Future Sight

by John Delaney

  “If that is so,” Jeska said, “you should tell me how. And tell me quickly. I’m getting tired of your voice.”

  “These new planeswalkers are the key,” Leshrac said. “Venser of Urborg and Radha of Keld. Their spark is not like ours. The rifts are not affected by them, and the rifts will not consume them.”

  Jeska felt herself relax for the first time since Leshrac had arrived. He was not telling her anything new, and she could use that to gauge the rest of what he said. “Wouldn’t that would rule them out as saviors?”

  “Not at all. Be less linear, Warrior. Approach the problem from a different angle. Venser and Radha are useless for direct confrontation, but they are perfect for indirect action.” His eyes glittered and his flaming crown shifted to golden yellow. “Did the Ghitu tell you of the dragon Bolas, who used Venser and Radha to open a doorway into this world?”

  “Not in great detail.”

  “They were but a lens to him. He focused his power through them and took command of theirs. It was painful, but they did not die. And I say that we can adapt what Bolas did to work here in Otaria. The active participation of a certain warrior thrice-touched by infinity may be all that is required.”

  “Required for what?”

  “To save everything. Everyone. Everywhere.”

  “Look,” Jeska said, “I’ve met Venser. He’s a good man, but he has very little power. Why do you focus on him?”

  “It’s not his power but his potential that makes him important,” Leshrac said. “Radha even more so. She is perfectly suited to your task.”

  “It’s not mine yet.”

  “The rifts will demand everyone’s attention soon. If it is not your task, it will be someone else’s.”

  “So you want me to sacrifice two innocents instead of myself? That’s your plan?”

  Leshrac bowed his head. “I think Jeska can do what is necessary. I think Jeska’s rare nature makes it possible for her to act without sacrificing anyone. They may suffer, but they will not die.”

  “Stop talking to me like I’m not here.”

  “Are you?” Leshrac’s face twisted into a malevolent leer. “Is it Jeska alone who stands before me? Or are there still some traces of Phage and Karona at work?” He gestured up at the sky. “Whoever you were, or are, or may yet be…that is yours, Warrior. You are responsible for it.”

  “Not interested,” Jeska said. “And unless you’re ready for it to become a lot more violent, this conversation is over.”

  “So be it.” Leshrac raised his open palms, and his crown started rotating. “I am saddened but not surprised. I suppose I have only myself and my ill manners to blame.” He floated up from the ground and drifted gently back, away from Jeska. “I will not trouble you further, but I will follow my own path. If we meet again, do me the courtesy of declaring yourself hostile, friendly, or indifferent. I’d hate to misinterpret that famous Pardic directness.”

  “You’ll see me coming,” Jeska said. “And my intentions will be clear whether I declare them or not.”

  “For that I thank you. Good-bye, Jeska of Otaria. If we are not allies, at least we are not enemies.”

  “Not yet.”

  Leshrac smiled. His goals flared brightly, and the sallow-skinned planeswalker disappeared. Once he was gone the creeping cloud of marsh magic stopped its glacial advance and began to break up, returning to the salt flats that spawned it.

  Jeska waited until she was sure Leshrac had truly departed. She concentrated, her vision blurred, and she appeared on the outskirts of the village she called home centuries ago, before she had been touched at all by the infinite.

  The buildings were all in ruins, and the road was broken and webbed with weeds. She wondered where her people were, if they had packed up and headed deeper into the mountains or if they were simply gone—dead or scattered like the rest of Otaria’s great nation-tribes.

  Jeska walked across the empty village square to the council chambers. As she turned the last corner she saw the story wall, a great, flat, stone surface that served as her village’s public bulletin board and community record. Generations of Pardic warriors had carved or burned or etched their family histories into the sheer rock wall, creating a crowded mass of characters and pictograms.

  At the center of the sculpture-mural stood a connected series of images distinct and separate from the rest. Pardic pictograms used a specific icon for people of the tribe and a different one for outsiders. Though the marks were old and worn, Jeska easily followed the rough narrative from one ten-foot-high panel to the next.

