Each evening Brinelle would leave him bruised and sore, with more than a few lectures about posture and speed and precision. Each morning Windrunner would peel off the bloodwood staff’s scab and massage more of his blood into the wood. Brinelle seemed uncomfortable with the act, watching him suspiciously as he worked, but she said nothing. Windrunner couldn’t blame her. It was a little disturbing to watch the staff absorb his blood, staining a deeper and deeper red each day. But it felt like the right thing to do. The staff was warm in his hands, as if the heat from his blood—and his raging magic—was being stored in the wood. Whatever kind of magic it was, the staff was drinking it in.
Progress across the desert, however, was finally becoming noticeable. After days and days of endless, monotonous sand, Windrunner had spotted mountains on the horizon. At first it seemed like they refused to draw closer—an entire night of walking and the mountains still looked as far away as ever. But then, as if relenting, they grew until Windrunner and Brinelle stood at the base of jagged peaks that looked more like teeth than rock.
They were much shorter than Windrunner had expected, only rising a few thousand feet above the desert floor. But they did rise, sheer and vertical in most places. They shot from the ground like daggers, each rock sharp as if to ward away visitors. Windrunner couldn’t find a single plant anywhere—not even the intrepid bloodwood trees dared to grow upon the slopes of Ta’ranq.
“The urn warriors live here?”
Brinelle nodded. “And it is their sanctuary. I would not recommend saying anything negative about it. Besides,” she added, “even mountains such as these are preferable to the dangers of the open desert.”
Windrunner eyed the jagged peaks. He wasn’t convinced of that, but didn’t argue.
They camped at the base of the mountains until morning, so they could traverse the range in daylight. The urn warriors would know of their passage whenever it happened, and Brinelle figured they’d be more amenable to letting them pass if they didn’t seem to be sneaking through in the middle of the night. If these urn warriors were as dangerous as Brinelle said, they’d need every advantage they could get.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but Windrunner kept his staff nearby just in case.
As soon as daylight broke, Windrunner and Brinelle were on their way. A small fissure in the mountains provided a narrow walkway into Ta’ranq. It was a tight squeeze between towering cliffs of stone, just wide enough for Windrunner’s shoulders. He and Brinelle had to carry their staves in front of them to make it through.
The colors of the rock were astounding, swirls of red and orange and white in patterns that boggled the mind. Windrunner couldn’t believe nature had created stone in colors like this. They were so vibrant, the designs so intricate, they looked like an artist’s canvas. The slice of brilliant blue sky above made them seem that much more intense.
The gorge curved back and forth like a meandering river. Each turn they took blocked their view back, and the turn ahead hid their path forward. It was as if the outside world ceased to exist. There was only the sand beneath their feet and the stone surrounding them. Windrunner had never had a fear of enclosed spaces, but after an hour squeezing between the cliffs even he started to feel claustrophobic. Brinelle seemed to feel the same. Her eyes kept jumping from wall to wall, her steps growing ever faster as if she couldn’t wait to get free of the canyon.
After a while, Windrunner was sure it was more than just the narrowness of the wall. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched.
Brinelle’s voice was a whisper, but it was still enough to make him jump. “Remember, Windrunner, the urn warriors will kill us both at the slightest offense. Do not say or do anything that could be taken as an insult. Do not ask for help or show any kind of weakness.”
“Yeah. Got it.”
They’d taken no more than a dozen steps when a voice boomed out of the rocks, so deep and powerful it seemed impossible it had come from a human throat. “How dare you enter Ta’ranq! State your purpose or die.”
“We approach with respect,” Brinelle said, looking up at the rocks as if addressing the canyon itself. “We recognize the strength of the urn warriors and offer no offense.”
“You come uninvited. That is an offense.”
Brinelle glanced at Windrunner. “It is unintended. We simply wish to pass through. We’re on our way to the western ocean, to thwart a dire threat that has risen.”
There was the slightest pause before the voice spoke again. “What threat?”
“The Shahadán,” Brinelle replied.
The silence that followed made Windrunner even more nervous than the death threat.
They didn’t dare move, in case the urn warrior was serious about killing them. But long minutes passed without a reply from the rocks. Was that a good sign, that the urn warrior was considering their plight? Or was it bad, that he was preparing to kill them?
