Trinity (28 page)

He looked up
at Kiana. Why had she always had so much faith in him?
I have to do this
.

Skaric tore
one red tendril after another out of his soul. He gritted his teeth
against the pain, ignored the tears that stung his eyes and the
distant echo of Kiana’s sobs as she watched but couldn’t stop
him.
Does she even know what I’m trying to
do?
Of course not. He’d been too gripped by
insanity to explain anything to her rationally.

After tearing the last tendril
from his soul, Skaric collapsed to the ground. His chest heaved
with exertion and he shivered uncontrollably. As the world around
him shifted again, he saw the shimmering aura of his soul
surrounding him—or what was left of it. It was a tattered mess.

Almost instantly, he felt
Kiana’s presence behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder
tenderly. “What did you do?”

What I had
to.
“I… I removed the nyxii magic from… my…
soul.”

She gasped. “Why?”

Because I had to.

When Skaric remained silent and
still, Kiana lay down behind him and wrapped her arms tightly
around his shoulders. Her touch was surprisingly comforting.
Slowly, the warmth from Kiana’s body began to leech into
Skaric’s.

I don’t
deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve you.
Aching from the agony of cleansing his soul, Skaric raised his
hands to his face and for the first time he could remember in
years, he allowed his tears to fall.

*

Berend’s
remaining men had been twitchy even before they had entered the
Fallen Lands. Now, two days in and with night closing in, they were
all but panicking.
Cowards
. Granted, the previous night
had been strange for them as they had all dreamt of dying. But that
was nothing to be scared of. They were Wolves.

During the day, Berend had seen
flashes at the edge of his vision: phantoms that he could never
quite see and obviously weren’t real. It was disconcerting but
nothing to be scared of. He wasn’t going to let a few odd
happenings deter him from his goal. Sadly, his men didn’t seem to
be quite as focused on hunting down Skaric and Miale.

He glared at his warriors as
they set up the camp. One tended the horses whilst another laid out
the bedrolls. The third got a fire ready and the fourth was
readying their cooking equipment. They were all working in silence
and glancing around nervously. It was pathetic to see grown men
spooked like horses. They were all battle hardened; yet, they were
acting like green boys. Only Vali seemed unaffected, which made
Berend angrier.

Berend looked eastwards across
the moon-drenched landscape. Tracking his quarry had seemed
impossible at first. The dusty landscape seemed to shift and change
with every breath of wind, covering tracks as quickly as they were
made. But then they had found signs to follow, most notably the
helpful piles of horse dung. The dust could cover the dark brown
mounds, but it couldn’t hide them.

Where are you
going, Skaric?
Berend had been asking
himself the same question for days.
What
are you hoping to find in this godforsaken place?
Maybe the idiot thought that he would be safe,
that no one would follow him. Did he really think that he could
keep Miale safe if he hid out in the wasteland for long enough?
Berend’s mouth curled up into a cruel smile. There was nowhere that
Skaric could hide from him.
I will hunt
you down
.

His men ate in silence, which
did nothing to improve Berend’s mood. One of the men spilt more
food than he managed to eat because his hand was shaking so much he
could barely hold a spoon. Vali kept his thoughts to himself. The
nyxus had become increasingly quiet since Xaver’s execution; that
bothered Berend.

A gust of wind swept through
the camp, rattling pans and armour and covering everything in a
fresh layer of dust. The Wolf warriors looked around wide-eyed, as
though they expected spectres to appear at any moment.

Berend rolled his eyes. He’d
handpicked each of the warriors, knowing them all to be fierce
fighters and utterly loyal to him. That was the only reason they’d
followed him into the Fallen Lands in the first place. What was
there to be so scared of? A few dreams at night and hallucinations
during the day? It was nothing that a strong mind couldn’t
overcome.

After deciding
which men would take the first watch, Berend settled down to sleep,
unconcerned about the dreams. He knew he would have them, just like
the previous two nights. It was
nothing
to worry about. Dreams
had
never
hurt
anyone.

