Windrunner landed on the ground, rolling between boulders, bashing his shoulder and twisting his knees. But he grinned as he stood. The Shahadán was injured, and magic still poured from the Remnants. Brinelle didn’t look the least bit tired. He felt like he could keep going forever. They might be able to do this!
He kept his magic focused on blasting away the lightning and rot while Brinelle kept more magic pouring from the Remnants. The Shahadán was sinking, most of its underbelly gone. It looked like a gutted fish. A little bit more and they could go in for the kill.
The Shahadán pumped its flukes, trying to get away from the searing light. The tail hit the ground before them and made the entire earth shake. The creature advanced a few feet and flexed its tail for another powerful push.
Brinelle screamed. The tail was barreling straight for them, faster and far more deadly than any mazahn.
Windrunner pushed Brinelle to the side and dove after her. They avoided the main brunt of the impact, but the Shahadán’s tail was massive. Its tough, leathery fluke crashed atop them. Windrunner felt joints pop from the pressure, resisting the urge to cry out. He felt like his insides were going to explode. Next to the killing pressure, the stench of the Shahadán’s carcass was downright pleasant.
The pressure lasted only a moment before the Shahadán rose again. It seemed to regain a little strength now that the Remnants’ light had gone out.
Windrunner’s breath caught in his abused lungs, and he coughed until he was dizzy. What had happened to the Remnants? Had Brinelle dropped them? They couldn’t afford to lose their best weapon.
He crawled forward, each movement agonizing, until he reached Brinelle’s side. She had curled her body around the Remnants, protecting them.
“Come on, Brinelle,” he said, struggling to his feet. It took him a few heartbeats to remember how to balance. “We have to get the magic back up. The Shahadán is almost dead.”
Brinelle didn’t respond.
Windrunner’s gut twisted like he’d swallowed the Shahadán’s rot. He fell to his knees beside her, shaking her shoulder. “Brinelle?”
She was breathing shallowly, her heartbeat irregular. Blood dribbled from her scalp. She didn’t even stir at Windrunner’s touch or words.
“No …”
He knew the Shahadán was maneuvering, trying to turn back for another attack, but Windrunner couldn’t tear his eyes from Brinelle. Her chest was barely moving. She looked … Windrunner couldn’t even bear the thought.
This was his fault. He’d insisted they stay and fight. He’d been so overconfident in their abilities, so drunk on the power of his returned magic he’d thought they were invincible. But Brinelle was proof they weren’t. They were fragile, so easily broken. And Windrunner had been the one to place her in this danger.
A real man would have known to pull back. But Windrunner was still acting like a little boy, charging into situations that were just too much for him.
The Shahadán roared, managing to spin around and come in for another attack. Windrunner could hear Fi’ar fighting in the background, shouting obscenities at the mazahnen. The Shahadán ignored the urn warrior, making a beeline for Brinelle and him.
Windrunner’s entire body tensed. It wanted to fight? Windrunner would give it a fight.
He rolled Brinelle onto her back and made sure she was still breathing. He couldn’t fool himself into thinking she was just asleep—she looked like a specter of death.
“You’ll be all right, Brinelle,” Windrunner said. He couldn’t make himself believe it. She was covered in blood, her face pale as ash. Her breathing was shallow and irregular, and getting worse with each passing moment.
Tears streamed from Windrunner’s cheeks, but he didn’t care. Brinelle couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave him, not now. Not ever. He had to have her beside him. He couldn’t have done any of this on his own. How could he finish this without her?
He looked down at her pale, pasty face. The light was gone from her eyes.
“No!”
Windrunner screamed through his tears, curling around Brinelle as she’d curled around the Remnants. If only he could have protected her as well. He held her, his tears falling onto her unmoving face. He screamed, and she didn’t flinch. He pleaded for her to come back to him, but she remained still and lifeless. Dead. Forever out of his reach.
Thoughts clogged in his mind. The pain was sharp and penetrating, searing his heart and brain. He choked on the tears that would not stop flowing. How can I keep going without you?
