Lords Of Existence (Book 8) (2 page)

The planewalker was dead, though, and that meant the lords of Existence would search him out. It meant he would pay a price.

Yet now the injured would not let him be, and Hezarin’s life force pulled itself toward them as certainly as it struggled to be free of him.

The heat of flames warmed him, and the sounds of their panic pulled on him like the moon pulls the tides.

Their moans were low and pain-filled. Their screams were piercing. They gasped and they cried with despair-riddled callings—they were both the city’s guard and its common citizens, men and women who had taken up weapons against Neuma, the Koradictine sorcerer, and then against Hezarin herself. They called through the night. Some pounded the ground beside them as they lay bleeding out their lifeblood before their very eyes. Some merely writhed in agony. But all of them stank of the same fear, the same anger, and the same despair. They made accusations (
What have you done?
) and clear calls to the Powers of Justice and Freedom and of All That Is Right. Their voices carried bitter, bile-filled screeds that demanded correction of whatever foul deed had been done to them. Their pleas were laden with the demand that the hourglass be turned back, that things be returned to times that did not include whatever ruinous wounds had befallen them.

Help me!
they called.
Heal me!

Their screams brought Garrick memories of Sjesko, of Arderveer, and of God’s Tower. He thought of the mobs of Rastella, and of Karasacti’s prisoners. He remembered them all, even the first boy at the tavern where everything started.

And Arianna, of course. He remembered her, too.

There were rosters of them—hundreds of common people who paid the price of the planewalkers’ frivolous games of court and double-jest. Thousands, he was sure, perhaps millions over the cast of time itself. The thought of such wanton disregard for life brought bile to his throat.

Something had to change.

Braxidane and the rest of the planewalkers had to be stopped.

The voices of the injured broke through to him again.

And Garrick, now filled past bursting with the planewalker’s power, felt this yearning as if each calling branded his very core.

Power welled inside him, and he strode forward to flow life force into one man’s torn limbs. The wounds closed, and Garrick felt the strength of the man’s beating heart before he moved on. Next was a woman whose leg had been crushed, then a man—a shop keep by trade, but a man who had leapt to Dorfort’s aid when Neuma rampaged, and had paid a price of fire. Garrick healed his burns, leaving barely a scar behind.

With each healing the pull of desire from the masses became stronger, and with each of his touches more voices came his way.

Garrick!
they called.
I’m here! Heal me!

He moved among them with such single-minded focus that time seemed to stand still. His touch released Hezarin’s life force with a rush that tore at the sinew of his body. He bathed in the marvelous burn of giving, and he wallowed in a sensation of wonder as each of those he touched rose again. But in that rising, it seemed that more voices came from the sea of pain that welled across the city. They came to him in masses that formed in the streets. They reached toward him, wanting to touch him, and wanting him to touch them.

Hezarin’s voice was husky at the back of his mind.
Do you feel the power, Garrick? You know you want it.

Her voice broke his mindlessness.

He healed a man, then tried to wrest control of his magic. There was a deeper thing here, an important truth he was forgetting. A truth that said the vacuum of this need was endless, and that even the vast energy of a planewalker would not be enough to save everyone. This thing inside him was cunning, though. It gave him his sway. It would let Garrick save the wounded and the dying until he was too drained to fight, and then it would raise its dragon-vile head.

How terrifying could he be if he raged with the hunger left behind by a planewalker’s void?

In saving this city, Garrick could well destroy it.

Yes,
he thought.
Yes, I want it.

Hezarin’s purr felt like an engine inside him. He felt the touch of her fingernails come to his jawline, and he shuddered as she traced a path down his collarbone.

He touched a man and knit a broken arm. Power flowed into another who grabbed his ankle.

He screamed, ripping his essence from the flow.

“No!” he said. “No!” he said again, and again, and again, until he became fully conscious of himself.

But still he felt them, these people of Dorfort. They flocked to him like buzzards to a kill. The power of the planewalker burned against his chest, and he sensed the pressing wall of human need as he healed another, and another, and another.

He was panting with desperation in a sea of wounded. His muscles burned with exhaustion, and sweat flowed from his brow. His long hair matted to his forehead and cheeks. His chest heaved with each breath as he felt the aftereffects of the planewalker’s touch.

The gore-slimed hands of the injured still pawed at him.

They grabbed his shoulders and they pulled at his torn sleeves, but he righted himself and he shook them away. Garrick had no way to know what the combination of Braxidane’s magic and Hezarin’s ambition would do to him, but he knew what it would do to Dorfort.

He had to leave.

He had to get away before he allowed them to drain him of Hezarin’s energy.

“I will not give you what you want, Hezarin,” he said aloud.

Her warped laugh echoed in his mind.

You don’t know what I want.

That was probably right, he thought. Hezarin was a planewalker, and planewalkers were a devious animal by nature. This one had already duped Ettril Dor-Entfar and Neuma.
You don’t know what I want,
was probably the most truthful thing he had ever heard a planewalker say.

“I know you want this plane,” he said. “And I know I won’t give it to you.”

Garrick put all his thoughts into the darkness of his hunger, following it once again to its origin, setting his gates and mixing magestuff with the raw power of the planewalker’s life force.

A hand clutched at his knee, then slipped away.

A woman crawled onto his back.

He shrugged the woman away as he felt the connection open. All of Existence came to him through a shimmering doorway. He pictured a different place then, a place he had been before, and a place that might be available to him.

A place that might be safe, or at least a place that was not here.

