He had a purpose. He marvelled at it. For so long on this journey he had thought himself just a part, a small cog in a great wheel. Now it turned out he had a fate. No longer blown, he would forge his own path. How, he did not know, but he was learning all the time.
Now he watched his companions with new eyes. He watched their new allies in awe since his awakening. There was so much to learn. And learn, and grow, he must.
As the week past, the voice in his head spoke to him. He grew to love her a little, even if he did feel fear at the prospect of his own, personal quest. So much to do.
But he was committed on a course. His blood called to him. His land called to him. Suddenly he was aware of how much he missed Sturma, how much he loved the land he grew in, and how it took for him to leave that land to learn his destiny, his future, and the power of his blood.
He would be forged on foreign plains. He had to know of the world. That was his lot. To bring his land together, to hold strong. There would be a future. When the wizard awoke, it would not be the end, but a new beginning.
So he watched, and he listened. He learned much in that week. When he spoke, he learned to do so within his head. Drun questioned him, but he was not ready to share yet. He bounced, he rode the Terythyr’s back, he followed.
When the time came, the voice told him, following was a good lesson. One had to know how to follow in order to lead.
The immensity of it humbled him. One must know how to be humble to recognise hubris, the voice warned him, and he listened. On the way he discovered something else amazing. He knew love. He loved the voice, in a way he never had in life. Without the bonds of flesh binding her, and his eyes, understanding blossomed, and love grew. If only, he mused in a secret part of his mind, his wife had been so forgiving when she had been flesh and blood.
Chapter Seventy-Four
The mountain was falling down. The ground shook under his feet, and Klan, for all his power, could not stop it. An avalanche of rock had fallen to ground in the last quake, tumbling down the side of the mountain like a flowing river, some boulders as large as a man, snows in great waves pushing the rock forward.
He fumed in peace. He had lost base camp. Not a trace of them remained. Yet he could not take out his frustration on a mountain. Even he could not move the earth, bring back life, or hold back an avalanche. So he fumed in peace, his eyes leaking red light, but he could control himself to a greater degree now. He no longer lost his temper, or killed in a fit of pique.
Instead he willed himself calm, blinked and closed his eyes. The messenger before him was not quaking, but Klan read fear in his face, in the set of his shoulders. But he would not burn him. He recognised that the soldier was no more at fault than himself.
Oh, but he longed to lash out with his ascendants power, to burn the soldier to a crisp, to drink in his pain, fuelling greater feats, to burn all his men and raze the mountains flat, melt the ice and set the world on fire…but that was the blight talking. Klan could control it. It was his power, his to wield. He would not be a tool for the blight. He could not afford a lapse. He had already lost a hundred men to the shaking mountains and the quaking lands.
Perhaps the land quaked from fear of him?
He permitted himself a small smile. The soldier, misinterpreting that smile, began to sweat, despite the frigid air in the tent. Klan needed no heat. He burned with an inner fire.
“Leave me,” he said, and closed his eyes lest the sight of the soldier infuriated him beyond control.
He just needed some time alone. Some time to calm himself. The tent glowed red. He breathed deeply and pushed himself inside. Searching, searching the bone archive, as he often did. He found comfort, a kind of peace in the hard letters scorched onto his skeleton. The flowing words calmed him, the hunt, a hunt for knowledge. Somehow it soothed him. He did not know why. Mostly he found himself soothed by taking life, by striping a face from bone, or staring at his delegation in his quarters in Arram.
Every thinking being needed a break from their work.
The ground rumbled beneath its covering of ice, but it did not bother Klan. He was insensible to the going on of the world for a moment in time.
Blinking, the light extinguished itself, and he returned to the real world, but an instant spend with his bone archive, and he felt refreshed.
He poked his head out into the sunshine and called an aid to him.
“Take note, Iryal, I wish a new base camp set one mile from the site of the avalanche. It is the centre of the disturbance. I feel we will find our goal there before long. See to it.”
“Yes, Anamnesor.” The aid bowed and left quickly to execute his orders before Klan could change his mind. Their leader was somewhat unstable. All his soldiers realised this, but the honour of serving the new division was all they thought of. It was their lot to serve. They were soldiers. He was the Anamnesor, riding high among the Speculate. He was ascendant. It was more than most of them could ever hope for.
Klan turned his attention back inside, and researched what he could find of quakes, and fire mountains. He set himself a goal. By tonight he would be in place. He would find the mountain. Already he knew that it would be the centre of the disturbances. He spared a moment to wonder where his adversaries were. He had not heard from his outriders. In a moment, he would travel there and see what was happening. He could commune, but he felt he needed a personal touch.
Periodic rumbles came while he searched. The quakes were becoming more frequent. The ice was shaking itself apart.
Had he spared the time to look, Klan, with his powerful eyes, might have discerned the mountain peak above him slowly growing, pulsing, like a beating heart.
Chapter Seventy-Five
The snow cleared overnight, and they woke to a brilliant clear sky, a pristine blue. Early morning sun glinted lazily on the fresh snow. Drun woke first, and his eyes smiled at the sight. For a Sard, bathing in sunlight, even a cold sun, was like a balm to the soul. He stretched, waking the beast next to him with a careless elbow.
