The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1)

by Davis, H. Anthe

  *****

  The feeling hit so hard that Sarovy quailed in his saddle, jaw sagging, heart stopped for an instant of sheer mindless terror. Wingbeats drummed in his head: the pinions of some horrible, titanic raptor to which all life was a helpless feast.

  Then the horse bucked beneath him and he clung instinctually, shaken from his shock. The presence remained, a traumatic weight, but though his pulse thundered in his ears he managed to think, Control yourself. You are not an animal.

  All around him, the road had dissolved into chaos. Cart-horses thrashed in their traces, frenzied packbeasts broke from their cringing handlers, wagons swayed and smashed together and spilled their contents onto the cobbles. Poles snapped, spilling the frenzied masses into the down-Rift side. Behind him he heard the harsh cries of his men and the clash of shod hooves on stone as their war-horses, though hardened, succumbed to the wave of fear. His own steed lurched and reared wildly, forward momentum arrested by the need to turn but the lack of space, and he gripped the saddle-horn and twisted with its movements to avoid being dashed against the stone wall that loomed all too close.

  This was not the first time. The fires in Jernizan had sent the horses mad. Each close encounter with a grass dragon and its long, poisoned fangs had been much the same. His armor hindered him and as he fought the whiplash of the horse’s crazed movements, he felt muscle wrench and sinew fray. But he refused to be thrown. Not with the hooves, the wheels, the claws and panicked feet that threatened to crush all who fell.

  He saw ahead in streaks and flashes. Trevere’s horse was on the upper walkway somehow, dancing madly. The girl-prisoner flew from hers and hit a wagon side but managed to rally; in the next sweep he saw her on the walkway chasing the black shape that was Trevere while his horse fled in the other direction.

  And far, far up the road was the cart they had pursued all this distance, driving straight up the path that had been cleared for it somehow through the chaos. In the back sat their quarry, his head slumped down. On the bench was—

  He could not even look at it. Primitive aversion forced his eyes away, made the skin of his shoulders crawl, made him duck his head as if the sky itself would grow claws and tear him away into its thunder-bruised nest. No details, not even a shape, just a single impression.

  White wings.

  Holy Light, he thought.

  *****

  Lark ran. The ribbon around her wrist forced her along, burning, even as her sides ached and the air raced into her lungs like stinging needles.

  Ahead was Trevere. She kept her eyes on him, not daring to look around at the madness, at the wreckage still ongoing. Her boots slipped on the spillage of sidewalk vendors’ wares: water, beer, pulped fruit, broken glass. The wall-walkway she traveled was all but clear, a few people slumped and trembling pitifully but the rest fled.

  She could not let the fear stop her. The closer she came, the more she felt it, like a clawed hand pressing down on her from above. How Trevere could approach it without stumbling, she could not imagine, but with every step he drew further ahead of her, closer to parallel with the cart and his prey. She only glimpsed the cart in between the berserk thrash of wagons and beasts, but she knew the figures on it.

  Cob. Rian, huddled in the corner.

  And the man from Bahlaer who had thrown her to the wall.

  I can’t do it. Can’t do it. Can’t do it, she thought, but knew she had to. Trevere had his blade out. She saw his head turn, searching the chaotic sea, and knew what he planned.

  Forcing the fear away, she ran for both their lives.

  He was abreast of it now. The beasts and vehicles were surging out of the cart’s way but between the wall and the trees, they could only go so far; she heard wood snapping and splintering, glimpsed caravan-wagons half-yanked through the broken poles, but still the cart had to weave. Trevere kept pace with it and moved to the very edge of the wall, boots pounding at the verge. Her stomach twisted.

  He leapt out. Sunlight streaked his fair hair as his feet came down on an abandoned wagon-bench. Two steps, and as the cart drew level with him, he leapt again, the long dagger leaving a bloody streak in the dust-fumed air.