Berend lay
awake. The dark sky was cloudless, revealing an endless expanse of
winking lights in the black shroud of night. He’d never taken the
time to look at them properly before. Their trackers used the stars
to navigate if they had to travel at night. The stars, like
everything else, were tools. His sword was a tool; his horse was a
tool; his men were tools. He was a tool in the war against Miale
and Pios, and he
would
avenge Ysia’s death. He would catch Skaric and Miale and he
would strangle the life out of her. He smiled as he imagined
closing his massive hands around her fragile neck. Perhaps he would
snap it, like a twig. No. She wouldn’t suffer as much. He needed to
make her suffer before she died. The more she suffered, the more
Skaric would suffer. Berend’s smile deepened. They were happy
thoughts to fall asleep to.

When Berend did sleep, he
dreamt. He was standing in battle. He was facing Wolves. He glanced
down and saw that he was wearing the black uniform of the
Guardians. He was one of many, standing in a bloody field, fighting
a fierce battle. It was hard to be upset that he was losing. The
Wolf opposing him was a bigger man, a fiercer man. He knew that he
had more skill in his hands, but skill meant nothing in the face of
fear. He felt fear. It was an odd sensation: his skin prickled and
his hands shook with every blow he blocked. There was a weakness in
his knees that made his stance feeble. It disgusted him. How could
anyone function if they allowed themselves to feel fear? He tried
to fight it down, but he couldn’t. His actions and emotions were
not his own.

He missed a block and was
driven to the ground. The air was knocked out of his lungs as he
hit the damp grass. He failed to block another blow. He saw it
coming as though time had slowed down. He felt each heartbeat. One,
two. Three, four. It was achingly slow. Then the sword slashed down
his torso. Time became faster again. Pain ripped through his chest
as a gash was opened from his neck to his stomach. He looked down
in terror as he saw his entrails spill onto the ground in a
steaming heap. He tried not to feel fear or pain. It wasn’t his
body. It wasn’t his death.

Berend woke,
appalled that his throat was sore from screaming and that he was
covered in a cold sweat. Sitting up slowly, he glanced around and
realised he was alone, except for one horse. Even Vali was gone.
Berend stood and glared into the darkness. There was no sign of his
men and their tracks had already vanished beneath the ever-shifting
dust.
Cowards
. He
was not a coward. He didn’t need pathetic weaklings at his side. He
would find Skaric and Miale and he would kill them both.

Chapter
Eighteen

Everything was exactly as Skaric
remembered.

It was midwinter. The early
morning air was crisp and cold. He was crouching on the floor; his
arms wrapped tightly around himself. Skaric watched Jakob make the
preparations for the ritual that would either change his life or
kill him. His breath hung in frosted clouds in the air. He hadn’t
been allowed to wear anything other than a thin tunic and breeches.
Skaric clenched his teeth in a vain attempt to stop them chattering
loudly; he didn’t want to disturb Jakob.

Skaric shivered violently as he
watched Jakob digging a shallow trench in the frozen ground. The
circular island of earth within the ditch was just big enough for
someone small to sit very still in. Jakob began to carry buckets of
water from a nearby trough, tipping them into the trench. Skaric
briefly considered offering his help before remembering that Jakob
had ordered him to stay where he was and stay silent. He bit his
lower lip and watched Jakob cautiously. He had seen the nyxus burn
a boy for angering him and didn’t want to receive a similar
punishment.

