Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  “Fi’ar! How did you find us?”

  “I never lost you,” the urn warrior said.

  “But we collapsed the portal. There was no way you could have come through after us.”

  “There are more ways through the planes than the portals.”

  Something in his inflection, or the way he watched them, made Windrunner uneasy.

  “What happened to the Varyah?” Brinelle asked, pushing herself to a more upright position. Windrunner could tell she sensed something amiss, too.

  Fi’ar grinned. It sent a shiver up Windrunner’s spine.

  “It’s you,” Brinelle whispered, using her staff to help her to her feet. Horror and revulsion filled her voice. Windrunner hadn’t heard that for months … since she’d found out he had Destruction magic. “You’re the Varyah.”

  “But of course. Who else did you expect? Some mysterious enemy who happened upon you in the desert?”

  “But you’re an urn warrior,” Windrunner said. Hot magic surged through his staff and into him.

  The Varyah laughed. “Did you think magic passed my people by, because we bleed ash rather than blood?”

  Windrunner was speechless. He had. It had never occurred to him to suspect Fi’ar of having magic. And he’d used that disguise perfectly, hiding at their side this entire time. “Who are you?”

  The man sketched a brief bow. “I am Fi’ar of the urn warriors, as I said. To the Varyah, however, I am Master Obsidian.”

  Windrunner tried to find something to say, but words failed him. Coming face-to-face with the Varyah who’d stalked and tried to kill them, who’d trained with—and mastered—the darkness Windrunner had nearly succumbed to … this was not a man to take lightly.

  Brinelle’s voice cracked, though with anger or tears Windrunner couldn’t tell. “But why now? Why follow us for months, saving our lives over and over?”

  “Each urn warrior is worth five normal men,” he replied. “I have saved your lives five times. My debt for granting my son an honorable death has been paid.”

  “And now that your debt is paid, you’re free to kill us? You’d turn on us simply because you’re no longer bound to keep us alive?” she asked.

  “It’s more than that,” Windrunner said. “I used Tsenian magic and bent reality to my will. Now he knows I’m a threat.”

  “Don’t think you’re important enough to be central to my plans, funny man,” Fi’ar said. “You were, at best, a sideline. A diversion to keep my eye on while I approached my true goal.”

  Windrunner glanced down at the Remnant.

  “I see you aren’t quite as dense as I’d thought.”

  “You should know better than to underestimate me by now.”

  “Indeed.” Somehow he turned the word into an insult. “You’ve blundered your way through the trials of Evantar and managed to assemble the complete Remnant. For that, you have my admiration. No matter how sloppily it was done.”

  Windrunner fumed, but didn’t respond.

  “With training, you may have become a good apprentice.”

  “I would never train to become a Varyah!”

  Fi’ar smiled. “I see.” He sounded amused. “Tsenian or not, you still have so much potential.”

  Windrunner snarled. He’d have snapped his staff at the man’s head right then, if he’d had two good arms to get a decent swing in.

  Brinelle stepped up beside Windrunner, placing her hand on his arm. “What did you want with the Remnant? Its magic is the antithesis of yours.”

  Fi’ar spread his arms wide. “What is the only thing more powerful than a Varyah?”

  Windrunner sucked in his breath. “A Tsenian.”

  He nodded. “With the Remnant in my possession, I will be Tsenian. Imagine the strength a true Varyah can have with the Remnant at his disposal.”

  “I don’t have to imagine it. I feel it. You jealous?”

  Fi’ar’s face twisted with rage. Windrunner grinned.

  “Your fumbling never could have threatened my power,” he growled.

  “If you’d paid any attention during the last few months, you’d know I want nothing to do with your power.”

  “Indeed.”

  There was that insult again. Windrunner’s grip tightened on his staff. He’d had enough of this man’s derision. From the moment they’d met it had been nothing but disrespect and abuse. He’d offered Windrunner nothing but scorn. It was bad enough taking it from an urn warrior. But from a Varyah? It made Windrunner’s magic surge with rage.

  “Go ahead,” Fi’ar said. He sounded pleased. “Give in to the magic. Take me on, man to man. Give me another reason to Destroy you.”

