Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  “Oh come on, Brinelle. I’m trying to help here.”

  “With Destruction magic. You’re inviting disaster upon us.”

  Windrunner gestured toward the ship. “Disaster’s already here, in case you haven’t noticed. What else are we going to do? Swing our staves at the storm and demand it to stop? If I don’t try to do something, we’re dead anyway.”

  Brinelle’s hand didn’t move away from her staff, but it didn’t move any closer, either. It was all the permission he would get.

  He glanced toward the circling Shahadán. If he could Destroy them, all these troubles would be gone. No more threat, no need to hunt for the Remnants. The problem would be resolved before it ever caused any damage. Even Destroying this one would give them some breathing room. It would buy them some time to find the Remnants before more arrived.

  But Windrunner knew better. Trying would be worse than useless. If he bent his magic toward the Shahadán, would the monster be able to sense it? Would that point this one, or any others, to him like a dowsing rod? He couldn’t imagine they would accept him because he had the same magic. More likely they’d see him as a threat. His fate was sure to be ugly, in that case.

  Windrunner turned away from the Shahadán. Something simpler. Something that wouldn’t lash out with power far greater than he himself possessed, but would still make a difference.

  The wind. If he could make that go away, maybe they’d have a chance. Of course, if he messed up he could make all the air disappear, and then they’d be in even bigger trouble. But what could he do? It was either try or sink. He wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

  He had no idea what he was doing, and felt foolish for even trying, but Windrunner gathered up his willpower and focused on the gusting winds. He imagined them dying away, picturing the peace that would come when they were gone. He made it real in his mind and pushed that vision into the world.

  Something stirred inside him—that dark presence in his soul woke, bringing all its simmering rage and hatred with it. Windrunner despised this storm. He hated the wind with every fiber of his being. It had no place in this world. It had to be Destroyed.

  The heat of Windrunner’s magic filled him, and he pushed it out toward the wind. It poured from him like boiling acid, scorching him as it left and searing the air around him. The lightning grew darker, the clouds more oppressive. All Windrunner could see were waves of power, distorting the world around them like a mirage. He could feel his magic fighting the winds and he pushed harder, demanding them to submit to his power and disappear.

  He saw the calm he was enforcing through the waves of magic. It was almost tangible. Almost real.

  Exhaustion threatened to topple him, but Windrunner couldn’t give up now. He was so close to annihilating these damn winds. Just a little more.

  He felt empty of everything but his magic’s destructive anger, boiling and raging within him. A tiny, distant part of his mind screamed in horror, but Windrunner pushed it away with a growl. He was going to make this world obey him. It would bend to his will. Whatever didn’t please him would be Destroyed.

  Heat like the Nevantian sun exploded from him, driving him to his knees. Ripples of dark magic spread from him and stole his breath.

  Reality shattered like a dream. Windrunner woke to pouring rain and choppy seas, but the air was still. The light from the portal was much closer now. In its shadows, Windrunner thought he could see another ship.

  The sailors took advantage of the calm and scurried about securing ropes. The Sea Gem was listing to one side. From the way the captain was screaming out orders, Windrunner got the feeling he hadn’t made a difference in time to help.

  He was so worn out he felt as if he would crumple at any moment. But he’d done it. He’d used his magic and annihilated the winds. Maybe he hadn’t saved the ship, or even made much of a difference at all, but he’d made his magic work. That was all that mattered.

  As the heat of his magic cooled, the darkness receded and clarity returned to his thoughts. His arrogance and pride turned to shame and guilt. He’d been so caught up in the power that for a moment he’d let it overtake him. Everything about his magic that made Windrunner sick had come to the surface. He’d been a Varyah like the one in the desert. Dark. Maybe not evil, but it wasn’t a stretch to imagine him taking that step if his magic got much stronger.

  Rain drenched him from straight above, falling like a waterfall in the still air. He could feel Brinelle and Fi’ar staring at him, but he couldn’t return their gazes. He expected to feel the impact of Brinelle’s staff at any moment. Now that she’d seen his magic in full effect—the same power that radiated from the damned Shahadán—he must look like a monster to her, too.

