Soul's Reckoning (Broken Well Trilogy) (18 page)

He held her tight then. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you, my good friend. I was afraid you would not see my point, but knowing that you’re safe, I’ll be able to enjoy myself properly.’

‘Enjoy?’ she said.

‘Just a turn of phrase,’ he said quickly. ‘Maybe not the right one. You know what I mean.’

‘Just so long as
you
remember that I’ll be fearful for your safety too. All this talk of the grander scheme, when really you’re looking forward to having some fun? You make it sound like you’ve just talked me out of attending a drinking session with your old barracks comrades.’

‘No, no! That’s not how I meant it.’

She decided to let him off lightly. ‘It’s all right, Bel. I know you like to swing your sword about. Maybe it’s right that you do. I just hope you aren’t trivialising the situation.’

‘Honestly, I am just relieved you won’t be at risk.’

Me too
, she thought.

‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘And now, just in case we both die tomorrow, how about .
 
.
 
.’ She took his hand where it lay on her stomach, and moved it upwards.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would be unfair to talk my lady out of
all
her wishes.’

‘How kind of you, sir,’ she said with a throaty chuckle.

•

Fahren sat in his tent, smoking and poring over a map of Fenvarrow. He wasn’t exactly sure why .
 
.
 
. maybe because, if they defeated the shadow army, there would still be a lot of enemy land left standing. Emptied and depleted, maybe, but standing.

A worry for another day.

He pushed the map away wearily, for it was suddenly the last thing he wanted to look at. He felt less sprightly these days, less like a young man in an old man’s body, and more just like an old man.

War will do that, I suppose.

‘Someone here to see you, my Throne,’ came the voice of a guard from outside the tent.

Fahren sighed. Always there would be someone to see him, forever and ever. ‘Who?’ he said.

‘My name is Querrus,’ came another voice. ‘I’m the mage who has been with Blade Bel these past –’

‘Enter,’ said Fahren.

Querrus, a bald, wiry fellow, pulled back the tent flap.

‘Have a seat,’ said Fahren, gesturing at his little table, a luxury afforded the Throne in a camp short on supplies.

‘Thank you, lord,’ said Querrus, sitting down.

‘And thank you,’ said Fahren, ‘for aiding Bel. I’m told you have a gift for speed.’

‘The horse helps,’ said Querrus, and Fahren smiled.

‘What did you wish to see me about?’

Querrus’s expression grew serious. ‘I felt I had to come,’ he said. ‘I do not want to betray a confidence, especially that of a friend, but .
 
.
 
. well, you are the Throne. And perhaps you already know what I’m here to report, but I still consider it my duty.’

‘Report, then.’

Querrus ran a hand over his scalp. ‘During my time with Bel, I learned something disturbing. It might not have been his first wish to tell me, but he needed to convince me to stand by him while the shadow rolled towards us.’

‘Go on,’ said Fahren, though a weight had begun to press on his stomach.

‘I will just come out and say it,’ sighed Querrus. ‘I have come to understand that if Bel dies, so will the Shadowdreamer, and vice versa – such is the nature of their connectedness.’

Casually Fahren reached for his tobacco pouch, his heart pounding. ‘I see. And have you told anyone else of this?’

‘No, my Throne, I thought only to come to you. You knew already?’

Fahren gave the slightest nod. Well did he know of what Querrus spoke, for it had kept him awake many a night.
Kill Bel and the dreamer dies, the single worst danger to Kainordas eliminated.
It was a terrible thought, the very last option if everything went bad, if it looked as though Losara would win. Yet it was Fahren’s choice alone to make, and he did not trust it to any other.

‘What do you suggest we do with this information?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps – by Arkus I do not suggest this lightly – but it could be something worth knowing if things don’t go according to plan.’ The mage suddenly looked worried. ‘Honestly I do not wish Bel any harm. I only dream of suggesting it because there’s so much at stake. And it is not my decision – I merely thought to report what I had discovered to you, my Throne.’

