Harbinger (5 page)

With a howl of frustration and rage, Sorcha spread her fingers wide on her left hand, braced it with her right, and let the flame boil out of her. Her control was not what it had been, and Merrick had to duck wildly out of the way as fire roared from his partner and scattered all over the Great Hall. He tackled her around the middle, holding her up where she might have fallen. Her eyelids were heavy, and rather than the usual euphoria that enveloped her when channeling the runes, she felt as if she might be blown away on the swirling winds.

“Let it go,” Merrick screamed in her ear. “You can’t hold it steady and the wari aren’t even there.”

With his mind and body for support Sorcha was able to close the rune. The wari had been scared off for only a moment. They dropped down from the ceiling to the floor and advanced once more. The heat of Pyet was soon forgotten as the geists’ freezing presence enveloped them.

Sorcha was used to pain; what she was not used to was not knowing what to do. The wari were closing in, but Merrick—still holding her upright—unrolled Kebenar, the Fourth Rune of Sight around them.

Now everything was laid bare to her. The wari were more than just three entities. Sorcha pushed her hair out of her eyes and got her feet under her. Not for the first time she wondered how she had managed without Merrick at her back.

They are a net, sent to take us back.
The idea of that was worse than if they had been trying to kill or destroy their souls. To be wrenched through to the Otherside and pulled apart by geists was the most terrible fate imaginable.

A bright memory flashed across the Bond, one from her partner. Floating in a sea of stars, with the indistinct face of Nynnia hovering nearby. Such a feeling of peace and joy filled Sorcha that she began to understand what misery Merrick had been in. No one forgets his first love, and Nynnia, Ancient, sent through time, had been that to Sorcha’s Sensitive.

This time however, it would not be Nynnia bringing them to the Otherside—and the geists would have far less generous ways of handling them. As the wari charged, Sorcha reflexively threw up her left hand and summoned Yevah from her skin.

A gleaming scarlet flaming dome leapt to life between the geists and the Deacons. For a moment the cold lifted slightly. It should have been a deep relief, but Sorcha was still frozen down to her bones.

The hand she was holding the shield rune up with had her full attention. The spiderweb Pattern of the rune on her arms was running flame red, gleaming on her skin like colored fire, but now she saw something else entirely.

The light coming from the crack was illuminating something she had never seen before. Now standing before the shimmering gap into the Otherside, she saw the tendril of the rune gleaming on her flesh, and disappearing into it through the space to the realm of the undead.

It makes sense.
Merrick’s whisper into her mind was like a trickle of cold water over her stunned conscience.
The runes are powers from the Otherside, and it seems the Order stole them from there.

He was so calm, and yet what he was saying was not in their teachings. In the novitiate they were taught that the runes came from humanity’s own psyche; ripped from their souls in order to fight the geists. It was so relentlessly drummed into them that Sorcha had never thought to question it.

The Sensitives . . . had they known? How could they not know? A little worm of distrust bit her deep down.
No, not Merrick. He can’t have known.

Sorcha!
His voice battered the inside of her skull as hard as a hammer blow. Her distraction had however been enough.

The three wari were inside the shield. Their long stretched faces charged at the two Deacons while their claws flashed back, ready to strike. Sorcha heard Merrick shout over her right shoulder, but there was nothing to be done, and what could a Sensitive do in any case? She caught a glimpse of the long, sharp faces, the mouths curved open in something that might have been undead delight; macabre joy that surely meant the end for the pair of Deacons.

Sorcha had a moment to contemplate how foolish and weak she had been. Her soul was about to be ripped from her body, and there was nothing at all she could do to prevent it. The three assailants moved. The cold tips of the geists’ fingers touched her, and the pain of those touches penetrating her skin was enough to have broken a normal human. However, the claws did not drive deeper to separate soul from body.

Three sets of empty, dark eyes locked on her, and the words that formed in her mind were like pools of ice.
Mistress . . . apologies . . . we did not know . . .

Unbelievably, she was hearing the geists in her mind as clearly as she heard Merrick. Just when she’d thought that the world could not get any more broken and strange.

Merrick was there, though, and louder than the undead could ever hope to be.
Shayst! Now!