  She saw the flare of light first, the whipcrack sound striking her ears an instant after. Backward Trevere flew, his tunic smoking, and slammed through a shade-canopy and into the brick building behind it. A burning tingle ran through her--not the pain she had expected, but Trevere was a tough bastard, already getting up, a rictus of fear and rage on his face.

  Then he was running again.

  But she had closed the distance.

  She did not reach out. She knew that if she yanked on his shirt, it would take just a motion for him to slice her hand off. The cart was pulling ahead, the ramp that led to the Climb drawing rapidly near, but if Trevere tried, he could catch it again.

  Can’t let you.

  Her boot came down right at his heel, and she threw herself forward, tucking her shoulder against his side and lashing her arms around his middle. He coughed in surprise and tried to keep going but her weight, her momentum thrust him down. His arms flashed out to break his fall and the blade cut a massive gouge in the walkway as he hit.

  Then he was thrashing, twisting, and she closed her eyes and thought, The end. He flipped her easily and she gagged as a knee nailed her in the gut, then a hand clamped around her throat. She clutched at the wrist, knowing it was the wrong one, knowing that the blade was free and wondering if maybe it would have been better to let the sorcerer blast them both. Better than being fed to that monstrous, murderous hunger.

  And then the breath rushed out of him in a hiss. The grip loosened. The knee slid away.

  She slitted her eyes open and saw him straddled above her but his gaze on where the cart must be, a look of such despair on his sweat-streaked face that it hurt to see. She wanted no empathy with him and pried his hand from her throat, and he let her. His eyes were glass.

  Slowly he rose, and slid the blade back into its sheath.

  Around them, the cacophony began to subside. She pushed up on one arm and saw why: the cart was in the Climb, its splintered flank just barely visible in the thin gap that let light and air into the passage. The fear had faded like a fog burning off. Screams became weeping and cries for help.

  The Hunter’s hands were shaking.

  Even when she stood, even when she moved away to holler an answer to the lieutenant’s distant shouts, he stayed there. She sat on the wall and watched the soldiers work to calm the crowd, prying apart tangled vehicles and releasing frantic beasts and lifting the injured to the walkway as the storm rolled ever closer.

  And still, any time she looked back, Trevere was there. Staring. His head lifting and turning ever so slowly, as if to track the progress of his prey.

  Chapter 14 – The Climb

  Cob came back to consciousness with a blazing headache. All around him, the world was black, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath cart-wheels. He tried to sit up and small arms clenched around his chest. A sad meep sounded from against his side.

  He sighed faintly and felt around for the goblin’s bald head. Its tail curled possessively along his arm and he reflected on how this would have sent him shrieking into the night less than a week ago. Blinking in the dark, he struggled to get his bearings.

  A flash lit up the area briefly, throwing crazy shadows, and in that glimpse he realized he was in a tunnel like a throat, with a slit carved out of the side-wall in parallel to the slight incline. Thunder rumbled in the wake of the flash, reverberating through the passageway as if he and the goblin and the cart had been swallowed by some great lion.

  “The Rift Climb,” he mumbled. He did not remember making it through the town.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” said Morshoc’s voice from the dark.

  He craned his head but could see nothing. The slit in the wall had subsided to deep grey, the storm having finally reached the Rift. A faint, freshening scent of ozone and rain drifted in on the breeze, but
the air in the tunnel was still and dank.

  “What happened?” Cob mumbled. His mouth was dry and tasted of metal.

  “We evaded our pursuit. I apologize for my tactics but I could not risk them catching you.”

  “Tactics?” He patted his side until he found the strap and the weight of the canteen, and fumbled the cap off. Water spilled down his throat and chin, and he coughed and wedged himself into a sitting position.

  “And anyway, you needed your sleep.”

  I fell asleep? he thought, baffled. The last thing he remembered was watching Darilan draw near. The rage, the pain, the rise of the spirit, and then…

  Waking. He frowned and twisted the cap back on. “You knocked me out.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Details. Just trust that I know what’s best for you.”

  Cob scowled. That was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially from a sorcerer.

  Sorcerer--that’s right! He’s a piking spellcaster. Probably a piking mentalist!