Every passing moment made Windrunner more uneasy. They couldn’t afford to be delayed by the urn warriors. They already didn’t have enough time to gather the Remnants befor
e the Shahadán arrived. If they were stuck here, it would give the monsters more time to wreak their havoc. Who knows how many thousands would die because of that?
Maybe it was the enclosed space making him edgy, or the pressure of knowing what he’d released and the death it would spread if he didn’t do something about it. Whatever it was, Windrunner could feel that presence inside him growing stronger—the seething anger, the explosive propensity for violence. He tried to calm himself and wait patiently, but soon he was pacing and clenching his fists, resisting the urge to punch the rocks.
“Oh come on,” Windrunner shouted. He didn’t know where the urn warrior was, so he glared up at the surrounding rocks as if they were the cause of his ire. “We don’t have time to sit here and let you deliberate. Either agree to let us pass so we can hunt the Shahadán or try to keep us here. But let us know so we can get moving or start fighting.”
“What are you doing?” Brinelle whispered. “You’re going to get us killed!”
He was done being cowed. Enough of bullies insisting he follow their rules because they were bigger and stronger. Enough of being intimidated into waiting for others to decide his fate. It was time for him to take control of his own life.
“I have to stop the Shahadán,” Windrunner replied, not lowering his voice or even sparing more than a glance at Brinelle. “I’m not going to let these people stop me because of some stupid rules. If they want to stand up and fight, then fine. But I’m going on with or without their consent, and time is running out while I wait for them to decide.”
A few pebbles tumbled down from one of the nearby walls. Windrunner and Brinelle spun toward the sound, holding their staves before them. Windrunner’s was still crusted with dried blood and he couldn’t be called proficient with it, but it already felt more comforting than the sword on his belt.
The largest man Windrunner had ever seen emerged from behind a jagged rock formation. His biceps were as large as Windrunner’s thighs, and he could have palmed Windrunner’s skull with a single massive hand. Vivid orange tattoos decorated his face and body, lines and swirls and primitive hunting scenes painted across his black-as-pitch skin. He wore a vest open at the chest and breeches that ended halfway down his calves, both the rusty color of the surrounding sandstone. In each hand he held a long knife that looked like it was made of bone.
Brinelle had told him they were the fiercest warriors known to Evantar, but Windrunner hadn’t expected them to look so scary.
“You wish for us to decide your fate here and now, little man?” The urn warrior loomed over Windrunner. He was well over a foot taller than him—close to seven feet tall. “You come uninvited, insulting the urn warriors. Each of us is worth five normal men.” He lifted one of the knives to rest against Windrunner’s neck. “Perhaps more, if the men were small like you.”
Windrunner’s heart pounded and his entire body trembled. He was scared out of his mind, but he pushed that away and forced himself to meet the urn warrior’s eyes. They were as black as his skin, like polished obsidian. “Whether you like it or not, the Shahadán are coming. I’m going to stop them, and if you had any sense of courage, you’d help me. Go ahead and kill me if it will appease your honor, but when the Shahadán are burning down your home and killing your family, remember that you destroyed an ally who could have been there to help defend them.”
Rage burned in the urn warrior’s eyes, but Windrunner had enough of his own to hold the man’s gaze. The bone knife pressed against the skin of Windrunner’s neck. Do it. I dare you.
Brinelle stepped up so she would be in both men’s peripheral vision. “My partner speaks rashly,” she said, glaring at Windrunner, “but he does speak the truth. Formalities and taboo aside, we need your help. The prophecies of Evantar speak of the arrival of the Shahadán as the end of the world. If we are not allowed to pass, our best weapon will remain lost and hidden. We will all die.”
They stood in the stalemate for several heartbeats, until Windrunner’s rage died and all that was left was terror. He could feel how sharp the bone knife was against his skin and how much restraint it took for the urn warrior to hold himself back from using it. The man was massive. He wouldn’t even need a knife to kill Windrunner. He could just bludgeon him to death with those club-sized arms.
“You’re the strongest race in existence,” Windrunner said. His voice shook. “Look at me. I’m scrawny. I barely come up to your chest. You should be helping us.” He cleared his throat and gathered what little courage he had left. “But even if you won’t, all you have to do is let us pass. We won’t bother you again.”
The urn warrior shifted his weight, as if preparing to lean in and slice the blade across Windrunner’s throat. Windrunner thought about raising his staff in defense, but hesitated after a few inches. Bringing his weapon to bear against an angry urn warrior would cause more trouble.
