Gathering Of The God-Touched (Book 4) (8 page)

Garrick pulled on the beast inside him, opening its vampiric hunger to the avalanche of Jormar’s power, and pouring it into Parathay’s draw.

It was like catching a smithy’s hammer with his lungs.

He gasped and twisted his mind into a loop, folding his hunger back upon itself and tying it into a knot. Numbness crawled up his arm. Electricity crackled. Jormar’s heat mixed with Parathay’s chill, and as Garrick pulled the loop tight, the two veins of magic twined around themselves to create a pulsing thread of violet energy that writhed across the chamber, wrapping itself around him, constricting tighter with each breath.

Garrick ignored pain and pressure. He forced the ends of the stream together, Koradictine to Lectodinian, Lectodinian to Koradictine.

Time stretched.

Light flared.

He thought he heard the orders’ mages scream.

And in that moment, nothing existed.

No Darien, no Suni, no Arianna.

No slaves in Arderveer or villagers in Sjesko.

No God’s Tower.

No Caledena, no Baron Fahid, no Alistair.

In that moment, there was nothing in this world but Garrick and his sense of balance.

When the cacophony finally died it was like light being doused, leaving behind only a low drone of power and the rasp of Garrick’s breathing.

Slowly, painfully, he raised his gaze.

The orders’ mages were frozen in place, Parathay casting his draining thread and Jormar throwing his bolt of power, but now the two threads looped through Garrick’s device—they were entangled, frozen, their faces fixed with grimaces and their eyes open in shock. Their sorcery was locked in a recursive loop, Parathay endlessly being fed and Jormar constantly drained.

Garrick lay there, feeling like a scarecrow on fire, his bones feeling detached and his body loose enough that he could swivel at every joint.

He had done it, though. He had survived.

He had nothing left to give.

But he had won.

Chapter 18

Garrick crawled to the edge of the chamber and peered at the battlefield below.

The orders appeared to have the upper hand, though it was difficult to see. His hunger surged at the sensation of bloodshed, though. His stomach churned for it even at this distance.

He forced himself to stand, raising himself with the cautious, ginger movements of a newborn foal though the effort nearly made him pass-out. He felt the battle below, though, and it moved something in him. He reached his hand out to what might have been the wall, but found passage through was possible. So he stepped directly from the chamber to the surface of the mountain, and found himself standing suddenly calf deep in snow and nearly falling over.

Bitter cold of altitude bit his lungs, and he shivered.

He turned to look back into the chamber, but saw nothing beyond the snow and barren rock that ran with mineraled veins. His horse stood a few hundred yards down the mountainside, so he staggered toward it. Darien and Sunathri needed him. The Freeborn needed him. The battle raging below, the power of life force. It all needed him.

His vision fogged as he took a step toward the animal, then another and another before falling over. He crawled, shivering so hard his teeth rattled.

“Horse,” he yelled into the wind.

The beast looked up.

“Come here!”

He stood one more time. Miraculously, the animal came his way. He pulled himself over its back. His body was drained and his muscles ached, but he clutched the animal’s mane well enough for the horse to carry him, and as they moved he got a leg over.

A moment later he was racing down the mountainside.

Chapter 19

Four Lectodinian mages attacked the Freeborn’s flank at the southern pass, their light blue tunics whipping in the wind as they bore down.

Sunathri called three wizards to follow her, and set off to stop them.

The southern pass was critical. The Freeborn had arranged most of their forces to the east and west, hoping that the surprise of Torean mages at the orders’ rear guard would reduce their southern offensives. The gambit had succeeded for a time, but the orders had regrouped and were beginning to expose their weakest areas.

She had to stop them here.

Sunathri touched her link and waited for energy to pool. She was tired, and her casting took more time than she would like. Green and red flares burst from her palms, taking two of the men. The third continued to ride away.

“Come on!” she yelled.

She and her Freeborn chased the remaining Lectodinian through a row of sycamore trees.

It was a trap, though.

She brought her horse up as soon as she recognized it, but it was too late.

A row of warriors rose before them, shouting battle cries, their swords and halberds flashing in the sun as they raced forward. A handful of mages cast spells from positions behind the warriors.

“Retreat!” she called.

Her men brandished their weapons and spread out to perform a controlled maneuver.

She cast a shield just in time to deflect sorcery, but green sparks flew around her and numbness buzzed her arm. These spell casters were fresh, their magic was strong.

Swords clanged on shields.

A man screamed.

Three mercenaries closed in on one of her men, and Sunathri cast a bolt to save him.

The Lectodinians took advantage of the distraction, and a bolt of energy struck her mount full in the chest. Sunathri rolled off the animal as it fell. She scrambled to her feet and cast a wild fan of flames to protect herself.

One of her men was pierced through by a spear.

Another was dismounted.

The orders’ mercenaries swept around the two men, but they fought on, crying out Sunathri’s name and giving her time to cast another spell.