  Windrunner gritted his teeth together, fighting for restraint.

  “You’re tired of fighting it. I know. The struggle against Varyah magic as powerful as ours is always a pointless one. Release the reins and become what you are. Test me. See who is the true Varyah here, and who will die.”

  Windrunner wanted to. He had more reasons to want this man dead than he could count. He deserved to die, after what he’d done. Windrunner would be saving the world from a menace by sending him to his death.

  But what would that make Windrunner? The same as Fi’ar. If he gave in and let his magic fuel the rage he would become Varyah, regardless of his Tsenian magic. He couldn’t let that happen after everything he’d gone through. He’d fought much too hard to stay clear of that path.

  He didn’t need to become Varyah. He was Tsenian.

  “You will die, Varyah,” Windrunner said, his voice controlled through gritted teeth. “I will see to that. But you will not take me down to your level to do so.”

  Fi’ar, or Obsidian, grinned. “It will be that much easier to kill you, then.”

  Windrunner expected the urn warrior to charge him with his bone knives, but he didn’t. He focused for a single heartbeat, just long enough for Windrunner to sense the building magic, then unleashed it at them.

  Windrunner felt the magic hit them like a brick wall. It wasn’t anything subtle, or fancy, or even particularly impressive. It was just a wave of Destruction magic aimed right for their hearts.

  Brinelle stretched her hand toward Obsidian. Windrunner sensed the warmth of her Creation magic an instant before it crashed into the Varyah’s Destruction magic.

  It was like the crash of white-capped waves, like steam rising from water thrown onto a fire. A sudden blast of energy, and then both were gone. Only a faint sense of magic lingered in the air.

  “Very good,” he said, “though I suspect you haven’t much more of that at your disposal.”

  Windrunner glanced at Brinelle. Obsidian was right. Dark circles rimmed her eyes after working so much magic to mend the Remnant. With all they’d done in the past few days, it was a miracle they had anything left at all.

  Windrunner felt the magic in the Remnant stir. He could see the energy infusing Brinelle. Her posture straightened, her eyes brightened. She smiled at Fi’ar like a wolf stalking her prey.

  Windrunner stepped aside. He knew that look. Violence would follow it, quick and unforgiving.

  “Will you not consider mercy?” Fi’ar asked, taunting. “I have, after all, saved your life numerous times. I dare say that earns me your mercy more than this boy’s questionable charms.”

  “A few good actions don’t outweigh a lifetime of bad ones, Fi’ar. Especially since those ‘good’ actions were only done to further your own goals.”

  “And so you condemn me, as you’d condemn any Varyah who doesn’t live up to your standards.”

  “As I would condemn anyone, regardless of their magic. My standards of justice are firm. You harm innocents, kill for your own goals, and damn the world to get what you want, and you deserve to die.”

  Obsidian cocked his head, his eyes narrowed as he studied Brinelle. “You’d have made a good apprentice, too. Your magic may be wrong, but your hatred …”

  Brinelle growled, flourishing her staff. “I will make you beg for my me
rcy again, Obsidian, but next time you’ll mean it.” The white wood glowed in the darkness.

  “Imbued with Creation magic. A nice trick to keep yourself fighting, but what can it do against an opponent? You cannot Create wounds, or weariness, or any kind of injury to me through it.”

  Brinelle’s grin was wicked. “You obviously don’t know much about Creation magic.”

  Obsidian’s confidence stuttered for a heartbeat. Brinelle chose that moment to attack.

  She lunged forward, staff leading, poised to get an early strike. But Fi’ar was ready for that. He jumped back, Destroying the ground beneath Brinelle’s forward foot. Her weight shifted, toppling her forward. Obsidian pulled out one of his bone knives and sliced down.

  The blade met Brinelle’s invisible energy shield. It slowed enough that she was able to roll aside before it cut her too deeply.

  She got to her feet as Obsidian came in for an attack. One of Brinelle’s best advantages—the reach granted by her staff—was somewhat mitigated by the urn warrior’s gigantic frame. Even with knives, he could jump out of range of her swing and be back in time to take advantage of her openings.

