“Take it easy. You need to rest, recuperate, and let me help you.”
“No, I'll be okay.” Sarn dismissed that offer of help. It wasn't what he needed no matter what the Guardian said.
“You don’t want to be healed?” His hero sounded incredulous.
His helm was down, hiding his face. In fact, all twelve Guardians’ faces were hidden or blurred out, and they were all staring at Sarn. Because you’re acting like a cornered beast, you dolt.
“No, thank you.” Sarn shook his head and winced when that send pains stabbing through his head again. “Why are your faces covered?”
The Guardian touched his face plate as if he’d just noticed it was there. When he tried to push it up, nothing happened.
“Well, that’s odd. It probably has something to do with Drigorem’s curse.”
“What’s that?” Ran asked, but he kept his scared eyes fixed on Sarn as if they alone could hold him to consciousness. Maybe they could. Sarn squeezed his son’s shoulder.
“It’s the curse the last living Guardian cast on the Usurper, Reveil Nalshira, and his line. His name was Drigorem. He was the king’s brother.”
Ran just gave him a blank look, so Sarn elaborated. Maybe talk of the curse and the past would distract everyone from the whole healing bit long enough for someone to come up with a better plan or the monster to attack. It was still digging around the hole it had made and tossing down large chunks of masonry.
“A long time ago, Reveil Nalshira overthrew Shayari’s last king and betrayed and murdered the Guardians of Shayari, my heroes.” Sarn gestured to the Guardian crouched beside him. He still couldn’t believe his heroes were here in the spirit.
“Maybe it only looks like them. They could be demons in disguise,” said a paranoid voice in Sarn’s head.
And it might be right. After all, the Adversary had many attendants, and they’d pursued Sarn for more than a day already. This could be a new twist on an old game.
“Why else would they insist on ‘healing’ you? They just want to take what’s left of your life force, so the Adversary can drag you into the darkness and bind you,” said that voice again.
Part of Sarn railed against that logic. They would feel fouler if they were something of the dark and wouldn’t be so luminous. But the healing thing just didn’t sit right with him because true healing didn’t exist. It was a sham to cover up what the so-called healer was really doing—draining his patients of everything they had. How can I tell if they are who I want them to be?
“Oh, he sounds like a bad man.” Ran said after a while, dragging Sarn back to the conversation at hand.
“He was, but the curse afflicts all his descendants even though they had nothing to do with their ancestor’s betrayal, including the Lord of the Mountain, my other master.” Sarn bit out that last part, hating the truth of it.
But he couldn’t change it. He’d sworn that oath of his own free will to purchase a better life for his brother, Miren, and that he could never regret even if he’d had to swear that oath to a descendant of his heroes’ enemy.
Ran digested that for a moment then regarded the Guardian supporting Sarn. “You should heal Papa now. He doesn’t look so good, and I want to know more about Drigorem’s Curse.”
“No, no healing. I don’t need it.”
“Not even if it helps you to see straight? I can’t heal a concussion, but I can reduce the swelling enough, so your eyes can focus properly.”
“Let him, Papa. I’ll hold your hand, so you know it’s okay. So, will Bear.”
“Is he back?”
If he was, Bear could turn them all incorporeal long enough to jump them out of here.
“No, but he’ll come back. Bear is his home. But you hold on to him while the nice shiny man heals you.” Ran mashed his stuffed bear into Sarn’s chest. “Let the nice man heal you, okay?”
“But—”
“Why are you so against healing?” asked the Guardian propping him up. “I’ve never met anyone who rejected that kind of help when he so obviously needed it.”
“Yes, why, Papa?”
“I just can’t.”
Sarn clenched his fists and wished they’d leave him alone about this. But they weren’t going to, not if his son had anything to say about it. And Ran’s scowl made it clear he had quite a bit to say. He was marshalling his arguments. Some days, he reminded Sarn of his brother, Miren.