  First was a small Pardic woman who stood alongside a much larger Pardic man. The letters below the pair cited them as sibling warriors. Jeska and her brother Kamahl, two of the Pardic mountain’s most accomplished warriors. They were heroes among the rambunctious young, the warriors who had earned vast sums of silver and gold in the big city as they expanded the barbarian tribe’s dread reputation as pit fighters.

  Next came the same Pardic woman, though in this image the etched lines and curves had been stained black. The woman stood at the head of an army of outsiders, and her pictogram was surrounded by small, fine letters that marked the space around her “poison.”

  The third pictogram showed the dark Pardic warrior locked in combat with a winged angel. The two figures were carved so that they merged below the waist. Above them both was a small outsider icon that seemed to be falling into the center of their duel.

  Jeska turned to the fourth image, a giant icon for “goddess” composed of the previous pictograms—the Pardic warrior, the outsider, and the angel. There was no guesswork required in recognizing this entity. Strong, square Pardic symbols below the goddess icon spelled out “Goddess.”

  The last pictogram was a confused collection of all the previous icons. The male Pardic warrior was frozen in midstrike, his axe embedded in Karona. The goddess had been broken open, releasing her component symbols.

  Last was an elegant carving of the small Pardic woman. The finely chiseled lines were no longer black but vivid, sparkling red. Above and below the figure was the work’s title: “Thrice-Touched by Infinity.” Jeska stared at the words for a very long time.

  Jeska turned away from the story wall and stood perfectly still as she waited for inspiration to hit. Karn was no longer with her. Jhoira and Teferi were earnest and capable, but they were reactive and disorganized. Leshrac’s half-offered solution was probably no more than a dodge to get past her defenses. Though he seemed well-informed, Jeska knew that he had only offered pieces of the truth, and offered only those that served him.

  She now wished she had allowed Leshrac to describe his plan in more detail just so there would be one less unknown for her to worry about.

  Jeska’s eyes widened as a new purpose filled her mind. Perhaps that was how she should proceed. There were major gaps in her understanding, unknown elements that would affect and be affected by her. Leshrac was one such unknown. The Keldon Radha was another.

  Both Jhoira and Leshrac had cited the woman’s name, and had connected her and Venser with the rifts. Jeska had met Venser, and had seen a glimpse of his potential, but Radha was still a mystery. By Jhoira’s account Radha had a conduit for magical power to and from the rift but also actively forged a mana bond with her Dominarian homeland. The Keldon elf was a magically tied to the time-rift phenomenon and to the world it threatened.

  Leshrac had said Radha was the key, and Jeska could see how he might be right. She decided to see for herself. She had never been to Keld, but that was no real obstacle, as Karn had taught her well. Jeska’s resolve hardened as her immediate course became clear. She turned away before she teleported, unwilling to have her last image of home be the Pardic story wall.

  Radha moved quickly, stalking steadily forward across the large footpath that bisected the camp. The members of her warhost stood rigid and ready to respond as she went by, but each quickly got off the path and out of sight after she had passed.

  Her long strides c
arried her past the perimeter and out into the rough, treeless terrain beyond. The mana drought and the cold and the Gathan lumber raids had denuded almost all of Keld’s timberland, but it wasn’t until the planeswalker Freyalise leveled her own forest that the elves had come to Radha in large numbers.

  The most recent batch of elf refugees so far refused to sleep within the confines of the camp. They were bound to their traditions of isolation and suspicion, and so far it had suited Radha to allow them to follow along. As she had hoped, the sight of an elf-only contingent outside her main ’host attracted more elves, and soon the unofficial refugee auxiliary accounted for almost a full third of her army.

  A community that large quickly chose its own leaders, and now those leaders were beginning to make demands. Radha had come in person to address those demands.

  She found them one hundred paces outside the camp’s perimeter, over seventy Skyshroud refugees who had come to her when the forest ceased to be. They were creatures of wood and greenery, and they were not thriving among the cold rocks of Keld. All were malnourished, and many were starving. Frostbite and exposure took a terrible toll on the elves’ ability to keep up with the main ’host, and the elf leaders had been moaning that if Radha pushed them any harder, the trek to their new home would become a death march.