  For his part, Windrunner backed away from the fight. His place wasn’t up there, in the melee. It was here, in the shadows, where his magic could work in peace.

  Windrunner focused his magic and cleared his thoughts. He pictured the reality he wanted: one where Obsidian was dead, and they were free to continue on to destroy the Shahadán remaining in this world. It would take a lot of magic—maybe more than he had. And Obsidian would fight it. Evicting him from reality would be harder than bringing Brinelle back. And that effort had nearly killed him.

  He couldn’t afford to worry about that. Every second he wasted was one where Brinelle was in danger.

  Windrunner closed his eyes to better concentrate. He pictured his reality. Obsidian was gone, Destroyed. Peace was Created. Victory.

  He was already low on magic, and this kind of ethereal concept was the hardest to influence. Windrunner shook his fear away. He had to do it.

  He pulled some magic from the Tsenian daggers and pushed it into the world, Destroying this reality and Creating another. One without Obsidian.

  One without Shahadán?

  He had Tsenian magic now, powerful enough to change reality itself. Could he kill them all now, with a simple bit of magic?

  Nothing would be simple about it. He had no idea how much magic it would take to affect reality that much. But didn’t he have to try? If he could fix everything right now, he had a responsibility to do it.

  He widened his focus, envisioning a world without the Shahadán, without the damage caused by them. Syrenia, intact. The Farmlands, his home, still standing. Everything the way it should be.

  Everything?

  Possibilities swirled through Windrunner’s mind. He could fix his broken arm. He could evict the Godspeaker from power and put Kelsen back in his place. He could reunite his family. Repay Maddox for the chasing him from the Farmlands.

  He could do anything.

  And now Windrunner understood why the Godspeaker had feared Tsenian. The world was Windrunner’s to remake as he saw fit. He could change anything that displeased him, and no one could do a thing to stop it.

  That was much more frightening than Varyah magic.

  Windrunner backed himself away from that temptation. His heart ached as he relinquished the dream of restoring the Farmlands, of preserving Syrenia. He didn’t have the energy to use on those. They were gone, and the world would recover from that. But if he allowed Fi’ar and the Shahadán to live, it wouldn’t. My reality has no Obsidian, no Shahadán. That’s enough.

  And maybe no broken arm.

  He could feel the strain on his magic. Such a reality was huge, encompassing the entire world. Sweat rolled down his forehead. His entire body shook, his legs growing weak. The world fought against his magic, more strongly than he’d expected. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course it wouldn’t bow to the will of one man, no matter how powerful.

  Windrunner swooned, keeping to his feet only because of the wall beside him. He couldn’t do it. Not with how little magic he had.

  He opened his eyes. Brinelle and Fi’ar were still battling. She had several bleeding gashes along her arms—not deep, but enough to show she wouldn’t hold out forever.

  Fine then. Smaller focus. Fix the immediate danger first.

  Goodbye, Fi’ar.

  Windrunner didn’t ease up on the focus. He took all the magic he’d been forcing into the world and hurled it at Obsidian.

  The Varyah staggered back as if struck by a physical blow. His eyes went wide. The orange tattoos on his face seemed to grow brighter as his skin faded to grey.

  Windrunner forced his magic harder. His reality would form, and this Varyah would no longer exist. It would work.

  “No!” Obsidian screamed, his voice echoing like he was very far away. He was blurring around the edges.

  Brinelle caught him with a hit to the shoulder. The Varyah winced, but he was already becoming incorporeal, so the hit didn’t do much real damage.

  Windrunner kept pouring on the magic. It was almost done.

  Fi’ar met his eyes. The depths of hatred in them made Windrunner sick.

  Windrunner felt Obsidian’s magic pass over and around him, and the air was blasted from his lungs. He tried to inhale, but couldn’t. There wasn’t anything there to breathe.

  Obsidian had Destroyed the air.

  His magic faltered. Black spots floated in Windrunner’s vision. He was lightheaded, nauseated, not even sure how he was still on his feet. He had to get some air. Now.

  He stumbled toward Brinelle. She was fine, fighting Obsidian again. The damned Varyah was as real as he’d ever been, and even more angry.