Movement caught Sarn’s eye and dragged his gaze back to the Guardian crouched beside him—the hero he’d worshipped in his heart all his life. But that was impossible. It was more likely that this shining warrior was a trick of the Adversary’s devising. But oh, how he wished they were real.
“You can’t really be here.”
“Why not?”
“You just can’t. It’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible when you believe, and you do believe in us. You believe strongly enough to call us to you even though we are nothing more than a legend in your day.”
There was awe in the Guardian’s eyes and voice. It looked genuine. Could one of the Adversary’s minions counterfeit that? The ones he’d seen, no. They weren’t intelligent or independent enough, but the Adversary must have higher functioning flunkies. Unless this was what it seemed. Sarn wanted it to be with a desperation that frightened him. Could his heroes really be here?
“Is this a dream?” because it was too surreal to be real. “If it is, then I don’t ever want to wake up from it.”
Sarn knew he sounded like a star-struck idiot, but he couldn’t stop babbling. Not even when his sixth sense prodded him to move, but he couldn’t. So, he ignored its jabs because his heroes were smiling behind their face plates. He could see those smiles reflected in their eyes.
“This isn’t a dream. That concussion is real, so is the swelling. It’s putting pressure on your eyes, and your brain, and that can’t be good for either organ.”
“Move, move, move!” shouted Sarn’s sixth sense, which didn’t need magic to function.
But Sarn couldn’t because this was more important than the monster or the chunks of stonework raining down on them from above. If they’re really the Guardians, my heroes, then why do they want to make things worse by poking around inside me? Why are they even talking to me of all people? What have I ever done to deserve that?
Whatever it was, Sarn wanted to keep doing it, so they would come back again and again. And just maybe, one bright day, they would welcome him into their fold.
“It’s not a dream,” the Guardian squeezing his shoulder said again, but a loud crash cut off the rest of what he’d intended to say.
Another Guardian rushed toward them and threw out his hands. Unlike the other Guardians, who wore more traditional armor similar to the chivalric orders in Sarn’s day, this Guardian’s armor was made of overlapping crystalline discs. They lit up as light burst from his outstretched hands and described a familiar dome over them, which immediately began to destabilize as a black fog bank rolled over it, blotting out everything.
“It’s a shield like the one you make,” Ran said as he tilted his head back to study its design against the inky blackness.
That impenetrable fog was a physical manifestation of the black lumir crystal’s nullification process. As it attacked the shield, shining motes spiraled away from it, and that fog gobbled them up. Somehow it passed those particles back to the crystal generating it. But there was still no sign of the nulls that had accompanied it earlier. Either they were dead or bothering someone else. For my son’s sake, I hope they’re gone for good.
A ten-foot square chunk of ornamental masonry crashed into that shimmering dome, and it bowed and flexed. Sarn willed it to hold even though it wasn’t his shield. Part of him wished it was, and it strained to help hold that shield together. That part of the power, he’d missed wielding. Too bad he’d had to lose it to realize that.
The world spun around Sarn and darkened as he slumped down toward unconsciousness again. All his
strength was running away from him like the glittering particles sailing away into the darkness.
A warm hand slapped his cheek just hard enough to bring Sarn around again. “Hey, stay with me. In order to manifest, we need energy, and you have none to spare.”
“Is that how you’re manifesting?”
The question came out slurred but still understandable. Sleep was calling, or was that unconsciousness urging Sarn to close his eyes and rest?
But an idea nosed around the back of his mind sparked by the question he’d just asked, and it wouldn’t let him rest. It whispered something about his pendant, and Sarn stroked its warm panes. It still glowed brightly white and beat a measured cadence, not unlike a heartbeat.
Could it have something to do with the Guardians? That was too insane to even consider. It must have been the invocation. It’s not called the ‘Call of the Guardians’ for nothing.
“Perhaps it is. Perhaps it’s something else. I can’t tell you anymore until an ancient wrong is righted. That wrong, unfortunately, binds me to silence. So, I can’t even talk about it or anything connected to it until it’s corrected.”
