Trail Of The Torean (Book 2) (14 page)

Braxidane.

The words were like strong mead amidst the turmoil—sweet and smooth and beautiful. He fought those words down, though. He was Garrick. He would beat them. He would beat Braxidane—he
had
to beat Braxidane.

Garrick saw that now.

If he were to be his own person, if he were to be truly free, Garrick could not let this planewalker control who he was. That much at least, had to remain his, especially here in the bowels of this strange and arcane city filled with thousands of souls.

He gripped the sword hard.

Fiery light flashed from the far end of the hallway, and an explosion rocked the area. The stench of scorched meat grew thick. A Koradictine mage appeared at the far end of the tunnel, arms outstretched and ready to pour fire through the hallway.

Darien ran toward the weaponry.

“Wait!” Garrick yelled at him.

But Darien did not pause.

A stream of flame rolled off the Koradictine’s fingertips.

Garrick ducked and turned his back as a deafening explosion threw him against the wall.

Debris rained down.

His ears registered only vacant silence for several beats, then came a voice—a moan, another call for help, and another, then more and more.

The first thing he noticed with any real awareness was that the walls around him were charred. Bodies lay in lifeless heaps, while others writhed and screamed and moaned in inhuman ways, their blackened flesh still burning. Pieces of meat were scattered about the tunnel—a forearm here, a bare foot there.

Garrick’s gorge rose in his throat, but he stood and looked for his friend.

“Darien?” he called.

Where was he?

Garrick’s leg hurt, but he could walk. He limped through this cavern of death with its life force that hung before him like sheets of drying cloud, and he pushed it away. Hard and firm, he pushed it all away, though he was not sure how he was able to do it.

You have given,
Braxidane’s voice said boldly now, directing him, playing with him, pushing him.

Now you must take.

Something deep and powerful inside him wanted to drink it all in. It would be so sweet. So … sweet. But still he fought it. He shut his eyes and concentrated on holding himself together, though he could see himself feasting on the death and the pain that hung here so close by, feeding until he was bloated, then feeding more and more.

Voices called from the murky distance.

The metallic clang of steel echoed from afar, a sound that made him realize his sword was gone—probably dropped during the blast.

Then, Garrick saw him.

Darien.

He sat awkwardly at the base of the tunnel, gasping for breath. His arms were burned to blisters, and his head was cut open and bleeding. One leg was painfully twisted the wrong way. Only the fact that Darien was against the wall, and not directly in line with the explosion, had kept him barely alive.

“Darien!” he called, shaking his friend. Darien’s breathing was wet and gurgling. He tried to say something, but could not.

Garrick remembered Arianna, then.

He thought about her as he reached inside himself, down deep past the churning darkness, through waves of doubt, and through the pools of want and anger until he found his own inner core, the energy that made Garrick who he was. He remembered pouring himself into her. The taste was bitter and distant. It made him angry. It made him sad.

He had tried to save Arianna.

He had tried to save Alistair.

And he would try to save Darien, too. He would give his friend another chance to find his father’s sword, even if it was the last thing he managed to do.

He pulled at his core, dislodging his own life force, and pushing it out, clasping it together as it boiled up into vapor, gathering it together and reaching it out to Darien, watching as it seeped, placing his hands on Darien’s leg and shoulder as it flowed.

Bones knit in Darien’s leg.

Pain flowed out of the burns that covered Darien’s shoulder, then his chest. Garrick poured himself into the cut on Darien’s head. Muscle and veins came together, capillaries joined, and skin grew anew.

At some point, Garrick touched Darien’s life force.

There, hidden under the layers of humor and posing, was a power that radiated with an almost unbearable beauty. And there, too, was that desperate force—that yearning that made Darien so deeply need his father’s approval.

When he was done, Garrick crumpled to the ground, a drained husk, parched and unable to move, unable to even breathe. He had done it, though. He had won. Garrick had beaten this darkness inside him. He had kept it from raging, kept it from claiming hundreds or thousands of lives. He wished he could see Braxidane now, wished he could laugh at the planewalker.

As his eyes closed for the last time, he saw Darien’s open.

“What ...?” his friend said.

Then all was black.

Chapter 22

The hunger rose like a black serpent, its maw open, its jaws working, its head swaying from side to side like a giant fish sucking in all things that stood in its way. The beat of its rhythm was old and firm.

This time, it found no barrier.

This time, it had no restraint.

Garrick smelled blood. He sensed flesh and bone, fat with marrow. He tasted pain. But beyond all, Garrick felt pure life force that hung in the air like ripe fruit.

He lay back on the floor, gasping for breath.

His temple throbbed and his eyes burned, though in truth he did not know the words for either “temple” or “eyes.”