  He braced himself against the railing, as much to give him some support as to keep himself steady on the still rolling ship. It took all of his courage to raise his eyes to meet hers.

  She stared at him. Disgust was painted across her face. She was recoiling from him, even as he watched. But there was confusion there, too, just a little. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  He turned away, staring out at the glowing portal and circling Shahadán. His magic was nothing but anger, hatred, and destruction. Maybe Brinelle was right. How could he still be a good man with that core of magic roiling through him all the time?

  My magic does not define me, he thought, desperately trying to convince himself. Maybe if he wished it hard enough, it would become true. A man is defined by his actions. And I used my magic to save lives.

  It was true. When he’d first started using his magic, it was. But once the magic had taken over it had been about enforcing his will upon reality. He’d been consumed by the power. And already he found himself thinking of other ways he could do the same.

  Power was addicting, and power eventually controlled whoever abused it. Maybe Windrunner’s magic was the kind he couldn’t use if he wanted to maintain any semblance of humanity.

  A small breeze blew his hair back from his face. The winds were returning. Damn it. Not in control for long.

  The captain slid along the deck toward them. “The Sea Gem ain’t gonna make it much farther,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He nodded toward the glowing light of the portal. “Syrenia’s right over there. Can’t be more than a league to the shoals. We’ll try to dock but if these waves keep up best be prepared to swim the rest of the way.”

  The ship was groaning and taking on water, leaning to the right so sharply Windrunner wasn’t sure how much longer they could stay afloat. More than an hour passed as the light from the portal grew larger and the ship rode lower in the waves.

  Slowly the wind started to die down on its own, and the waves calmed. Windrunner looked up. The Shahadán was farther away now, no longer circling above the glowing portal. It must be moving on.

  He hoped it had left something of Syrenia for them to find.

  12

  Windrunner swore he had to be dreaming. No water he’d ever seen had been as green as spring grass. Except for this.

  He knew it wasn’t the water that was green, but the seaweed and plants growing beneath the surface. Still, seeing the patch of placid green water in the middle of the ocean made him rub his eyes to check if he was awake.

  And then there was the small fact of this place being in the middle of the ocean. Not a coastal city. Not even an island. The entire town was built on a shoal. No land as far as the eye could see. Windrunner couldn’t even fathom how that was possible.

  A short wall of coral surrounded the shoals upon which Syrenia was built. Ripples in the water marked the trails of guppies and water bugs by the thousand. Frogs leapt among the floating lily pads. In the midst of the surging ocean, this place was an island of serenity.

  Huts made of timber and grass were scattered across the shoals, perched on tall, rigid stilts. Small canoes and large, flat rafts were moored at the base of each building. Far off in the distance, Brinelle and Windrunner could make out a large, ancient s
hipwreck.

  A single dock protruded from the coral wall, rough logs lashed together with rope. The Sea Gem had made it almost all the way there before succumbing to her wounds. She lay half-submerged now, her prow resting mere feet from the outer edge of the coral wall.

  It took them much longer than he’d expected to climb over it. The coral sliced through anything softer than tough leather—skin and cloth seemed to be a favorite. “It’s like tons of little knives,” Windrunner muttered. By the time he splashed into the thigh-deep green water on the other side, he was streaming blood from dozens of tiny cuts and his trousers were in tatters.

  His gaze kept catching on the amazing colors of the coral, the brilliant green and blue of sea and sky, the darting motion of small fish around their legs. Glancing around, he caught sight of something outside the coral wall to his right. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes and squinted. A large raft, similar to a floating dock, bobbed in the near distance. A big chunk of rock sat atop it. “The portal.”

  One portal had brought him to all this trouble and now they had arrived at another one. “Too bad we couldn’t have used the portal back at the monastery. If it weren’t for the Shahadán, we could have gotten here weeks ago.”