He emerged from the shadow of the rocks he had been sheltering under, stamped his feet to settle his toes in his new boots, and strode out to bath in the cold sunlight. Behind him, too early to rise, the warriors slept, huddled for warmth against the rocks, surrounded by the snow beasts, taking warmth from their shaggy hair. He could afford to let them sleep. They had been running with the humans on their broad shoulders for a week. They seemed tireless, giants perfectly designed to survive the harsh land.
Once Drun had explained what they planned to do, the Terythyrian’s had agreed at once to aid them. They hunted while they ran, and while fruit and vegetables were non-existent, meat was surprisingly abundant. They soon got used to raw meat, Renir being the only one who had turned his nose up, although a grumbling belly is a great incentive to try new things.
Drun knew the value of food. From his long exile at sea, he had always been grateful for any sustenance. In some ways raw meat was preferable to that which had been charred. It had a fuller, distinctive flavour. He remembered fondly the taste of raw snapper, and shell-snipe, even squid, to some extent, although the texture had left something to be desired.
Stretching, he toyed with the idea of communing, but he had nothing to tell. The day was set already. He could do little but interfere now.
He looked to the horizon and saw their goal. Peaks reared into the sky, slicing into the beautiful blue sky with a cold white blade. Clouds hovered darkly at their tips, promising more snow to come.
The range extended as far as the eye could see, covering the plains. The ground rose steadily. In the mountains he knew the air would become thin, their breathing laboured. He wondered how the warriors would fare when they had to fight among the clouds. He had no doubt about the Terythyrians — they made their homes among the mountains. They were accustomed to hardship, the unforgiving land that they called home.
Men, on the other hand, they were not at home in the mountains. The Culthorn mountains, perhap
s, were a bane that travellers could live with. This range was something else. The peaks were difficult to judge, but looming large even at this distance Drun thought they might top five thousand feet at their tips.
Hopefully he would not have to climb so far. He was far from young, and while his faith gave him strength, his bones and muscles told the truth of it. He was not fit enough to make the climb. His brothers told him that the entrance to the volcano was on the west side — they would have to find passage over the mountains. The Protectorate encampment, and their portal, waited for them on this side of the mountain. He had no ideas on how to pass them, allowing his brothers, and Tirielle, to join them.
He was not a tactician, he was a priest. Best leave the planning to Shorn and Wen. Two men born for war. But, he thought with a smile, Shorn had changed. Drun had played no little part, but Shorn had made the change himself. From a bloodthirsty monster into a man to call a friend.
Wen had seen the change. It was gratifying, and somehow pleasing, to be travelling with the man that Shorn was becoming. Even though he was in his middle years, it proved that a man was never too old to change. Never too old to learn.
A pain gripped Drun’s tender bowels. He calmed himself, relaxing as best he could, and turned his face to the sun. Now it shone from those icy peaks, and with the red glow of dawn remaining, it seemed as though those mountains were a blood drenched blade…Drun did not believe in omens, but it boded ill for their chances. He was under no illusions, though. They would not all survive the coming battle.
Sighing, the pain past, he pulled his cloak tighter, although it was warmer than it had been for a week. He turned his head as he heard someone approaching.
Wen rubbed some life into his arms. The snow beasts were stirring now, moving out into the plains, some returning from their night time hunting and scouting.
“Good morning, Drun. It is a fine day.”
“Something to be thankful for, perhaps,” said Drun with a smile for the old warrior.
“Well,” said Wen, cracking his broad shoulders and settling them again, “we’ll be there tonight. Are you ready to die?”
Drun laughed freely. “I have been ready to die for the last ten years. But it need not come to that.” He kept his doubts to himself. “Do you have a plan? Tomorrow, we will fight. If the snows come, I will be blind and powerless. You cannot rely on me.”
“What of the Terythyrians?”
It was their one hope. The Terythyrians had a magic of their own. While all could not cast, some among them could wield the magic of the land, a magic pulled from the rock underneath the snow. Those with magical abilities had eyes of slate grey, unlike the Protectorate, somehow warmth suffused their eyes.
“They will stand beside us. But the Protectorate are strong. If what I know is true, they are at some disadvantage. They feed on the land, and on people, to wield their most powerful magic. They use a breed of magician called Particulates. They feed their incantations with the power of life that they steal. But there is little life for them to feed on. But as you saw when we landed, they are far from powerless.”
“Their soldiers are fast and wily, too. Without the Terythyrians, there would be no way to prevail. It is luck, or a gift…I do not know. I will leave the philosophy to you, my friend.”
“And what of you? Are you fit for the battle ahead?”
“I am. Just one more fight in a long life. If it is my time, I know I am long overdue to pass into the Kingdom of Dunmain.”
“In Sturma, they believe you pass through a set of gates, into Madal’s kingdom.”
“And what do you believe, Drun?” said Wen, eyes watching the priest shrewdly.