“You mean Drigorem’s curse.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t listen to Papa. He needs healing—” Ran interjected without so much as a warning. His son had a one-track mind when it came to certain things, just like his uncle and father.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You’re scaring me.” Ran squeezed Sarn’s hand. “Please heal him.”
Sarn struggled to sit up, but his muscles weren’t obeying him anymore. It must be that damned promise.
“Where’s Jersten?”
“He’s right here, but I’m more interested in why you don’t want to be healed. We can’t move you until you’re stabilized, and you’re endangering everyone by refusing.”
Sarn’s eyes popped open. He hadn’t meant to close them, but his head felt funny—kind of warm and well, like invisible hands were massaging his scalp. It was a strange but pleasant sensation that reminded Sarn of his magic and how it used to crawl over his skin. It was probably a hallucination courtesy of his concussion, but damn was it a nice perk especially since it seemed to be pushing back a wave of pain.
Above, the shield was thinning faster than the Guardian casting it could patch it. Sarn could just see him standing stock-still with his legs braced, and his arms thrown up over his head as if he were holding a heavy object aloft. The overlapping crystalline discs sewn into his tunic, hood and veil were dimming as wave upon wave of that vile magic-stealing fog rolled over the Guardian-Mage, momentarily hiding him from view. The strain of holding that shield must be incredible.
“We should go,” Sarn said, but he didn’t have the strength to rise.
“Agreed, but first, let me heal you enough to stabilize you.”
The Guardian had removed his gauntlet, so he could grasp Sarn’s hand—cold palm-to-cold palm. Sarn shoved him away before that cold could drain him.
“No, I’ll heal up on my own. I always have before. This is no different.”
Sarn rolled onto his stomach and tried to push up but to no avail. Exhausted from trying, he rested his head on his arm. There had to be a way to make his hero understand the danger. Or barring that, to buy time until the situation changed. I can’t be healed.
“We haven’t even been properly introduced.” And for once in Sarn’s life, he actually wanted to tell someone his name and his son’s. It was a strange feeling that need to be known by his heroes. “I’m called Sarn and my son’s—”
“Just Ran,” Ran put in firmly as if Sarn would ever call him anything else. His son had preferred that nickname over his real name for several years now, and Sarn was fine with that.
“What’s your name?”
It was suddenly imperative for him to know the answer. Though Sarn couldn’t fathom why.
“You can call me—” a garbled sound followed that then the Guardian shook his helmed head. His shining armor dimmed as it lost its glow. The Guardian tried again then gave up. “I really hate curses.”
“Because it won’t let you tell me your name or see your face?”
“That and many, many other reasons.”
“Everyone calls me ‘curse breaker’ but I’m not one.”
“Not yet, but if you let me help you, you’ll live long enough to become one.”
And maybe you’ll break the curse on your heroes. Sarn tucked that impossible wish into his heart for safekeeping. In the years that followed, he would take it out and add other hopes and dreams to it.
“Please let the nice man heal you. He’s made of pretty lights and rainbows like Auntie Sovvan, not dark squiggly things. You can trust him.” Ran laid a cold hand against Sarn’s cheek.
“He is?”
Ran nodded. His eyes were bright with unshed tears and the sight tore a hole in Sarn’s heart.
Behind his son, glittering motes fountained off every square inch of the shield protecting them, and it buckled under the strain. More debris hit the shield, shuddering it, and bounced off, becoming lost in the fog. The dome grew hazy and indistinct as it destabilized. Its glow contracted until it just barely encompassed them then stabilized again, but the shield was weak and patchy in places. It couldn’t withstand another blow like that.
“Look at me.” When Sarn didn’t, the Guardian rolled Sarn over, so he was looking at him instead of death inching its way toward them. “I won’t hurt you. I can’t. That’s what makes a healer a healer. A healer can only help never harm.”
“Never harm?” Sarn repeated that, dumbfounded as the hand holding his forearm warmed.