He felt the shark inside him, the buzzard, the soaring raptor drifting effortlessly, biding its time, waiting to teach him this new and crushing lesson.

He had no control.

He was
not
Garrick.

He was god-touched, and god-touched carry obligations that cannot be kept at bay.

He moved with pure instinct, then, with basic need.

He breathed it all in.

It felt right. It felt good. It felt as headstrong as a mug of fresh ale.

And this time Garrick gave himself to it. There was no recourse. No thought counter to the idea. He knew only hunger, and he felt only a current of energy that floated over him like a vast sea.

The first thing he ate was the life force of a desert knight. Then he took a woman who had been in the slave pits, and a man who had run the conveyor, a knight who had run from Arderveer.

A mercenary soldier. A mage.

Their power filled him.

Strands of hair fell over his face as he rose to a crouch. His fingers splayed to soak up even more life force. He stood then, and marched through the hallway, devouring souls as he passed.

There was no such thing as a Lectodinian, now. No such thing as a Koradictine. There were no desert knights. No slaves. No Caledena. No Takril. No viceroy. No Darien.

There was only life force.

Only hunger.

He could do this forever, he thought as he devoured the great chunks of energy that filled the hallway.

Swords rang out, but he scarcely heard them. He ripped a desert knight’s soul. A Koradictine mage cast magic at him, but Garrick merely caught it and turned it back against the mage.

He opened his link to the plane of magic to mix sorcery with his fresh life force. His hands took a position they had never before taken. He spoke a word of magic, and a shimmering curtain separated Koradictine mages from their swordsmen. The desert knights gave a cheer as Garrick waded into the mass of warriors. A mercenary’s sword bit into Garrick’s thigh as the man died, but life force healed Garrick's flesh with barely a thought.

When the soldiers were gone, he took down the curtain.

“Take us if you can,” a Lectodinian said, smiling wickedly as he and his mates each cast magic.

Garrick laughed.

But a sound came from behind him. His senses were bloated now, and he had let another Lectodinian life force steal behind him.

Chains and cold spikes swirled around and bit into his legs and arms. The mage lifted him off the ground, and Garrick felt the energies of each spell converging on him. He twisted against the restraints, cursing and struggling, but these were mages of some power, and they were working together now. His struggles served only to bind him further.

A force pushed against his chest, and he fell backward onto a disk of shimmering blue magic.

He had made an error, he that realized now. In his hubris, he had lost touch with the rest of the world.

The Lectodinian pushed his hands before him. The disk moved toward the central chamber. Garrick tried to roll away, but the disk’s surface remained underneath him. It moved farther down the hallway until it lurched to a stop over the open shaft.

A gleam of victory shone in the Lectodinian’s eyes.

“Goodbye, demon, or whatever you are.”

Then the disk dissolved, and Garrick tumbled though the darkness. Wind rushed in his ears as he dropped like a sack of grain might. He fell past openings and past the razor needles. His shoulder crashed into the lift, and he tumbled awkwardly, his hair catching in his eyes and his mouth. The magical chains burned like fire.

He slammed into water with an impact that took his breath.

Then a cold darkness closed over him, and he slipped downward through the currents, downward farther into the watery depths, falling through the river’s flow in a looping spiral that was as timeless as it was majestic.

Chapter 23

Cara strode into Yorl Maggore’s tent.

“The Lectodinian order has completed its primary objective.”

“Tell on,” the Koradictine commander said, stepping away from his maps. He played his eyes along the curves that Cara’s robes kept barely hidden. Yes, if she were a Koradictine, things would be different between them.

“My wizards report they have disposed of Garrick.”

He smiled deeply for the first time in all day. “That
is
good news. The superiors will be pleased.”

“They will be pleased only if the Koradictines complete their part.”

Her eyes bore in on Yorl with a precision that made her even more attractive.

“I suggest we redeploy my Lectodinian mages to support your efforts in clearing the rest of the city.”

“That would be a fitting sign of our solidarity,” he replied.

It would also make sure he wouldn’t go down alone if, by some odd chance, they failed.

He appraised her again.

Why not, he thought?

“Perhaps,” he said with almost wicked pleasure, motioning the stand beside the table, “you would like to join me for tea and to talk about
other
ways our orders can work together?”

Cara looked at the half-empty cup and the crumbling bread that sat untouched beside it. Her nose turned slightly up.

“I think we would be better served if I returned to my battle room,” she said. Then she left quietly.

All for the better, Yorl thought.

All for the better.

Chapter 24

Garrick twisted first one direction, then the next, fighting pain and panic and the acid sensation of dying. His lungs burst, and he thought his head might explode. The hunger within him screamed, and cold water seeped in through his mouth and his nose.