And as more voices called his name, Garrick disappeared into the flow.

Chapter 2

Darien looked at the manacled woman being held between two guards. Just what he needed. One night on the job, and he gets a Lectodinian spy.

Marvelous.

While his city was falling apart around him, he paced before the spy, wanting nothing more than to beat her to a pulp. That was not who he was, though. That was not where he had come from.

Torchlight glowed from sconces that had been placed around the great chamber with mathematically precise spacing. They gave the ceiling a soft glow as its rounded shell rose above. A fresh crack ran down one curved side of that ceiling, a thin line that scored the masonry that was otherwise eggshell-smooth. Despite the torches, and despite the heavy skins his staff had placed over the windows—all of which had been shattered by Garrick’s magic earlier—the chamber was cold.

Muffled voices came from outside. Darien wanted to be out there now. As Ellesadil’s newly appointed commander, that’s where he
should
be.

To make matters worse, the woman had taken great glee in giving him nothing of any value, and everything about her—the fiery glow of her cheeks, the razor sharp glare of her gaze, the way she struggled against her manacles, and the way her voice bent as she used his title—spoke of contempt for him.

It all added up to make Darien angry.

“Take her to a cell,” he said. “Stand a Freeborn apprentice as guard, then return to your brigade and help get those fires out.”

The guards turned to their tasks.

“You can’t hide me away like this!” the woman wailed as the guards tugged at her manacled hands. “You know we’re coming!” she yelled over her shoulder. “You are scum, Darien J’ravi! You are turds from the bowels of monkeys! When Zutrian finds me in chains he will not look kindly upon any of you!”

Then she was gone.

Darien raised an eyebrow as he scanned the rest of his captains.

They stood in awkward silence, uncertain of what Darien would do next..

“Such words to come from the mouth of a lady,” he said.

The crew gave a nervous laugh, and Darien took a moment to examine the chamber. How many times had he met with the Freeborn here? How many arguments had he encountered standing on this very platform?

“I don’t need to tell you what this means,” Darien said. “If she’s telling the truth, the Lectodinian order will know exactly what’s happened within the day. And despite her lack of decorum, I see no reason to doubt her.”

“And,” Hinchley Ster, a sergeant of the North Guard added, “that means Zutrian will understand that the Koradictines are finished.”

“Yes. That she was so adamant Zutrian will come to Dorfort is troubling. Damage to the wall could take months to repair. The city is in no position to withstand a siege.”

“Perhaps she was stretching the truth, sir,” Hinchley responded.

“Perhaps,” Darien replied. “Either way, we have more pressing issues to handle tonight. The Koradictine mage and her planewalker cut a blazing swath. We have to bring it under control.”

Darien turned to the map and gave instructions.

He put a detachment along each side of the path Neuma had taken, and he posted mages to the north where Hezarin’s fires were blazing unabated. He wanted farmers to the east digging fire breaks to wall off the spread, and he wanted, more than anything else, to get Garrick to find a way to shut this whole thing down.

Where the blasted blazes
was
Garrick, anyway?

“Will?” he called, turning to find the boy striding down the darkened central hallway, his cape billowing behind him.

Darien waited for him to arrive, actually pleased to have a moment to do nothing but breathe.

Will entered the room.

The boy was still adolescently thin and only as tall as Darien’s shoulder, but he had been through much in his few years. Will was becoming a man before his time. There was strength in the way his gaze connected to Darien’s, and even though the boy’s face was smooth and unblemished it carried a sense of confidence and action that was hard to ignore. Will had played a direct part in much of Garrick’s activity and had lived to tell of it. Those experiences had changed him in ways Darien both appreciated and despaired of.

“Where is Garrick?” Darien asked.

“He is gone, Lord J’ravi.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.” Will set his jaw such that Darien knew the boy was as unhappy to report this as Darien was to hear it. “I watched him step into the void. That’s why I came here. We need to do something about the wounded he was attending to.”

Darien grimaced and turned sharply to the map. It was everything he could do to keep his composure. “Isn’t that just like him to run away just when we need him most? And after he promised me he would help. After he promised me.”

“He will return,” Will said, squaring his shoulders defensively. “He always does.”

“But the city is burning
now
. And beyond that, it’s clear that the Lectodinians will take advantage of this moment as rapidly as they can. I need him here, and I need him now.”

“The Lectodinians, sir?”

“Yes. They will soon hear of the Koradictines’ fall and of Dorfort’s inability to defend itself. Zutrian Esta will know the time is right for them to press their advantage.”

“I see,” Will said. “But I don’t think you should plan on Garrick’s return anytime soon, Lord J’ravi.”

“You can call me Darien.”

“I thought with your new title …”

“You are growing to a man, Will. And you are with Garrick. If you can survive beside him, I think it proper you call me by my name.”

“Thank you … Darien. But when Garrick leaves, it always seems to be for a purpose. I have found it best to assume he will be away for some time, though.”

Darien examined Will closely. Yes, the boy was growing up.

“Can you find him? I know you’ve been dallying in magic yourself. Garrick has told me as much in the few quiet moments we’ve had together.”

Will narrowed his eyes, contemplating.

“No,” he said.

Darien pursed his lips, contemplating his next step.

Will would not lie to him, but it would not be out of character to withhold information if he felt uncertain over it. And Garrick
had
told him that Will was pushing boundaries and pressing other Freeborn for ideas and hints. He was almost certainly finding ways to teach himself bits of magic wherever he could. It was possible Will had discovered more than he was letting on.

“You have a hunch, though?”