‘No one wants to return to the old balance,’ said Fahren. ‘A world at war and no one ever winning.’

‘Of course,’ said Querrus, his head bobbing up and down.

‘A very last resort,’ said Fahren.

He sat back in his chair, imagining the two armies fighting. Querrus was standing with Bel while around them Kainordans fell in droves, the shadow clearly having gained the upper hand. A moment of doubt would be all it took, weakness when one thought one was doing the right thing – and yet battles could turn when all seemed lost. Fahren hated knowing what he did about Bel and Losara, wished he did not .
 
.
 
. and certainly could not trust it to anyone else at this critical stage, for now was when it could do the most harm.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Querrus looked quizzical. ‘My Throne?’

Fahren flicked a finger at him, shooting out a sleep spell that clouded Querrus’s eyes. The mage slumped forward, began to fall from his seat. Fahren caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.

‘I cannot abide you knowing this,’ he whispered, ‘when I don’t even trust myself to.’

It had been a long time since he’d tinkered with anyone’s memory, for it was not something he chose to do frivolously. The last time had been when baby Bel was first retrieved from Whisperwood, and the mages who had found him foolishly announced it to the world. Seeking to protect Bel, Fahren had had them falsify his death and give out that he’d been a fake, then ordered them brought to him one by one to erase events from their minds. And now, years later, he would use the same method to protect Bel once again. Closing his eyes, he set a hand on Querrus’s brow and delved into his mind. It was no simple matter to find specific memories, for minds were large and tangled places. As he searched, he became privy to various random moments in Querrus’s life, which made him feel like an ugly invader. A recent one rose to the surface – Querrus clinging to Bel as they rode a horse towards the Shining Mines, the mage’s excitement mixed up with the draining of his strength. Commendable that he had put everything into speeding Bel so quickly .
 
.
 
. but at this point he did not yet possess the dangerous knowledge. Fahren followed the line of the memory – from where to pluck it loose? He did not want to remove all of Querrus’s recent doings from recollection – not only was that cruel, but the mage might still be useful. If he could just find the place where Querrus had learned Bel’s secret, perhaps he could remove it cleanly .
 
.
 
. but the line was short, disappearing into darkness. As a scout and a mage, Querrus was prepared for this type of violation, had realised the information was important enough to bury somewhere.

Trained to keep it safe from the enemy, should he be caught
, thought Fahren. But he was as skilled as any Overseer at discovering things hidden in minds, and so he persevered.
There
, he saw it, just a glimpse for a moment, a conversation had between Querrus and Bel. It receded into other threads, which tried to hide it again amongst them. Desperately, Fahren grasped at it and held on fast. As he wrenched, there was a snapping, as the threads that entangled it came loose too. He shook the memory free, knowing he was damaging other parts of the mind, but he could not stop now – it was done already, he had come too far. Finally, he held the memory alone, and dissolved it away until it was no longer a part of Querrus. He withdrew to his body once again, fearful of what injury he had done to the mage.

On the ground, Querrus’s eyes were open, yet unseeing.

Oh, Arkus.

‘Can you hear me?’ said Fahren. He snapped his fingers in front of Querrus’s face, but the mage did not blink.

Fahren sat back, horrified by what he had done.

The secret had been buried too deeply.

As dawn heated the air inside the tent, Losara rubbed his eyes, wishing for the argument to cease. Across the bedding, an incensed pixie was crouched on all fours as if about to pounce. Actually, he did not put it past her.

‘You are, aren’t you?’ she cried. ‘You’re still thinking about it!’

‘Lalenda,’ he said, ‘I have to consider all the options. I do not care for this war, it taxes my heart –’

‘Assedrynn eat your heart! It does not matter how you feel as long as your people are safe! Remember your dream .
 
.
 
. remember how Fenvarrow will fall if you do not prevail.’

‘I do,’ he sighed. ‘I remember it well. And that is why we
both
must accept that this may be necessary. I am not talking about giving up.’