“We take an oath to do no harm to anyone regardless of their race, creed, powers, economic or social standing. We do no harm. Ever.”
“No harm?” Sarn repeated that again in a small voice hardly daring to believe it.
Dear Fates above, he sounded like a lost child, which he supposed he was. Sarn shivered in remembered fear of the healer’s cold, draining touch. It always took, never gave neither help nor surcease from pain.
“I just can’t. Don’t touch me.” Sarn pulled his arm free and hugged himself. Ran leaned into his side. His eyes were anxious.
“No harm will come to you. I promise you that,” the Guardian said, meeting his gaze. His helm hid most of his face but not those brilliant eyes.
“Your eyes are like mine were before I lost my magic—green and glowing.”
Sarn touched the skin next to his eyes wondering why he hadn’t noticed that before. Probably because of the whole double vision thing. He still wasn’t seeing singly yet, but he was getting better at sorting through the garbled information his eyes sent him.
“Of course, they are. My magic is the flip side of yours.”
“What do you mean?”
Above their heads, the shield bowed and dimmed as something else struck it and slid off to crash down just outside its flickering green nimbus. More green sparkling motes peeled off it as that damned black fog eddied around it and bit chunks out of the shield. Its hungry tongues lapped up the magic. It was draining the shield and Sarn too even though he hadn’t cast it.
Ran burrowed into Sarn’s chest. “Let him heal you. Please, Papa.”
“I can’t,” Sarn whispered into the top of his son’s head as he hugged the boy against his racing heart.
The shield had shrunken with each strike until its green nimbus lay against his side. Its touch was welcome as it vibrated his skin, warming it. But he could feel how flimsy it had become. It couldn’t hold much longer against the magic-nullifying fog. Nor could Sarn submit, not to healing because it had never helped in the past, only made things worse, and it had taken days to recover his strength after just one ‘healing’ session.
“Why?”
“It just doesn’t work on me. I can’t be healed. It never works. It just worsens things.”
And Sarn couldn’t face the disappointment in his hero’s eyes when his efforts f
ailed. I can’t face that draining cold, that fuzzy feeling of dislocation and loss not after everything I’ve been through.
Without his magic, there was nothing for the healer to take to fuel that healing except Sarn’s life. His hero might just kill him by trying to cure him. I can’t let him do that. Ran needs me, and I need him. Sarn hugged his son tight and shook his head again.
All Souls Fight
“What happened here?”
Ranispara threw her arms out and caught herself before she tipped over into a gaping hole. She didn’t see the Adversary because the rather impressive hole and the thing widening it had her full attention, but he saw her.
The Father of Lies opened his mouth and exhaled a plume of black smoke that made Ranispara cough and flap her hands to clear the air. In the heart of that smoke, the Adversary's giant black skull shrank down to normal human proportions, and a black robe draped around his materializing body. A pair of smoking wings sprouted from his back, but their primary feathers took on a metallic sheen as he fanned them to expose their blades.
“What happened to the floor? Oh my God, are those tentacles down there?” Ranispara stared down, down, down through the hole. Nothing else had registered. “Is that the Lower Quarters?”
Nolo could only shrug and squeeze the glowing shaft of Slain-in-the-Spirit in his hand. It was unlike any other arrow from the Marksman’s quiver.
“I bring more than death,” said the Marksman in his ear and his mind as its presence once more overshadowed Nolo. But not even his God-given alter ego could pry him from the Adversary’s fiery gaze.
What do you mean? Nolo thought hard at his counterpart. At least he could still do that. The Adversary wasn’t inside his mind yet, thank you, God, for that small mercy.
“The arrows of the Faithful are whatever they need to be to do the work God needs done.”
Well, that was cryptic, but what had he expected from a nonhuman entity? The Marksman was a purpose given quasi-physical form with a limited ability to reason. That’s why it needs a human host.
“Not a host but a partner.”
Curse Breaker: Sundered Page 31