  At least the bulk of the refugees hadn’t come with her to Parma—the weather and terrain had been much worse, and it was crawling with ice elementals and winter spirits of wind and cold. Then again, if the elves had found her on the way to Parma instead of the way back, most of them would be dead now and wouldn’t be buzzing in Radha’s ear about their tiny little problems.

  Three armed elves rose to meet her as she approached. Two were the elves’ elected representatives, empowered to speak and negotiate on behalf of the refugees. The third was Llanach, former officer in the Skyshroud rangers and one of the first elves to join Radha’s ’host.

  She ignored the other two and called out to Llanach. “What are they crying about now?”

  Llanach smarted as if struck. He cast his eyes down and gestured to the elves behind him as he spoke. “Warlord, they want to build a long house.”

  Radha bared her square teeth at the elves behind Llanach. “Why?”

  “Our people need to rest,” the one on the left said, “to heal. We are grateful for all you have done for us, Warlord Radha, but we cannot go on.”

  “Not until spring,” the other said. “All we ask is some time and the resources to put up four walls and a ceiling.”

  “You’ll starve inside of two months,” Radha said.

  “Not if we stop here,” the elf said, “and build now.”

  “There are enough of us still healthy to gather food and fuel for the rest,” the other said. “And that number will grow every day we’re allowed to recover. We will provide for ourselves.”

  “No you won’t,” Radha said. “You’re going to break down this shantytown and get ready to march. We leave tomorrow morning.” She sneered at the elf on the left. “You don’t owe me thanks, you owe me obedience. You asked for my protection and I made you part of my ’host. This is how I treat my ’host. I keep you alive, and you follow my lead.”

  “We cannot go on. Many will die on the trail if we do.”

  “All will die right here if you don’t.” Radha felt her frustration welling up, becoming anger, becoming power that demanded release. She clenched her jaw, concentrated, and a curtain of orange, leaf-shaped flames erupted in the air around her head.

  “Please,” Llanach said. He dropped to one knee and spoke to the ground. “They’re not defiant, they’re just scared and beaten. They have lost their champion”—he bobbed his head toward Radha—“their home, and the living goddess who sustained them. They…we are all that is left of Skyshroud. Please, Warlord. Let these last precious seeds germinate here before you plant them.”

  “Stand up, Llanach.” Radha said. The emaciated ranger rose to his feet and stood at perfect attention. “That was very poetic,” she said, and she swatted him across the face with the back of her hand and sent him sprawling across the rocks.

  “I hate poetry,” she said. She turned to face the elf ambassadors, and the flames around her glowed bright. “Let’s try simple facts. We have lost Skyshroud. This is our home now, this is our territory. And I mean to make Keldons of you all.”

  The elf on the right strained as he spoke. “The children of Freyalise,” he said stiffly, “will never be Keldons.” He held Radha’s eye. “We are Skyshroud.”

  “No. You’re the corpse of an idiot.” Radha sprang forward and buried one of her tear-shaped blades in the elf’s ribcage. She hugged his body tight as his muscles convulsed. She spoke directly into his pointed ear. “Congratulations.”

  The other elf started to cry out, but the sound died in his open throat as Radha darted forward and pressed her blade against his neck.

  “Freyalise is gone,” Radha snarled. “Skyshroud is gone. They cannot sustain you.” She pushed the elf back, slicing a shallow, nonlethal cut across his jugular and windpipe. “But I can.”

  The elf ambassador fell onto his rear and tried to scoot farther away. Llanach had gone to the other, who lay curled in a ball with his hands pressing into his chest. Blood pooled below him as Llanach tried to help staunch the flow.

