by J. F. Lewis
She loosed a sharp bitter hiss of a laugh as the Aern around her asked questions and shouted; Cadence didn’t have any extra attention to give them. Were all males this stupid? Most. Yes. And yet . . . another of the visions she had been having over the last few days hit her when she considered leaving them all, Tyree in particular, behind and just running. She believed she could escape without them, could make it all the way back to the Guild Cities and to her son, but if she did . . .
Flashing images, disjointed and dismaying, battered her mind’s eye. Image after image slammed into place, each replacing the other imperfectly, like the wall advertisements in a Midian back alley: one sign slapped down over another, bits and pieces sticking out behind, paint sloshed over, signs creating a collage of unwanted information. In them, she saw her infant son, Caius, currently—she hoped—safe in Sedric’s care, in a varying array of futures and ages. When Tyree, a man she’d only known for a few days, was present in those images of tomorrow, Caius’s destiny made her smile.
In the premonitions without Tyree, Caius’s hands dripped blood, none of it his own. Wielding an array of weapons and wearing any number of guises, sometimes with his leather wings intact, full-sized, and functional, other times with one or both of them missing, Caius the man stared out at the world through the eyes of a creature whose greatest skill was to take the life of his fellow mortals, with the blank expression she’d seen only in the worst of men, the ones who did horrible things not because they had dark and evil desires, but because no one else was even real to them. They were worse than Hap’s eyes, which had seemed to delight in the torment of others because, even blade-deep in the throat of his enemies, the Caius without Tyree’s influence felt nothing.
What was so special about that man? Until she knew that or the visions changed, Cadence decided she would just have to—
Fancy a little bit of that wastrel, harlot? Hap’s voice rang in her mind. Not the real him, of course. In actuality, Hap possessed no more capacity for Long Speaking than a hornet. He’d put his words in her mind like the poison in a serpent’s fangs, injected by years of abuse, verbal and physical, tearing her down until he need not even be present for her to hear his venomous talk. He’ll just leave like I did. Find something fresher and—
“Enough!” With one sweep of her Long Fist, she seized the Aern between her and the dead, shifting them to the lee of herself, grinding her molars together as if she were crunching god rock to twist crystal. Molars that weren’t her own, transplanted from Kholster’s own jaw when he’d been mortal, to replace her own badly broken teeth for reasons Cadence still didn’t truly understand. Story and legend described Kholster in tales of diametric opposition: The Beast, the Savior, the Immortal General, the Merciless, and yet mercy, perhaps even salvation, was what he had shown her based only on a chance encounter . . . because he looked in her eyes and recognized what he saw.
Why? As she asked, she felt the bite of her power, that point where, were she twisting crystal, she would have known the artificial boost was fading. With just a little training, she had learned to feel that same bite when she reached the edge of her power’s, to quote Sedric, “naturally abundant store,” She didn’t have any god rock, but that just meant the power she wielded beyond that limit had to come from her own body, eating up her body’s reserves, dehydrating her, sapping physical strength in exchange for . . . power.
“There will be a lot of smoke,” she called over her shoulder as she turned to face the dead. “You will have to carry us.”
With a second sweep of her mind, Cadence wrapped a blanket of warm thoughts around Tyree’s mind, protecting him from further contact with whatever creature had sought to infect him . . . A skull with teeth not only similar to her own, but from the same source . . . A monster wrapped in borrowed flesh, dead flesh that moved beyond the natural dictates of corporeal life. A name . . . You led? No. Uled. It came to her in ancient symbols of High Eldrennaic, a language she did not speak, but linked even briefly with that inhuman mind she knew its name, its—his—dreadful need to inflict his will upon all of Barrone, the whole world, even the gods.
Touching my mind, you wretched little cow? Its grating voice found her, tried to catch her with barbs of spirit. How dare you commit such an affront to me? I have conquered death and life and bear no fear for either. I am transcendent!
For a heartbeat she was no longer conscious of the tunnel, only of Uled’s horrible touch, of the flow and ebb of his tendrils reaching out from a wrecked throne room somewhere to the north, in the mountains, in the dark. She thrust him away, thankful for the distance that weakened his grip as he clawed her mind but found no purchase. Then she was back in the tunnel with such suddenness she almost fell.