Since the beginning it had been Brinelle who’d held him together. She may not have always believed him, or even trusted him, but she’d stuck with him. She hadn’t given up on him despite a lifetime of believing everyone with Varyah magic was doomed to being a monster. She’d been his strength when battling the darkness. If it hadn’t been for her, he didn’t think he’d have been able to stay true. She’d kept him himself. And she was gone.
A deafening roar pierced his grief and dried his tears.
The Shahadán had taken her from him.
Cold steel poured into the remains of his broken heart. He pushed away the fear, the pain, and faced his anger head on. An ocean of anger.
Good. He could use that. If nothing else, he could take his pain and channel it into the Shahadán. Make the monster pay for what it had done to Brinelle.
Still kneeling at her side, he glared up at the Shahadán. He’d hated them before, but now … now he despised them with every fiber of his being. His blood boiled just looking at it.
This monster had stolen the one thing in the world more precious to Windrunner than anything. It would learn to regret that.
The dark rage of his magic surged forward, and Windrunner focused on the Shahadán. Power flooded out of him. It hit the Shahadán and the creature staggered, but didn’t take much substantial damage.
I need more.
His eyes caught the glimmering colors of the Remnants. In the black-and-white world the Shahadán had created, it was blinding.
No. Not more. I need help.
He reached out and laid his right hand on Brinelle’s, his fingers lacing through hers to touch the Remnant. Please help me. Just this once. For her.
The magic in the Remnant leapt at his request. He could feel it building, a comforting warmth like sitting before a blazing hearth. Too much would burn him, but the heat was welcome, soothing. He took it in and let it mix with his boiling rage. The two seemed opposite, yet familiar. Comfortable together, like two sides of the same coin.
Windrunner summoned all his remaining strength, stretched out his left arm, and poured out all the magic he could. He didn’t even care what kind it was. He rained it upon the monster, along with all his hatred, all his pain. All the power he could summon.
The Shahadán wailed and howled as large chunks of its remaining body sloughed off. Its momentum kept it charging forward, straight into Windrunner’s magic. Straight into them.
Doesn’t matter, he thought. Brinelle’s dead anyway.
His head pounded and his vision grew fuzzy. Everything started to dim, except the pain. Windrunner felt like he was being swept away by the currents of the magic raging out of him, like a log caught in a flash flood. It was all he could do to hold his ground.
He felt something change, intangible and unrecognizable. But the seed of light that had always been inside him grew, exploding like fireworks. The magics circling inside him fused together, and the torrent that poured from him was more powerful than anything he’d experienced before.
The Shahadán’s roar shook the earth, louder and more desperate than ever. Windrunner could hear the pain in it and he grinned without mirth. That pain matched his own.
Windrunner continued slamming this magic fusion into the Shahadán until he was barely conscious. His vision was filled with black spots and his ears rang. He wasn’t even sure if he was sitting up or had fallen over. It didn’t matter. He kept the magic flowing, one hand holding to Brinelle and t
he Remnants.
Something hit Windrunner’s extended arm, something hard but spongy, and moving at tremendous speed. The moment it touched Windrunner he felt resistance, as if his mere strength was pushing back against this behemoth—and winning. He breathed deeply, willing his vision to clear.
He was nose-to-nose with the Shahadán, pushing against the monster with a single extended arm. It had stopped dead in the air, like Windrunner was holding it up. The pressure was so intense Windrunner didn’t know how he hadn’t been crushed like a bug.
He could feel the magics fighting each other. If his didn’t win, he would be crushed.
Windrunner gathered his strength and pushed himself up to a crouch. He kept his right hand planted on the Remnant, drawing its magic eagerly and pouring it out of his left, into the Shahadán.
How was any of this possible? He hadn’t a clue, but he could feel strength returning to his body. The magic nourished him, giving him power like he’d never imagined. He fought against the Shahadán, feeling the pressure build as the pure Destruction magic battled … whatever it was he wielded now.