“I believe we all return to the sun. Perhaps it is different for every man.”
“Maybe so. I have seen the dead though, but I have yet to see paradise or peace.”
Drun nodded, and turned his eyes to the distant peaks. “Pray that you don’t tomorrow. We need you still.”
“My altar is my sword. Does that bother you?”
“As you say, every man has their own beliefs.”
All the warriors had risen now, and donned their armour and taken up their packs and weapons. Ice Walker approached them, with another beast who had introduced itself (like the rahkens, the younger warriors had no gender) as Roamer, and spoke with swift hands.
“Time to go. They want to be in the mountains by nightfall. It will be a long day.”
“I don’t know. When you reach our age,” said Wen, “days somehow seem too short.”
Drun, feeling the pain in his gut take hold again, paled but held himself straight. He could only agree.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Klan arrived at the coast with little fanfare.
The void had been more disconcerting than usual, the haunted voices that drifted to his ears through the darkness somehow tortured, and he sensed in them rising fear. He did not know why. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was because of his increasing power. It was unknown, and troubling, but he concerned himself with it no more. The space between worlds would forever be a mystery, and he was no student to waste time studying the phenomena of the disembodied voices. Leave that to others. He had more pressing worries.
The Sard had arrived. It was an unknown quantity that affected his goal directly.
The air by the coast was brisk, invigorating. He did not have the time to take pleasure in its cold caress. Around him, at the cove, were signs of battle, a scene of death frozen for all time, or at least until the return. Then things would warm up enough to thaw even the frozen wastes. The dead that littered the cove would fester and split open, decomposition finally destroying the tableau of carnage that greeted his arrival.
He stalked the beach, looking carefully at the frozen bodies. A sword thrust, he saw, brushing snow from the chest of one of his soldiers. Clean through, he noted, turning the body with some effort. An incantor, throat slashed. Another clean cut. The story was the same no matter where he looked. Too few bodies. Some must have been washed out to sea. But not since death. Almost immediately they would have been frozen. His enemy had landed, and somehow overcome his casters. There were only two ways to overcome his casters — with stronger magic, or a well aimed arrow. None of the dead sported arrows. He could only imagine that it was the Sard wizard.
Together, with Shorn, and their mysterious companion, they had slaughtered all his warriors. Powerful adversaries indeed.
He was not annoyed. He was piqued. The loss of more of his elite bothered him, as did the power that the Sard obviously wielded. The warriors, Shorn, famed as he was, worried him. Somehow, although he was merely a man with sword, he continued to elude his grasp. His ally, though, the Sard…he was something to be reckoned with.
Klan knew all about human power. For centuries, the Protectorate had tried to stamp it out. But like a roach, it survived, against all odds. Sometimes he wondered. Was it more powerful, more dangerous, than the arts his own kind used? Were the legends true?
He kicked a body with mild manners, and opened the portal.
They were coming to him. All he had to do was prove ready. There was no more time, or need, for subtly.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
It had been the hardest week of Tirielle’s long flight to date. The wildlife shunned the forest between Beheth and Arram, as if sensing the darkness to the north.
Tirielle had wondered many times if it was some enchanted laid down for an age by the Protectorate, magic lasting from the dawn of time, stilling the forest so that they could hear the whisper of any approach through the silence.
Food had been scarce, a forage woefully sparse. She had lost weight, she knew, and felt hunger gnawing at her insides most days. Now the end was in sight. They had ridden as hard as they could to reach this point. Hiding out, in a hollow a mile from Arram, hiding under the noses of the very hunters that sought them.
All they had to do was top the rise, and shout ‘here we are!’ and the mighty warriors of the Pro
tectorate would be upon then.
Sometimes Tirielle longed to do just that. To end it all. She was tired, so tired, of the battles never fought, the war waged in hiding and silence, ducking, avoiding confrontation, sneaking through the back door. She wished it was all over. It was such a long road to travel. But when she felt despair welling from the black places in her mind she quelled the thoughts as best she could, with comfort from her friends, kind words from Roth, and memories of her father. It was her father who had taught her to be strong, to understand the tricks a mind could play on the unwary. Her father, who had made the ultimate sacrifice in the fight for freedom, the fight for justice, in a town far to the north. They had suffered more than most at the hands of the Protectorate. What had he done, though, in the end? He had saved the town, but the Protectorate had covered up, and without his strong voice against them, there was no one left to stand for the abused, to fight for justice for the meek.
She missed him daily, but never more so than when she felt despair, for she knew that even as a memory he was trying to raise her spirits, telling her to remember what made her human. It was the difference between humans and the Protectorate — compassion. The drive to do what was right, to fight against the fear and stand true, stand tall, in the face of oppression, despite of terror and human frailty. She understood her weakness.
In the face of her fear, and her tiredness, she consoled herself that she was human. She gave thanks that she could feel such emotions, that she could feel love, and anger, and hate. Her emotions ranged wide and free, and that set her apart from them. She had her father to thank for his wisdom, for the power to fight her own innate weaknesses and the drive to overcome them.
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