The scabby staff brushed against the urn warrior’s arm. The man paused, shock and something resembling fear crossing his face. He looked down at the staff, then back up at Windrunner. Could he feel the magic in the staff? Did he feel the power of Destruction in it?
The urn warrior stared at Windrunner, as if seeing him with new eyes.
Windrunner wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
The urn warrior pulled his knife away from Windrunner’s throat, though he still held them both ready to use. “Scrawny. That much is true.” He stared down at Windrunner and grunted. “You may be foolish, funny little man, but you’re brave. The urn warriors can respect that.”
Brinelle and Windrunner both let out long breaths.
“I may still kill you for your crimes,” the urn warrior said, “but you will deliver your news of the Shahadán to the hotonii. Follow me.”
The urn warrior turned and disappeared around a bend in the gorge.
As soon as he was out of sight, Brinelle whirled on Windrunner and punched him in the shoulder. “You nearly got us killed,” she whispered. “Any other urn warrior wouldn’t have hesitated the way this one did.”
“Maybe we got lucky,” he said. “He thinks I’m funny.”
Brinelle raised an eyebrow. “Among the urn warriors, that is not a compliment.”
“Oh.”
They followed the urn warrior farther down the gorge. The path started climbing higher into the mountains, until they left the bottom of the canyon behind and began ascending the sides of the rocks instead. The path was narrow and strewn with pebbles. Windrunner and Brinelle struggled to keep up with the urn warrior, who navigated these treacherous paths as if they were as wide and stable as a well-traveled road.
They walked without a word, or even a pause, until midafternoon. Windrunner was so worn out it took all his focus to keep putting one foot in front of the other. They had climbed more than two thousand feet by his estimate, and the path had wound several miles along the canyon. His legs were screaming with weariness and he wanted nothing more than to collapse on the trail and sleep.
It looked like they were coming to a crest. Windrunner could see more brilliant blue sky ahead than he’d seen in hours. Somehow that made his claustrophobia even worse.
“You will speak of nothing you see here,” the urn warrior said. It was not a request.
Windrunner and Brinelle nodded.
After a few steps the walls on either side separated, and Windrunner found himself on a ledge overlooking a vast clearing. A flat expanse of tall, yellow prairie grass was nestled between soaring stone cliffs. Cacti and rock formations punctuated the grassland. After the featureless desert and bare, rocky mountains, even this thirsty vegetation seemed like an oasis.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of people moved through the valley. Windrunner could make out an area that looked like a market and another that seemed to be a training ground. A large cluster of people hovered around a tall rock spire.
“Brinelle, do you see that tower off to the left?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Are there peopl
e walking up it?”
She nodded.
“That is the Hotonii Tower,” the urn warrior said. “You will see it soon enough, funny little man.”
The urn warrior turned and let out a bellow that echoed across the valley. All motion below stopped.
Their arrival had been announced.
Another bellow answered the first, and the urn warrior led them down a rocky trail to the valley floor. Several more warriors were waiting for them. They too sported vivid tattoos across their mahogany skin—some were orange like their escort’s, but others were bright red or blinding yellow. They surrounded Windrunner and Brinelle, dwarfing them with their towering height. Windrunner could only catch a glimpse of where they were going between the men’s bodies.
After several minutes of blind walking, the urn warriors parted. A tall gate stood before Windrunner, locked and guarded. Intimidating walls ten feet high or more stretched away to either side. One of the warriors extended a hand toward Windrunner. “You will hand over your weapons and enter quietly. If you refuse we will knock you unconscious, take your weapons, and throw you in.”
Windrunner knew better than to hope the man was joking.
Brinelle stepped forward. “We came in the name of peace,” she said. “The threat against us all …”
The urn warrior who’d led them here stepped in front of the other, leaning over her and Windrunner. “You came with news of war,” he corrected. “You insinuate we are cowards by not fighting beside you. Do you consider that peace?”
“You can’t lock us away,” Windrunner said. “Every minute we waste here is another we can’t prepare to fight the Shahadán.”
The urn warrior’s glare silenced Windrunner. The man’s voice dropped to an ominous whisper. He looked down at the scabby staff as if it was an infection. “You carry a weapon with far more power than you could ever hope to control. It could easily kill us all. Do you consider that peace?”
Dread churned in Windrunner’s stomach. So the urn warrior had felt his dark power in the staff.
Remnant Page 9