Shouts arose in the camp and Losara cocked an ear, wondering what was going on this time. Then the shadow-shape of Roma rose in the corner of the tent.

‘My lord,’ he said excitedly, looming in. ‘Forgive the intrusion but – they are coming!’

‘What?’ said Losara.

‘The Kainordans – they are coming!’

He and Lalenda exchanged wide-eyed looks.

‘Go!’ she said.

‘I love you,’ he told her. Then he turned to shadow and sped after Roma. Around him the army was alive with movement, readily stirring from the stagnation of waiting. A thundering sounded in the distance, and as Losara appeared at the front line between Roma and Tyrellan, he saw that the Kainordan army was indeed charging towards them.

‘Archers make ready!’ shouted Tyrellan. ‘Graka to formations! Catapults set!’ He noticed Losara. ‘Shadowdreamer! They advance despite the mander.’

Out on the field, the creature was running back and forth hectically, desperate to get at the masses who pounded towards it – was Bel amongst them? Did his
other
call his bluff, and expect him to move the mander out of the way, as he had done outside Fort Tria?

Leading the charge was a figure he recognised – Fahren, his vibrant blond hair streaming behind as he bounced up and down on horseback, his beard over his shoulder, the Auriel a bright spark on his brow as he raised a staff over his head. Four others rode alongside him, and Losara took them in with varying degrees of interest.

A tall man wearing a silver breastplate rode upon a large grey horse, its tack glinting with metal studs. From his hip he pulled an ornate broadsword, which most would need two hands to wield, but which he held aloft with one as he roared. Gerent Brahl.

Next to Brahl was a man in full armour, gold and resplendent in the sun, his head hidden by a heavy helmet – could that be Bel? Why would he hide his face, especially if he wanted Losara to withdraw the mander?

There was also a fair young mage in a white Overseer’s dress who seemed vaguely familiar somehow, and yet Losara could not place her.

Finally, black-robed and pale on a black horse, his meaty hands large on the reins, his lips pulled back with fixed rabidity, was Battu. Losara knew from his travels with Bel that Battu had done the unthinkable and joined the light, but it was still a strange thing to see his old teacher riding with these others. How strong his hate must be.

‘If they keep coming,’ said Tyrellan, ‘the mander is going to tear them to pieces.’

As the group neared the shadowmander, they and the entire army behind them began to slow – all but the female mage, who broke out ahead of the others.

‘Who is that?’ said Roma.

Losara didn’t know what to tell him.

•

Although she could not feel the wind whipping her hair, Elessa Lanclara knew a moment of exhilaration. Beneath her the horse moved powerfully, speeding her on towards the great scarlet monster that chomped and champed in anticipation. The others she rode with drew away, leaving her to spearhead the charge. As she neared the line worn clear in the grass by the mander’s endless pacing, she hauled on the reins and her horse reared, its hooves working the air in front of the mander’s snapping face. Enraged by the proximity of light-born prey, the mander slammed itself soundlessly against its barrier, only making a thud when it bounced back to the ground.

‘Greetings, my pretty,’ said Elessa. ‘I believe you have something that belongs to me.’

Ignoring the frenzy of the creature, she reached out a hand and quested forth. For a moment the mander did not even register as being there – it was legacies upon legacies, tiny bits of lives departed, not hers to touch. Then, in the core of the creature, as if it floated there alone, she sensed something small and precious, like a diamond, that called to her. As she reached for it, her very being began to thrum, her soul aching for togetherness. It came towards her easily, though she had a sense of things breaking, as if she pulled it through cobwebs. The mander opened its mouth, its whole body quaking, and from out of it floated an incandescent wisp. It flitted lazily over the grass towards her, rising on the breeze, and landed on her outstretched hand in the shape of a butterfly. For a moment she stared at it in wonder.

‘There,’ she murmured. ‘Such a little thing .
 
.
 
. can you really be the cause of so much trouble?’

The butterfly spread its wings as it sank slowly into her skin. Perhaps she had imagined that drawing the last piece of her soul into herself would enliven her somehow, make her more complete .
 