Jakob was the oldest living nyxii.
Not that it meant much. The nyxii didn’t have the luxury of living
until old age and Jakob was likely to be no exception to that. He
was a tall and wiry man with pitch-black hair and a dark,
unfriendly eye. He had lived for a little over twenty-seven
summers—positively old for a nyxus—but those relatively few years
had not been kind to him. His bare arms bore the scars of
repeatedly overcasting magic. He did not walk straight or with an
even gait as his right leg had long since been crippled and his
back was twisted. Skaric could only imagine the depth of the burns
that had caused such disfiguration. However it was Jakob’s face
that was the most alarming. Half of his face had been burnt and
melted so that the dead skin seemed to drip down from the skull it
clung to. His right eye was gone, leaving a dark socket. Even
though he was horrifically disfigured Jakob was proud of the way
that he looked – it proved that he was not a coward and that he had
done anything and everything within his power to ensure victory for
the Wolves. It was a wonder that Jakob wasn’t dead.

Jakob threw the wooden bucket into
the trough with a resounding clatter before picking up a small
bottle of oil. He stepped over the trench and poured the oil around
the edge of the circle of earth. The nyxus paused, looking down at
the preparations thoughtfully. Finally he nodded and looked towards
Skaric.

“
It is time,” he
said in a gruff voice.

Skaric nodded and, trembling,
tried to stand. His legs wouldn’t answer him; they felt like they
had turned to ice and would melt away. Without waiting, Jakob
strode forward and grabbed Skaric by the scruff of his shirt. With
surprising ease, the nyxus lifted Skaric over the trench and
dropped him into the earth circle.

“
Stay within the
circle. I will guide you through the rest.”

Jakob made a brief gesture with
his hand, causing the oil to burst into flames that leapt toward
the sky.

Within the circle, Skaric sat with
his knees hugged to his chest. The flames were excruciatingly hot,
and within moments, he found it difficult to breathe. As the flames
leapt and danced, he caught brief glimpses of Jakob standing on the
other side of the trench of water. Doubt began to creep into
Skaric’s mind as he wondered if he truly had the nerve to become a
nyxus. The doubt worsened. He didn’t know what he was supposed to
do.

“
Embrace the
fire,” Jakob said, as though in answer to Skaric’s thoughts. His
voice was unusually soft and quiet.

Tentatively, Skaric held his left
hand out towards the fire. The flames licked at his fingertips,
sending sparks of pain running up his arm. He cried out, pulled his
hand back and sucked at his charred fingertips. From outside of the
circle he heard Jakob laughing.

“
Not like that,
you fool! Embrace it with your body and you will die. Open up your
soul to it, allow it in and take the power.”

Jakob made it sound easy but
Skaric had no idea how he was supposed to do that.

Smoke from the fire was beginning
to coalesce around him. A quick glance upwards told him that the
smoke was forbidden from escaping above the height of the flames,
though he wasn’t sure how; it looked as though the air above him
was forming a physical barrier, hemming the acrid smoke in.
Skaric’s eyes were stinging and though he didn’t want to he found
his eyes watering; he refused to accept that he was actually
crying.

He began to choke as the smoke
found its way into his throat and lungs. At first he tried to
resist the urge to cough but that only made him retch and almost
throw up.

Coughing, crying, hemmed in by
unbearable heat, Skaric slowly lowered himself to the floor and
curled tightly into a ball. He was going to die. The ritual had
been his last chance, his lifeline, and it was going to kill
him.

“
Embrace it!”
Jakob’s voice shouted to him.

Skaric closed his eyes tightly
against the acrid smoke and tried to use his thin shirt to cover
his mouth and nose. It didn’t help. Briefly, he thought about
removing his tunic and dousing it in the water in the trench, but
to do that, he would have to put the tunic and his hand through the
flames, which was madness. There was simply nothing he could do
apart from accept that he was going to die. He allowed his hands to
relax, forced his eyes to open and lay staring at the flames,
breathing in the smoke.

Gradually, his fear slipped away
from him. There was no point in being afraid. There was no point in
feeling anything, only acceptance. As the flames seemed to bend
down and reach out to him, Skaric suddenly realised that he was
doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

He breathed in deeply, allowing
the thick, hot smoke to flood into him, burning him from the
inside. The flames began to lick around his prone body, prickling
his skin until finally they completely encased him. Pain tore
through his body and rippled across his skin. He screamed.