More words from the Aern: protestations, gratitude. Cadence was drawn too tightly within the core of herself to interpret. Silent, calm, and sure, at the center of a storm of power, she waited for the words to come. Even without Uled, there was always Hap to taunt her. Sedric had told her it was a sickness of the mind not uncommon among the most powerful Long Speakers, particularly those who had needlessly abused god rock.
Needlessly. The corners of her mouth quirked at the word.
Oh, you think you’re impressive now do you? Hap’s hatred spewed in her mind. Now with a little god rock in you or late at night with—
Fury rose in her chest, a meat hook lifting her into the air. Say one thing for Hap, real or imagined, he always had known the fastest way to wake her rage.
*
A single syllable passed Cadence’s lips, and Kazan wasn’t sure whether it was a curse or a denial, but, whatever it was, the air between the slight woman and the dead wavered like the air over the Guild Commerce Highway on a hot day, working the mortal remains of the reptilian dead in quivering unreality. Before, when he had seen the purple ends of the human’s tricolor hair glow, they had shone with a dim light, a dry pine needle used for kindling, but now her hair blazed, leaving chromatic spots in his vision as he averted his gaze. An afterimage of Cadence, arms outstretched even as she sagged, swam in relief over his vision.
Are you well? Eyes of Vengeance asked. Your vision is impaired, let me . . .
His vision cleared immediately, enough so that he could bear to turn back and grab the unconscious form of Captain Tyree still floating in the air. Weight returned to the human male as he took him, but Kazan had no eyes for the man just then. Past Cadence, the walls of the tunnel suffused with a fiery glow. Rock walls flowed in a molten mass, the bodies within the tunnel hissing and smoking before bursting into flames. A black and billowing smoke issued forth from them, so thick it quickly filled the tunnel, stopping a step beyond Cadence’s outstretched hands as if pressed against a wall of glass.
Take him, Kazan thought at his Overwatches—not the ones serving Rae’en directly, off at Fort Sunder, but the ones nearby: Joose, M’jynn, and Arbokk, who, like him, had been Elevens with Rae’en, and who, unlike he and his kholster, would likely never be Armored. Which meant that while he could stay behind and attempt to rescue Cadence, relying on his warsuit, Eyes of Vengeance, to heal him from afar, to breathe for him, or safely hold his spirit until his bones could be reclaimed if need be, the others would have to get far enough away to avoid suffocating in that smoke once Cadence ran out of whatever fueled her astounding display and the cloud of black rolled over them.
Aern didn’t feel most extremes of heat or cold, but they had to breathe just like any other mortals.
Take him and get out of here, Kazan ordered as Arbokk relieved him of his burden.
But, Kaze!
Now, Kazan hissed in Arbokk’s mind. And when did I become Kaze? I’m Prime Overwatch and I’m kholstering this situation. Move!
In the upper right quadrant of his mind, he watched their positions relayed, even in their aggravation with him, to apprise him of their progress along the tunnel route. He didn’t know how they could expect to make it back to the air vent in time, but they were every bit the soldier any Aer
n was, and they’d do their best or die in the attempt.
Move, he thought at them. Faster!
Advancing on Cadence even as he urged the others on, Kazan took up a position just behind her floating form. He was short for an Aern, but he could still peer past her at the luminous smoke, the scene reflected in the jade-rimmed amber pupils swimming in the sea of black that were his eyes.
It sounds like the biggest bonfire I ever heard, Joose thought at him.
I expected a sizzle, M’jynn ventured.
Oh, they are past sizzling, Arbokk thought with a laugh. Remember those plague fires they had outside Darvan when they had that outbreak of the weeping reds? That had smoke like this.
The guttering flame leapt unmindful of name to consume flesh both wrinkled and taut, Joose quoted in the shared conversation. Each garment and thread that was worn by the dead did burn whether stolen or bought.
Why does Irka compose stuff like that? M’jynn asked.