Tsenian magic, he thought. It was the only thing that made sense.
Even though it made no sense at all.
Windrunner didn’t have time to ask questions. He didn’t fight the magic, instead channeling it ever more strongly against the Shahadán. He could feel the monster’s magic weakening, dissipating like fog in the sunlight.
He stared at the hideous being inches from his face, feeding it his hatred and pain and sympathy. This creature did not belong in this world. It didn’t belong anywhere. It was a bastard, born of dark magic and tragic mistakes. Its only salvation would be in destruction.
The Shahadán pushed forward with a last, desperate burst of power. The bug-crushing pressure mounted until Windrunner couldn’t draw a breath. He felt like he was drowning, tons of weight compacting his body until he would be squashed. Windrunner’s arm buckled, the elbow joint snapping like a twig. He didn’t cry out. That pain was nothing compared to what was eating at his heart. He responded with his own surge of magic. Just disappear already!
It was the last he had. All his magic, all his energy. After this, it was over. One way or another. Windrunner wasn’t even sure he cared which way it went anymore.
The pressure was unbearable, the flood of magic overpowering. Windrunner felt consciousness slipping from him.
Then the onslaught broke like a crashing wave. Windrunner stumbled forward as the force pushing against him lessened. The Shahadán wailed and evaporated, its body becoming nothing more substantial than vapor. It smelled foul, probably not the smartest thing to inhale, but Windrunner’s didn’t care. He breathed deeply, relief and exhaustion making him sag to the ground. He lay there, watching color bleed back into the landscape. Smells and sounds returned as the Shahadán’s influence dissipated.
“I wish you could see this,” he whispered to the body beside him.
Brinelle.
He rolled to face her. She was still as death, her face somehow serene despite the terror she’d faced in her last moments. Windrunner couldn’t bear the sight, but he couldn’t turn away. A stray tear rolled down his cheek as he reached out to touch her.
Another gasp. Right. Broken arm.
Windrunner didn’t move as he heard Fi’ar approach. The urn warrior looked down at them. It was a few moments before he spoke.
“She is dead,” Fi’ar said. His voice held neither compassion nor callousness. It was empty of all emotion, the words meaningless.
Windrunner hated him for saying it.
“The Shahadán is destroyed. We must continue to search for the Remnants.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
“She’s not coming with us,” he said. It wasn’t a rebuke, just a simple fact. Brinelle could not come with them anymore.
Windrunner glared up at Fi’ar. “How can you not care? How can you look at her and say such heartless things?”
Fi’ar met Windrunner’s eyes. “I am an urn warrior. Death is part of what makes us.”
“Well, she isn’t an urn warrior, Fi’ar. It’s not like we have some convenient ashes of her ancestors to infuse her with.”
“She is dead, funny man. That is part of life. You must accept it.”
Windrunner looked down at her beautiful, pale face. Must he? He’d destroyed a Shahadán. For a brief moment, he’d touched Tsenian magic. He could do it again. Destroy reality and Create another in its place. He didn’t have to accept this.
This couldn’t happen.
This would not happen.
He rolled over, placing his face inches from Brinelle’s. He summoned his grief and anger and fed them to his magic. He felt that strange Tsenian power rise, and he focused it all on Brinelle.
Fi’ar reached down and pulled Windrunner away. The motion jerked Windrunner’s broken arm, and he couldn’t help but whimper.
The urn warrior stared at him, his eyes narrowed and face drawn into a scowl. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
That tone would have made Windrunner cower a few weeks ago. But now he was too hurt, too furious, to even cringe. “I’m not going to let her die.”
The urn warrior seemed to shake himself out of his rage. Windrunner swore he saw something change in Fi’ar at that moment, but he couldn’t understand what. “She died an honorable death. It is not your place to change that fate.”
“By hell it isn’t,” Windrunner snapped. “I have to save her, and this is how I’m going to do it. If you have a problem you can either leave or shut the hell up because I don’t give a damn about your approval.”