  “If it weren’t for the Shahadán, we would not be here at all,” Fi’ar said. “Stop talking and walk, funny man.”

  They waded toward the huts, odd conglomerations of flotsam and driftwood and pieces that used to be part of a ship. Most of them leaned to one side or looked like they were about to fall apart at any moment. There was not a straight wall or right angle in sight.

  It took a moment for Windrunner to recognize the damage.

  Thin wisps of smoke rose from several buildings—easily mistaken for cooking fires, though Windrunner could still smell it in the air. There had been a lot more smoke recently. Several buildings looked more shabby than others, sagging on their stilts or half-fallen into the water. Some looked as if they were about to crumble apart, filled with dry rot and mildew Windrunner was sure the townsfolk hadn’t just ignored. An entire section off to the north had been toppled. There weren’t many people in sight, and those who were scrambled about like they were trying to prevent more damage from happening. It wasn’t the razing portrayed in the sketch, but it was bad enough.

  If only he could have done something to stop the Shahadán.

  They climbed out of the water onto a small jetty and a wooden bridge connecting the buildings. Windrunner could see more of the damage from here—most of the buildings had holes burned into their roofs, and entire neighborhoods looked like little more than scorched husks. Everyone seemed to be scurrying north, toward the ancient shipwreck and collapsed buildings he’d seen earlier. The sailors of the Sea Gem headed straight for it. Brinelle, Windrunner, and Fi’ar followed the crowd.

  Wood groaned around them as the buildings fought against gravity. Every so often they heard someone cry out, screams of fear and pain or the cries of the mourning. Each step they took made these louder and more frequent. Occasionally another building fell to the Shahadán’s damage, plunging into the water with a tremendous splash.

  The old shipwreck loomed off to the left, much larger than Windrunner had imagined. It was at least three times bigger than the Sea Gem. It lay drunkenly on its side, exposing a number of large holes that penetrated the bilges and allowed seawater to flood the interior. Long strands of algae and seaweed hung from the wood like a slimy green wig. The masts extended toward the blue sea beyond the far wall, seagulls nesting among the tattered canvas. The town seemed to pour from the open decks, as if the people had escaped the ship and set up their homes as soon as they emerged.

  “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”

  Windrunner had been so busy examining the ship he hadn’t noticed the man approach. The sun had darkened and aged his skin so much it looked as if he was covered in tanned rawhide. He would have been taller than Windrunner were it not for a slight hump in his back, forcing him to stoop as he walked. Long black hair was tied with a rope at the nape of his neck, and the whites of his eyes were stained as yellow as his few remaining teeth.

  “Now ain’t the time to go giving tours, mind. We’ve got ourselves a bit of a crisis going on.” He squinted at them. “Don’t get many visitors these days. Ill omen for you lot to show up now.”

  “Our ship was attacked by the Shahadán not far from here,” Brinelle said. “We were lucky to find ourselves so close to your harbor.”

  “Hmph. Could be. Though I ain’t for knowing what these Shaha-thingies are.”

  “Big nasty monsters, look like giant rotting fish flying through the air?” Windrunner jerked his head toward the scorched buildings. “Shoot lightning. Breathe rot.”

  The man’s entire face darkened. “Aye. Them, we know.”

  “Can we help? I have some healing skills,” Brinelle said.

  “God knows we got more than a few in need of that,” the man said. He nodded to Fi’ar. “And we can put them strong muscles to use too, if you don’t mind.”

  Fi’ar looked like he would object, so Windrunner answered for him. “Of course. No problem.”

  He studiously ignored Fi’ar’s murderous glare.

  The man thrust his hand toward Windrunner. “Name’s Tobain. Pleased to meet’cha.”

  “Windrunner.” He clamped hands and smiled. “That’s Fi’ar, and this is Brinelle.”

  “Mighty nice of you to help out folk you don’t even know,” Tobain said, turning and leading them toward the collapsed section of town.

  “The Shahadán are our mutual enemy,” Brinelle said. “Besides, we’re already here. The least we can do is offer our assistance.”