She stepped onto a rock, leaving herself exposed for an instant, but also providing a broader range of vision. She gathered as much energy as she could summon, and set a simple series of gates. Her spell work wasn’t as sharp as she wanted, but this magic was basic, and she needed to save her men. Flames spewed from her hands, pouring down upon the southern flank.

Men died.

She fell to one knee as her energy waned, flames still flowing.

Below her, the Lectodinian’s lips twisted.

Sunathri turned her aim to engulf the mage, but she moved too slowly. The Lectodinian raised one arm, and a flash flared from his palm. Fingers of purple lightning clutched at the sky, and everything froze in the electric strobe—men with gleaming swords raised, tree limbs bent with the wind, the grimace on the face of the Lectodinian mage as his robe caught fire, and Sunathri, leader of the Freeborn, standing alone and exposed atop the mountain rock, an expression of defiance etched on her face.

Chapter 20

Garrick held onto the horse’s neck as if it were the only thing left in the world. His legs quivered, and his arms burned as the horse raced down the snowy mountaintop, past the tree line, and over the rocky trail that led down the mountain. His bloated eyes blurred as he burst onto the battlefield behind the Koradictine line.

His hunger was a beast of its own.

That beast felt the presence of every soldier on the battlefield as if each was a point on a map. That beast was the force by which he moved. It was the presence that filled his mind. And, unfettered by the balance of life force, this beast that was Braxidane’s dark magic was on the hunt. It found steel ringing against steel, warriors screaming with pain. It found horses braying, a field that erupted with sorcerous flashes, and a pallor of life force that hung over that field like an unearthly blanket of power.

Garrick—that small part of him that was still human—felt it all, sensed every movement, every slice of a blade, every fiery spell as it burned through a battle line. His hunger, starved and angry, inhaled voracious gulps of energy that fed his body, its essence so exquisite and so intoxicating he nearly fell. He pulled his dagger and leapt into the scrum. Three warriors died in silent surprise, and his hunger fed. A Lectodinian wizard whirled, fingers splayed for the attack, but Garrick ripped his life force from him with nearly effortless haste.

Steel sliced into his leg.

He destroyed the wielder as rapidly as the cut healed itself. Horrified cries rang across the battlefield as he tore souls from men.

The Freeborn army cried in victory.

“Lord Garrick!”

“God-touched!”

As they called his name, the Freeborn fell back, leaving space for Garrick, but blocking their opponent’s escape and creating a killing field for him that he did not resist.

Black hunger crackled over his fingertips as he pulled more and more life force. Mages crumbled. Mercenary soldiers ran. Still Garrick gorged on the energy here. He funneled it into his sorcery to bring death until, finally, the Koradictine lines broke completely and their mages fled at full run.

A few Freeborn gave chase, but most turned west to throw their lot to those fighting the Lectodinian army.

Garrick, too, ran toward the Lectodinian line, racing against time, realizing this hunger would fade, unwilling to give up this momentum.

He felt his hunger fade, though. Despite his efforts, his rage calmed.

The plumes of Darien’s helm rose over the battlefield, and Garrick’s heart soared.

Then he saw them.

Men and women scattered across the grounds, twisted and disfigured, crying, and groaning. They lay with limbs hacked away, and with bleeding wounds and faces streaked with dirt and sweat.

And his life force pulled at him, stronger than he had ever felt it pull. He tried to concentrate on the Lectodinian threat, but just as the hunger swelled in a bursting wave that could not be denied.

Braxidane’s sweet voice came then.

You have taken …

“No!” he called.

… now you must give.

He came to a Torean wizard with a gaping hole in his chest and dark blood pooling on the dirt below him.

Garrick poured life force into the wounds, twining the gash together and knitting the bone of his leg. Moments later, the man breathed easier.

“Praise you, Lord Garrick,” the man said.

The next mage was dead beyond retrieval.

A warrior with a cracked skull had bare life remaining, but bare life was still life, so Garrick repaired the damage and left him sleeping.

A man had been felled by an arrow through the heart—irretrievable.

The next had lost his leg and lay on the ground sobbing and bleeding and muttering incoherently. Garrick stanched the wound and comforted the man.

“You’ll see your grandsons grow now, sir.”

Then he left to find the next wounded.

And so it went.

Case after case after case, Garrick raced through the Torean ranks, mending damage, repairing limbs, saving lives.

And once they were healed, the warriors ran to the Lectodinian line like frenzied dervishes, shouting “Lord Garrick!” as if the mere mention of his name would destroy their enemy.

The Lectodinian army fell back.

Still Garrick found wounded warriors.

A female mage lay in shock, her leg nearly severed.

Garrick funneled life force into her, tying vessels together, knitting muscles, connecting bone and marrow. In the process, he found something else there, too—a beating heart, another life force, powerful and strong. He smiled and considered telling her of the child, then decided against it.