  Radha inhaled sharply and concentrated. Now for the hard part, she thought. She felt the deep, throbbing heartbeat of Keld below her, felt it booming rhythmically along her spine, her own pulse beating in perfect complement. Once it was Freyalise’s magic and mana from Skyshroud’s rift that preserved and restored Radha. It was relatively easy to heal herself and others with the power of Nature. Now the goddess was gone, the forest was gone, and the rift was gone, but Radha still had Keld. The magic of fire and rock did not provide the same restorative balm as that of leaf and bough, but it had kept many a warrior alive on the battlefield.

  The flames around her swirled together and flowed into her shoulder blades. Radha’s head snapped back, and she let out a feral roar. Swirling waves of flame shot down both arms and erupted from her fingertips, engulfing Llanach and the punctured elf in crackling, yellow fire.

  The other elf shrieked and stumbled to his feet. Radha jerked her head toward him and met his eyes. Terrible red light flashed around her irises and she barked, “Sit. Back. Down.” The elf’s legs crumpled beneath him, and he dropped to ground where he stood.

  She felt the flow of mana through her arms grow stronger, but only when it threatened to pull her off balance did she end the spell. Snapping her arms out straight to her sides, Radha cut off the stream of fire with a loud crack.

  Llanach and the other continued to burn, huddled under a mound of semisolid flame. The fire quickly dwindled, leaving a charred, black circle on the rocks. At the center of that circle, Llanach stood, eyes wide, and tentatively touched his cheek where Radha had hit him.

  Confused, Llanach crouched back down and rolled the other elf onto his side. The clean cut between his ribs had closed and grown over, leaving an ugly, red scar. The elf was still in obvious pain as he got to his knees, but he was no longer bleeding out.

  Radha spoke loudly, clearly. “Skyshroud was my home, too, and Freyalise, my goddess. They are gone, but we are still here. Keld is still here. I can keep you alive. Keld can protect and preserve you. But only if you’re part of it.”

  She glanced at the trio of elves and said, “We have all lost Skyshroud and Freyalise. But we are still here, and now you answer to me. No long house. Not here. You will be installed on the coastline for the winter as the first step toward rebuilding the port town. Your journey doesn’t end until your precious frostbitten feet touch the ocean.

  “In the meantime, send any exhausted, wounded, or otherwise incapacitated elves to me.” She grinned savagely, and an updraft of warm air blew her hair out behind her in a thick, bushy mane. “I’ll fix them right up.” Her smile twisted into an angry snarl. “Nobody dies. Everybody marches. That’s how it
is.”

  Radha turned and stomped back toward camp. That would keep them quiet for a few days. In truth she felt the loss of Skyshroud more acutely than they did, or rather the loss of the Skyshroud rift. She had enjoyed a near-limitless stream of mana while the rift was an active, verdant force that she used to strengthen and nourish her ’host, but Freyalise had shut the rift down. The planeswalker managed to kill herself and Skyshroud in the process, cutting off almost all of Keld’s usable forest mana in one fell swoop.

  Since then Radha had been forced to adapt Keld’s fire magic to the healing spells she knew, with only partial success. Her own ribs still creaked from the rough healing fire she had used on herself in Parma, but she knew she was becoming better at it. Llanach and the other elf would probably feel no pain from their injuries in a few days.

  She spotted torchlight from the camp’s perimeter and began planning her next move. There was the boy to consider, plus Skive’s concerns about bearing the trophy. Radha snorted angrily as she walked. No wonder her Keldon ancestors were famous for brutalizing their warhosts—Radha had been leading hers for only a few months and already she felt like killing half of them just to shut them up. In battle they were finely tuned and cohesive, but she was quickly learning that managing a horde between campaigns was an entirely different kind of challenge.

  It was tempting to sympathize with the elves, to relent and let them hole up to lick their wounds for a season or two. The boy needed rest as much as the refugees, but like them he also needed to toughen up first. A few more days and nights of camp conditions and they’d reach the shoreline. She’d be able to let everyone regroup and refresh themselves, to build more solid homes against the icy Keldon winds.

  Radha felt an unnatural tingle run up her spine. There was powerful magic in the air, of an aspect that was all too familiar to Radha.