Who knows, Arbokk ventured. I prefer a well-woven memory myself. Too much time among non-Aern, maybe?
Some kholsters preferred their troops to keep it more orderly than this, particularly when dealing with soldiers like Glayne, who were capable of being an Overwatch but had more rank and file leanings. With Overwatches, it was much scarier if they got too quiet.
Cadence’s hair abruptly dimmed, blinding Kazan momentarily as his eyes overcompensated, growing cold at the base to facilitate seeing in the dark, then warming as his ocular system settled on the mere expansion of his amber pupils.
A whispered curse died on his lips. Yes, he could see the tunnel better, but he wanted to keep track of Cadence and the molten rock beyond. Cold crept back into the base of his eyes as he switched over to thermal vision. There she was! Cadence stood out in relief against an outline of reds, yellows, and white, the heat differential so great she seemed a living shadow when compared to the heat down-tunnel. Kazan was already moving as Cadence dropped, carrying her low in a run after his fellows, her face pressing in against his neck.
Estimating distance from the affected area and updating your internal map, Eyes of Vengeance told him. Run faster.
How long could she hold back the force she’d unleashed behind them? How long before they were swallowed by the black . . . and, beyond that, how long before Cadence suffocated on the ashes of their enemies?
I can breathe for you, Kazan, Eyes of Vengeance’s thought reassured him, accompanied by the sensation Rae’en had felt as Bloodmane had breathed for her when, searching for the bones of her father, she had thrown herself deeper and deeper into the Bay of Balsiph.
I know, he thought back. I’m Armored, but—
Kazan hit his warsuit with images of M’jynn, Arbokk, Joose, Tyree, Cadence, and even the horse, Alberta. They’re all still mortal, Eyes.
As are you, the warsuit intoned, conjuring the memory of his previous occupant’s injury by a Sri’Zauran assassin wielding a shard of the Life Forge. Pain punctuated by silence and aching void of disconnection both from Vander and from the other warsuits, truly alone in his mind for the first time in the whole of his forging.
Doom came heralded by the scent of char in the dank tunnel air. It had a sound as well, something Kazan couldn’t describe, the hissing breath of suffocation.
We might as well be trying to outrun an explosion, Joose thought at him.
Or a tidal wave. Arbokk laughed. It was a good run, Kaze. At least you’ll make it out of this.
I can link you up with Rae’en, Kazan thought at them.
She doesn’t know?! M’jynn thought back.
I haven’t bothered her, Kazan thought. Nothing she can do about it, and she’s busy enough with things the way they are at Fort Sunder.
How could he explain to them he was only partially paying attention to all of this himself? As Prime Overwatch, his thoughts spread among the thousands of Armored and their warsuits, observing, suggesting, highlighting things he thought kholsters ought to notice. He checked and rechecked patrol routes where those at Fort Sunder scanned for signs of the assassins with the camouflaging scales and the thin daggers they wielded, so uniquely deadly to the Aern.
Part of his attention was constantly centered on his physical surroundings, grounded in his own body, but an equal portion stayed locked on kholster Rae’en. Everything left over tracked the Aernese Army as a whole, holding a current map of all their activities and whereabouts in his mind like pins in a map or trignoms on a table.
Black-scaled and wound-covered, a Sri’Zaur corpse sprang from a side tunnel in front of Alberta. Only instinct made Kazan stay M’jynn’s attack. The light of intelligence burned behind its murky eyes, its paws upraised, claws unbrandished, straight, and unthreatening.
Don’t kill it, yet, Kazan thought at the others.
“With me, scarbacks,” the creature hissed. He pointed out a concealed side passage with one broken clawed forepaw, the black scales of his arm splayed open by a multitude of injuries. “The horse will not fit, but you will.”
Kaze? M’jynn eyed the sharp slope.
Smoke does rise, Joose thought. If we could drop to a lower tunnel . . .
We can run faster than the river of rock, Arbokk agreed.
“Who are you?” M’jynn asked.
“I was Kuort,” the dead thing hissed through jagged fangs, the set on the right side of his muzzle visible even when his mouth was closed. The flesh of his cheek had been ripped away, remnants of scale and muscle hanging in ragged strands, trembling as he spoke.