  You’re a bastard and I hate you, he thought hard in Morshoc’s direction.

  No reaction.

  All right, maybe not. But the recollection made him uneasy. “So you’re a sorcerer.”

  “Evidently.”

  "And sorcery's...the same as magic?"

  He heard the smirk in Morshoc's voice as the man said, "The very same. Just energy put to arcane use. I'm glad I don't have to explain everything."

  “I thought you said magic and spirits don’t mix?”

  “They don’t.”

  “But-- Then-- How can you be a spirit-thing and a mage at the same time?”

  “Practice.”

  “That’s not a pikin’ answer!”

  “Oh, it’s not? My apologies. Now go back to sleep.”

  Gritting his teeth, Cob said, “Why? How long have I been out?”

  “Several marks. Difficult to tell since the storm rolled in, but I believe it to be evening.”

  “And the Crimsons?” A sudden lurch of conscience. “Did you kill ‘em?”

  “No. They have fallen behind.”

  Cob exhaled, relieved. Though the soldiers had killed people in pursuit of him, he knew it was their duty. He would still be one of them if not for the spirit. However much they might have lied to him about sorcery, that revelation was too new and too peripheral for him to wish them dead.

  Except for Darilan.

  “Guess they’ll turn back,” he said hopefully. “Over the Rift is Gold Army jurisdiction.”

  “Perhaps. One of them seemed quite invested in your return.”

  Cob scowled, not wanting to think about it.

  “Do you know why?” Morshoc prompted.

  “No.”

  “Come now, Cob…”

  “Why do you care?”

  “If he’s a danger—“

  “Of course he’s a pikin’ danger!” Cob snapped. “He’s an assassin.”

  “But he’s a Crimson. And as you said, across the Rift is Gold territory.”

  Cob clenched his teeth and stared at the flickers in the clouds.

  He would follow me into the very bowels of the Dark.

  It was the truth. He had seen that determination burning in Darilan’s eyes at the tavern, worse than anything he could have imagined. His former friend, his protector, his own personal guardian—

  Insane. Absolutely insane.

  And the horror was that Darilan seemed aware of it. Like he was chained somehow to the pursuit, no matter where it might take him. No matter what it might do to him.

  Cob knew he was being a fool, but he feared for his lost friend almost as much as he was afraid of him.

  “So you think he might—“

  “Yes,” Cob said. “He will.”

  “Then we should—“

  “Shut up.”

  Morshoc’s affront hung in the air for a moment, then the sorcerer sighed. “Have it your way. I won’t mention it further.”

  Cob grunted and scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. It was stupid to care. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But five years was a long time, and even the flash of the sword, the death-gurgle, the mad gleam of Darilan’s eyes…

  Even such violent upheavals could not change what had been.

  Ahh, pike me, I’m gonna cry again, he thought, and pinched the busted bridge of his nose. Curse it, I’m turning into a little girl.

  “How long ‘til we reach the top?” he said, forcing gruffness.

  “Hard to say. Hopefully we’ll arrive by mid-afternoon.”

  “Have you slept? D’you need me to drive?”

  “Do you know how to drive?”

  “Um…”

  “Then no. I do not need you to drive.”

  “But, I mean… You've slept, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “When?”

  “While you weren’t looking.”

  Cob frowned. Aside from a few pit-stops, he was sure they had been on the road steadily since last night. “And the horse is fine? Been a rough trip…”

  “Don’t concern yourself.”

  “But—“

  “Cobrin. Go back to sleep.”

  “Pike you, I’m not tired!”

  “You’ve had a long, trying few days…”

  “So what? I’ve gone with less sleep.” Angry now, Cob grabbed the edge of the cart and hauled himself up to the bench, the goblin squeaking and clinging to him with all four limbs and tail. His hip bumped against Morshoc’s as he settled in and braced his feet, and even through several layers of clothes, he felt the cold radiating off the sorcerer intensely.

  Ahead was nothing but dark tunnel delineated by the thin strip of cloud-light.