  The stench of fire and death was everywhere. Wailing, crying, swearing, men and women shouting orders almost drowned out the sound of groaning, splintering wood. Soon Tobain was leading them across walkways lined with bloodied people and work crews desperately trying to save the buildings. Each breath stung Windrunner’s lungs—was that the lingering smoke, or the rot of the Shahadán? He shuddered and tried to push the thought from his mind.

  “The worst of the damage is over there,” Tobain said, pointing toward the right. Several buildings still smoldered, and large sections of the wooden walkway were missing. He looked to Fi’ar, craning his neck to see up to the urn warrior’s face. “I’m betting they can find lots for you to do over there.”

  Fi’ar left without a word.

  “Don’t say much, do he?”

  “Be glad,” Windrunner replied. “When he does speak, it’s usually an insult.”

  “Hmph.” Tobain turned left at an intersection. “Main market’s through here. That’s where we’re keeping the wounded.”

  The market was a huge square, surrounded by buildings and smaller carts filled with merchandise. Under the blood and smoke Windrunner could smell bread and spices and fried fish.

  There were hundreds of people here, sitting against walls or lying on the wooden planks. Several healers moved between them, but it was clear they were overwhelmed. There were too many patients.

  “Whatever you can do would be appreciated,” Tobain said.

  Brinelle nodded and waded into the crowd, Windrunner on her heels. She seemed unhappy to have him following her, but he didn’t know what else to do. At least with her, he might be able to find some way to help. Whether or not she wanted him to.

  Everyone in sight had cuts, scrapes, and burns. Most were coughing or had trouble breathing. Windrunner followed Brinelle as she spread healing salve on people or helped set broken bones. He fetched rags and water and did his best to be helpful. After a while Brinelle stopped scowling while he hovered nearby and sent him on errands without irritation. It was refreshing to be needed, to not have her condemning his every action.

  He didn’t notice time slipping by until the sea turned to glittering amber in the sunset. He was tired and hungry, but he didn’t stop until they had helped everyone they could. Brinelle had used more than half her jar of healin
g salve.

  When they finally sat against the wall of a bakery, Tobain was there with cups of steaming tea. “Mighty nice of you,” he said. “Couldn’t’ve asked for better even from our own folks. Maybe it ain’t an ill omen that brought you here today.”

  Windrunner gulped his tea. It scorched his throat, but he didn’t care.

  “Seeing as you ain’t got a ship, you’ll be needing someplace to stay for a while. I’ll get you set up someplace nice—least I can do to be saying thanks.”

  “We would appreciate it,” Brinelle said. The weariness in her voice made the gratefulness all the more potent.

  When Tobain returned a short while later, he wasted no time in leading them toward the shipwreck. Windrunner and Brinelle were dead on their feet, but Tobain talked them through the town as if being a tour guide was a regular part of his business.

  “This here is the Syren of the Seas, the finest ship to ever sail these parts,” he said, spreading his arms toward the shipwreck. “Course she ain’t been in sailing condition for more than a hundred years. She’s more’ve a national landmark these days. Whole town’s got at least a part of her in the walls. And, course, we’ve all got the blood of her crew in us, too.” Tobain thumped his chest. “Me granddad’s dad was first mate on the Syren.”

  He led them right to the base of the ship, where a ramshackle building rested in its perpetual shadow. It looked more like a pile of castoff rubbish than anything—salvaged boards fitted against one another with no consideration for matching length or texture. Lengths of rope were lashed around corners, tying the entire thing together like a package. The building sloped so much it looked like a drunkard leaning against the larger ship for support. Despite all this, it seemed fairly stable.

  “The Houseboat Inn,” Tobain announced. “No better place to stay in all Syrenia.”

  The rooms were nice enough, as long as you weren’t too particular about straight walls or level floors. But the beds were soft, the blankets warm, and Windrunner snuggled in without hesitation. The last time he’d had a real bed, or a proper pillow, had been at the Evantar monastery.