.
 
. yet she felt no grand changes taking place. Whatever kernel of herself she had left behind when she’d died, it was too small to make any difference upon return.

Meanwhile the mander’s unblinking eyes fixed on her with great malevolence. It wound forward, a little unsteadily, and Elessa’s horse stepped skittishly backwards. As the creature hissed, a hairline crack appeared, running from the tip of its snout, back up between its eyes .
 
.
 
. then it put its front claw down
beyond
the line of its old perimeter.

‘What .
 
.
 
.’ Elessa muttered, and then realised – she had drawn the butterfly back into herself, thus severing the creature’s connection to Tyrellan. He was no longer the anchor for the creature –
she 
was.

‘Stay back!’ she shouted at the others, urging her horse about. The mander leaped, and as its limbs stretched out more cracks appeared along them, crisscrossing its body and letting slivers of daylight shine through. She tried to give her horse a burst of speed, but it was too late. A claw smashed across her side, knocking her from the saddle. To her intensified hearing there came a muffled rip – and, as she tumbled, she realised the old dagger wound in her side had finally torn open. It would still be hidden under her illusion of a mortal woman, but
she
knew .
 
.
 
. the blow that had killed her had returned.

She landed on her feet in time to watch the mander land. As it set down, its legs cracked to pieces, spilling to small scarlet chunks. Without support its belly hit the ground, where it thrashed like some kind of strange snake, trying to right itself onto limbs that no longer existed. As it struggled, it continued to break itself into lumps, each representing some poor mage’s legacy spell. What would happen to these soul-bits now? Elessa wondered. Would they return to the Well, or were they doomed to sit in the grass forever, hard little blocks of claw and fang and leg? She moved amongst them, towards the last remaining part of the mander – the baleful head, lying in the ruin like the final intact piece of a shattered statue. It snapped at her as she approached and, as its jaws closed with force, it too finally disintegrated.

There came a roar of triumph, and she turned about to see Bel ripping off his golden helm, shaking free his blue curls.

‘The shadowmander is no more!’ he shouted. ‘Charge, by Arkus! For all Kainordas, charge!’

Behind him the army howled, and charge they did, with Bel in the lead.

What of me
? she sent to Fahren.

Will you not join us, Elessa, for this one last fight, some scant extra hours? Would you not rather die defending your homeland?

I did
, she sent angrily, and swung back up onto her horse.

•

Tyrellan could not believe his eyes. One moment the mander had been standing there, solid as ever .
 
.
 
. the next it had crumbled to hundreds of pieces, glistening in the grass.

‘Elessa Lanclara,’ he muttered, finally having recognised her. ‘Master, it is the mage bitch who cursed me with the butterfly .
 
.
 
. who was there at Whisperwood the night we took you!’

‘Ah,’ said Losara quietly.

Tyrellan wondered if the broken bits of mander were going to come flying over the grass towards him, if he was going to be followed around by an orbiting swarm of scarlet chunks for the rest of his days. Mercifully, they stayed where they had fallen. It seemed that only the butterfly had been connected to him, the foundation on which all else had been built. Somewhere in his heart, Tyrellan knew a sharp joy – he was back to his old self again.

‘Master,’ he said, watching the oncoming Kainordans, ‘we seem to have reached a certain point.’

Losara nodded. ‘It appears so.’

Tyrellan drew his sword, almost forgotten in its scabbard. It had been a while since he’d been able to get close enough to an enemy to use it.

I can move again
, he thought.
You may have destroyed the shadowmander
.
 
.
 
.
but when you did, you unleashed
me.

•

Losara rose in the air for all to see, drawing shadow power to him. When he opened his mouth, the voice that sounded was amplified tenfold.

‘MAKE READY FOR THE FINAL BLOWS,’ he told his people. ‘STRIKE THEM FOR FENVARROW.’

Cheers went up, as along the line archers drew back their bows, and shadow wards sprang from mages.