  Windrunner could see their chests move up and down as they panted for breath. There would be air around them. If he could just get to Brinelle …

  His ears were ringing now, his vision almost gone. He wasn’t sure if he was still moving or if he’d fallen and the room was spinning around him. He hoped the disconnected motions he felt were his legs shuffling him forward.

  He felt the world tip. There was nothing he could do about it.

  He landed face first, his splinted arm crushed beneath him. Pain shot through him, so violent he vomited. He gasped, and at last there was something for him to inhale. The air tasted sour, of sweat and bile, but he didn’t care. He gulped it down, his head pounding as his vision cleared.

  The Remnant lay several feet before him. It had rolled out of his tenuous grasp when he fell. He tried to crawl toward it, but his broken arm throbbed and he still couldn’t get his bearings straight. The room wouldn’t stop rolling, like the deck of the Sea Gem during the storm.

  A pair of boots entered his vision. Then a hand, reaching for the Remnant. Finally Obsidian’s face. He looked gaunt, but he grinned at Windrunner. He scooped up the Remnant and cradled it like a beloved child.

  “My thanks,” he said to Windrunner.

  Windrunner grumbled something incoherent. He braced himself with his good arm and levered himself to his knees. He was still dizzy, his stomach roiling, his head pounding. He was near the end of his strength, while the Varyah seemed none the worse for wear.

  Windrunner followed Obsidian’s movements as he walked away. The Varyah stepped over Brinelle, lying on the ground with blood seeping from a wound on her head. Windrunner’s heart clenched.

  “It was all too easy,” Obsidian said, noting Windrunner’s stare. “She panicked when she saw you fall. Behold the price of love.”

  He kicked her, and she groaned. At least she was still alive.

  Windrunner struggled to his feet. Each breath helped him feel a bit better. Drawing magic from the Tsenian daggers helped, too. “You can’t get away with this,” he said.

  Obsidian raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Windrunner took a deep breath and reached for the magic in the Tsenian daggers. One Cre
ation, the other Destruction. Paired magic, ready to work.

  Create death and Destroy life. Destroy his magic and Create nothing in its place.

  It was a tall order, even for Tsenian magic. But Windrunner had to try. Obsidian was stronger, faster, more adept at working subtle magic. He had to end this any way he could.

  Windrunner focused the magic in the daggers. Then he took a breath and flung them, one at a time, at Obsidian.

  The Varyah tried to dodge, but Windrunner Created walls beside and behind him. Obsidian bumped into them, halting his retreat long enough for the daggers to sink into the meat of his shoulder.

  The Varyah screamed, pain and rage mingling to hurt Windrunner’s ears. Windrunner could feel Obsidian fight the magic, his Varyah power battling the complete Tsenian magic working to kill him.

  Windrunner sunk to his knees. The dizziness and nausea was returning. He couldn’t keep pushing himself like this.

  Obsidian pulled one dagger from his shoulder, then the other. His magic flowed from him like an ocean tide, drowning Windrunner in bitter Varyah magic.

  Finally Obsidian straightened. Blood soaked his sleeve, his side, and his arm hung limp. But he wasn’t dead. His magic had Destroyed at least a bit of Windrunner’s magic.

  They stared at each other.

  “I’m going to win,” Windrunner said.

  Obsidian didn’t reply. He kept staring at Windrunner, as if he’d never seen him before.

  Windrunner struggled to his feet. “I’m Tsenian, you bastard. You can’t beat me.” He grinned. “And you know it.”

  Obsidian did. Windrunner could see the fear shining in his eyes. But there was something else, a hint of smugness that filled Windrunner with dread. He wasn’t out of tricks.

  “Perhaps not yet,” Obsidian said. He waved his arm, and a rift opened in the air before him. Windrunner could feel the Destruction of reality. Everything warped, twisting around itself, fleeing from the rift like cockroaches from a light.

  Windrunner peered through the rift. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see—nothing, perhaps?—but there was something through there. Another reality.

  The suffocating stench of rot met him a moment later. He recoiled as fast as he could. He’d thought the rest of the Shahadán were locked in the portal!