Fi’ar took a tiny step back.
Windrunner turned back to Brinelle without a pause. He stared hard into her eyes, picturing them sparkling with life. “You will not die.”
The magic leapt at his summons, filling him with surging, raging heat. He focused that power on Brinelle, willing death to bend to his desire.
Reality fought against him. This was the way things were—Brinelle was dead. But Windrunner fought harder. Brinelle would live. She had to. He would make her live if it took every bit of energy in his body. Even if it killed him, Brinelle would not die.
His battle with the Shahadán had taken all of his energy. His broken arm sent shocks of needle-sharp pain through him. He was dizzy, nauseated, and hurt everywhere. But he forced all that away, thinking only of Brinelle. He needed her back. The magic had to bring her back.
A hint of color returned to her cheeks, like a crude overlay of life hovered above her. It wasn’t her. It was a peek at the outcome he was trying to bring to life.
Windrunner focused on that, pouring even more energy into his magic. He didn’t know where he was getting it anymore. He didn’t care. He replayed images in his mind, watching memories of the woman he loved with intense attention.
Brinelle smiling, laughing beside him. The way she’d braid her hair before his lessons. Her strong, guiding touch when teaching him to fight. How fierce her eyes were when she faced mazahnen, Shahadán, or assassin.
Tears fell from Windrunner’s eyes. His body shook with effort and grief.
The look in her eyes when he’d helped her through the cave. The way he’d never told her what she meant to him.
That last was the worst. It didn’t matter if she knew. He should have told her. How could he live with himself if he let her leave this world without telling her she meant everything to him?
“Come back to me, Brinelle,” he whispered. His voice croaked, shaky.
He could feel reality reshaping itself. More magic. More power. Didn’t matter if it was his last.
Something shattered like glass, ringing through the air like a bell. Windrunner swayed and crumpled to the ground. He landed on his shattered elbow. He didn’t have the energy to cry out.
Brinelle took a shaky breath.
24
Brinelle woke to pain. Blinding, all-consuming pain so intense she almost wished she were dead.
Dead.
Hadn’t she …?
Images began to drift back to her, like fragments of a dream that had scattered with the dawn. The Shahadán had been bearing down on them. Windrunner had pushed her to safety. She’d landed awkwardly, trying to cradle the Remnants. The Shahadán’s tail had pounded down, something had cracked, immense pain … and then darkness.
She shifted her weight. Though pained, everything still worked. Relief flooded through her.
The sky above was blue, marred by a haze of dust and the faint stench of Shahadán rot. She blinked, trying to get her thoughts in order. Where was the Shahadán? Where was Windrunner, for that matter? Or Fi’ar?
She hugged the Remnants to her. At least they were still here. Their magic was comforting, soothing. Already she could feel the Creation power restoring some of her energy and strength.
She tried to sit, but dizziness overwhelmed her. She settled for rolling her neck to the side. The boulders blocked most of her view but Windrunner lay next to her, unconscious. His left arm was broken, unsplinted. It would need care soon. There was no sign of the urn warrior.
When she sat up this time, she managed to stay upright. She felt wretched. Her entire body throbbed and ached, her thoughts were fuzzy, her head pounded. The lingering foulness of the Shahadán didn’t help, nor did the faint remains of magic in the air. It wasn’t clean Creation magic, but not quite dark Destruction magic either. It was …
Her breath caught in her throat and her heart plunged into her stomach. Was that why she remembered dying? Had she done so, and Windrunner had brought her back?
It shouldn’t have worked. You couldn’t Destroy death—death was the absence of life. Varyah magic didn’t work that way.
Unless …
She looked down at him and a faint smile crossed her face. Of course. He’d have reached for any power he could find to avenge her. With the Remnants at his side, he’d have tried to use their magic. A Varyah couldn’t have touched it. But Brinelle had sensed that spark of Creation magic in him. He’d had the seed, and the Remnants’ power had caused it to bloom.
Remnant Page 25