  “Tell me what’s goin’ on,” he said to Morshoc.

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t like bein’ lied to.”

  “Funny. You’ve lived with it for quite some time.”

  Cob gritted his teeth but told himself he absolutely would not punch the sorcerer. Not like it would do any good anyway, since that blue ward—

  Hold on.

  “Why didn’t your magic stop me when I was tryin’ to strangle you?”

  Morshoc turned his head slightly. All Cob could see of his face was one eye reflecting a thin rim of cloud. “I’m not defending myself against you,” he said calmly. “I’d like to think that we can trust each other.”

  “So if I punched you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “But if I did?”

  “I truly don’t want to light you on fire, but you’re making it difficult.”

  “Fine,” said Cob. Morshoc’s evasiveness was getting on his nerves, but it told him that something was amiss. If only he could fathom what it was. “But you said you wouldn’t be cryptic,” he tried.

  “Tell me, do you understand the difference between ‘cryptic’ and ‘none of your blasted business’?”

  “No.”

  Morshoc sighed in exasperation. “All right, fine. Why don’t I tell you a bedtime story?”

  “You mocked Jasper for tellin’ stories.”

  “This is different. I will be very, very blunt. But you’ll have to promise to stop bothering me about the cold and the sleeping. And the magic. Deal?”

  Cob snorted. “Deal.”

  “Get in the cart.”

  With an invisible nod, Cob slid back to the cart-bed and settled in, feeling around for the bundle as his stomach nagged at him. The goblin wiggled free and curled up nearby, its tail still slung possessively over his thigh.

  “Once upon a time, there were six sacred places. And in each sacred place was a Seal.”

  The bundle fell from Cob’s twitching hands. Lines of light carved the tunnel roof into a shining net, and the pain stabbed in like a pitchfork to the forehead. Distantly he felt the boards against his shoulders, the sudden strain of every muscle, but he was falling away into the blackness—into rushing dark water and the surge of the ruins, the roar of stone and
wood.

  Then a cold hand touched his brow and brushed away the dark realm. The pain vanished. He slumped, dazed.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell that one,” said Morshoc dryly.

  Cob struggled to sit up, his body responding only sluggishly. His lips moved but no sound came. As if expecting the question, Morshoc answered it.

  “The Guardian wants to show you something,” he said. “I can imagine what. We were both there at the time—your spirit and mine. The bonds upon you keep it from communicating, though, and its attempts will only hurt you. Let me try a different story.”

  “Can’t you…do somethin’ about the bonds?” Cob managed roughly.

  “Not here, not now. Put your Daecian suicide plans on hold and I’ll take you to Corvia, to the mountains. I can work there.”

  “No detours. I’m goin’ to Daecia City.”

  Morshoc sighed. “Well, you’re a fool. I’ll see what I can do once we’ve shaken our pursuit. Now…story. I suppose I should start at the beginning.”

  Cob found the bundle again and held it tight, waiting for the pain as Morshoc began.

  “Long before we bothered to record time, and long before there were such things as goblins or men, all living creatures were one people, united under one Great Spirit. Shapeshifters. Matter and form were fluid in that age; the earth herself was new and fresh, her face always changing, and the waters and the winds were never still.

  “We were like her. We could change ourselves at will, like children shrugging in and out of costumes. We explored the shifting world as innocents, from the lightless caverns and the ocean depths to the great peaks and the skies beyond. Some of us were taken with the glories of certain places and lingered there, forming ourselves to adapt to their hazards, while others could not settle—always seeking the new horizon. We spread everywhere, to every corner of earth and sea and sky.

  “And the Great Spirit spread with us. It was inside like a tether connecting every soul, and within everyone we met, we saw ourselves.

  “Idyllic, you might think. But time moves away from such innocence.

  “The first schism came in a green valley far from here. We did not yet know death, and so our numbers within that valley grew to fill its bounds, with the green declining beneath the teeth that tore at it. Season after season, we ate more and watched less grow back.