‘LET THEM COME TO US THROUGH A RAIN OF DEATH IF THAT IS WHAT THEY CHOOSE.’

His voice must have carried, for across the way Kainordans screamed defiance. At their forefront came a wave of riders – soldiers and lightfists, Saurians on dune claws, and of course Bel. Over them rose an enormous mass of Zyvanix to blot out the sun, while behind, thousands on foot flattened the earth. Their mages seemed to be concentrated mainly around Bel’s central group, and Losara could not see many wards going up on the left and right flanks. Did Bel still have the Stone, he wondered, or had that passed to others? Was his counterpart safe?

You will have to be, Bel – I cannot hold back. Your fate is out of my hands.

The Kainordan bows began to fire, and lightfists sent forth spells. Tyrellan barked an order below, and several catapults triggered towards the enemy. The leading Zyvanix parted to allow hurtling rocks passage, and light bolts from below rose to shatter them.

‘NOW,’ said Losara, ‘GET THEM.’

Preceded by arrows and shadow magic, his army charged. Graka flew past him towards the Zyvanix, while others climbed higher with cauldrons of acid. As his airborne forces divided, squads left the Zyvanix to meet them on all fronts. Beside him an old Graka, the tips of his wings grey and weathered, flapped past laboriously with a scratched bow in his hand.

‘Good luck to us, master,’ he puffed. ‘It was gladly that I served you.’

Strangely moved by the Graka’s stoicism, Losara waved a hand to send wind under his servant’s wings. The Graka cackled joyfully as he surged forwards.

‘I’ll catch those fledglings yet!’ he hooted.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Losara.

Far above, he noticed clouds forming, or trying to, while a high wind continuously blew them to dark ribbons. It seemed that the gods themselves were present, and trying to establish a hold on the weather!

Shall we channel to you, lord?
came Roma’s thought from below.

Yes. Channel to me.

As the combined power of his mages reached him, Losara unstoppered his own. Between his thumb and middle finger he created a whirl of air, rippling with tiny blue threads. It pulsed as he fed it more, the immensity of its potential straining inside its tight confines.

‘Go then,’ he said, and flicked it at the Kainordans’ right flank. As it left his fingers there was a great
whoosh
, his creation expanding monumentally as it hurtled away. It reached the enemy as a whirlwind of crackling power, to smash through wards and fling bodies in the air. As it crashed and broke, its energy spilled out, sparking between armour and sending swords spinning.

Master, you are a target up there.

As Roma’s words reached him, Losara’s gaze came to rest again on Bel’s group. There was a strange ward around them, soft light and darkness both, many colours combined. He did not recognise the magic, and thus knew what it must be.

A shockwave jolted him and sent him reeling, his sinuses buzzing with foreign power. He turned slowly as he fell, dragging as he tried to maintain a grasp on consciousness.

I’ve got you, master.

He felt Roma take firm hold of his body to float him downwards, and abandoned his own tenuous grip on the air. A moment later he bumped gently against the ground, and looked up to see Roma’s concerned face, while around them others stampeded past.

‘Old Magic,’ he croaked, sitting up woozily.

‘Are you hurt, lord?’

‘No. They sought only to stun me, I think.’

‘We must kill Battu,’ said Roma. ‘It is only through his enduring betrayal that they can use their trinket.’

Kill Battu?
thought Losara foggily.
Lalenda would be pleased, on more counts than one.
Where is she?

Target Battu
, went out Roma’s command to the shadow mages.
The traitor must be destroyed.

•

Heavy in his hands was the helmet, bobbing up and down to match the footfalls of his horse, the slow beats of his heart.
Not putting it back on
– it would only mask his heightened senses, impede the sweet air that sucked into his flaring nostrils. He was now but paces from the enemy, a long line of them charging, the shadows of Graka passing across the last short space of empty grass between them and him. He could feel the immensity of the forces behind him, the shaking ground and battle cries, as he rode at the crest, the very tip of a breaking wave.