“Why are you helping us?” M’jynn asked at Kazan’s prompting.
“Because I need your help in return,” the creature rasped as he ducked back, vanishing into the depths. “The dead rise, and there is a mad thing in my skull.”
Isn’t he dead, too? Joose asked.
Just follow him, the three other Overwatches thought in unison. As the smoke overcame them, the Aern descended, and Alberta galloped on alone.
*
Amid the smoke and terror, one god smiled a brief smile, but not at the circumstances of the mortals in the tunnel. Their plights, though of great import to his daughter, were no longer his concern. Not until the time came for reaping and, happily, despite his earlier fears to the contrary, it wasn’t time for that yet. Not quite.
“Kuort,” he whispered in the dark.
Eyes glowing amber, he recalled reaping that particular Sri’Zaur. Kuort had been the first of the reptiles whose soul had impressed Kholster enough to send it on to Minapsis for judgment and, if the death god had read the reptile correctly, his reward.
“Even without your soul, you are full of surprises.”
What of Uled? Vander’s voice filled his mind.
Aren’t you the god of knowledge now, old friend? Kholster thought back. When Vander had been wounded by a shard of the Life Forge, losing connection to his warsuit and all other Aern, slowly dying, Kholster had decided the time was right to replace Aldo, the former god of knowledge, with his old friend. It was a decision he did not regret. He hoped Vander’s warsuit, Eyes of Vengeance, who had been passed to Kazan along with the responsibilities of Prime Overwatch, was equally remorseless.
Are you sure Vax does not have that title in mind? Vander asked.
I would not think so. Kholster decided to treat Vander’s question as the jest he hoped it was. He understood a certain amount of concern on Vander’s part. Vax was unique. When Wylant had forged their son into a shape-shifting weapon to destroy the Life Forge and defeat Kholster at the Sundering, the child had remained only partially awakened, spending six centuries being wielded by his mother. It could have damaged the child’s mind, but he was strong, and Kholster trusted his children, all of his children.
Having plans and declining to explain them. That sort of secret keeping would paint Kilke as his target. An easiness of spirit slipped back into Vander’s thoughts, so Kholster pushed a little to get him back on the right trail. Or are you saying I should ask Vax about Uled . . .
&n
bsp; I know all about our maker, Kholster. Vander chuckled. But understanding the mad old elf and comprehending his plan are two different things. I was asking your opinion.
Have you seen a change in his activities?
No, Vander thought. But if he does not find a limit to his reach soon, it will be worse than we imagined.
Show him to me. Frowning, Kholster took a single step, transporting himself from the tunnel and the physical world into the realm of the gods beyond.
CHAPTER 3
DESIGNS OF THE DEAD
Writhing and snapping, Uled’s ethereal hooks sank into the dead and claimed them. Viewing from on high, Kholster interpreted the phenomenon as thin lines of white cord emerging from a more central mass beneath the Sri’Zauran Mountains. Stretching tendril-like, the cords ran under the Eldren Plains and portions of the Parliament of Ages, but only in those areas where there were no Root Trees nearby.
One of the many of Kholster stood next to the motionless body of a dead Zaur, which lay too close to Hashan and Warrune for Uled’s tendrils to take hold. Each Root Tree’s magic appeared to stave off Uled for a full jun. Perhaps, Kholster thought, we ought to encourage an expansion of the Vael territories . . .
Thanks, Kholster 8972. Vander acknowledged the thought, but said little, because regardless of how much 8972 felt like he was the real Kholster, the Prime Kholster, he obviously was not. Kholster 8972 shook his head, glad it was up to Vander to sort all this out and not him.
Unlike his predecessor, Torgrimm, who had possessed the ability to enter a dimension of timelessness, allowing him to deal with each soul’s departure personally, with only one body, Kholster, perhaps because of his experience as First of One Hundred, accomplished the same task with an army of almost infinite selves. The strain had nearly been sufficient to drive him mad or worse, but with his friend Vander, the new god of knowledge, standing in as Overwatch for the multitude of Kholster, things were back under control.