It was beaten into her to obey her Sensitive when he called. His judgment was not be to questioned. She thrust out her right arm, and the green light of the sixth rune ran widdershins up it. The pain of the wari and the rune combined until it felt like her head was about to turn itself inside out.

The geists were all connected to her; their bodies were inside her, and they had no time to escape the ravages of Shayst as it reached into their very being. They had come from the Otherside to rip her soul free, and instead it was she doing the ripping. Sorcha tore their very substance apart. She did it quickly so that there was no way that they could poison her mind with more terrifying words.

The two Deacons stood there a moment, panting slightly, their minds and Sight tangled together. Sorcha was not sure how much her partner had seen of those moments of chaos, but she hoped he had not caught any of it. She didn’t know what they meant and she didn’t want to hear—at least straight away—what he might think had happened.

Merrick straightened and pulled back his Center. For some reason, this time she felt bereft. Her partner didn’t say anything to her, but strode off the balcony, back into the Great Hall, and began throwing the heavy furniture away from the door. After taking a deep breath, Sorcha went to help him.

The flood of angry and worried Deacons surged into the room. They looked about them, and Sorcha did not need to share Merrick’s Sight to know they were horrified. The scene was a little dramatic; blood, bodies and the dissipating fetid smell of the Otherside.

“It is lucky that we hadn’t decorated the citadel yet,” Sorcha said, motioning to the burned stone and pools of blood drying on the floor.

Then, pushing aside the dark thoughts that had been born in the carnage, she began helping them tidy up. In this new world, they couldn’t afford to merely let the lay Brothers clean up the mess. Now, they all had to pitch in.

Raed fled the citadel, holding the Rossin off by only the scantest breath. His throat was choked, so that as he ran up to the sentry at the entrance, he could only manage a few garbled words before shoving his way past him and into the night. Luckily, the man had instructions to keep watch for dangers without—not within. He bowed, and stepped aside as the Young Pretender ran out into the rock-filled valley that was one of only two entrances into the citadel.

Staggering, Raed sprinted as fast as he could, the image of the Rossin running amok in the confines of the fortress burning in the back of his brain. He would not do that to Sorcha. She had worked so hard to bring them to this place of refuge that he could not allow it to become a one of slaughter.

The night was cold and as desolate as his thoughts. His breath, which came in ragged gasps, froze before his straining eyes. None of that registered, though, as he stumbled on, catching his feet in the cracks and fissures of the scree slope.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was what was going on inside him. The Rossin, that great cursed Beast that had taken up residence within him, was laughing. At least that was what it felt like.

He had, months before, made a pact with the creature. It was one born out of survival, and a desire to save a sister, now lost to him anyway. The geistlord had given him control over the change, in return for the Beast living closer to the surface. It was an arrangement that had allowed him to pass through some of the most hostile environments in Arkaym, and track his sister to the farthest ends of the Empire.

It had been a ruse by the Beast.

Raed clutched at his throat. It felt as though the Rossin were clawing its way up from down there, an image of ferocious rage that almost dropped him to his knees.

Once, the Beast had been confined deeper in his consciousness and only risen to the surface when the presence of other geists had given him power. Now, it seemed the Beast would have its way whenever it wanted.

He had reached the lakeshore where the iron gray waters of the waterfall pounded into a seething cauldron at the bottom of the mountain. Everything around him was shades of blue and black, and even the moon had hidden her face from him.

It was as if the days he had spent with Sorcha had been nothing but a bright, hopeful dream.

“This wasn’t how it was meant to be,” he gasped, clutching onto a boulder. “You promised.”

The Rossin’s voice in his head was seductive; a rattle of power and strength that promised it would share everything with him. Raed wondered if that was how the Beast had sounded when he made the deal with the first Deacon, who Merrick had informed him had become the first Emperor.

He slid down the rock and leaned his back against its chillness. From here he could just make out the jutting form of the citadel.

“She will know,” he rasped out to the Beast slithering within him. “Sorcha will know when you come because Merrick will tell her.”

Raed let his head drop back against the rock as despair welled over him. Exhaustion was overrunning his defenses, and he wasn’t sure if he could muster any strength for another fight. He knew the way things were and had been here far too often. Still, it would be a shame to waste his clothing. With numb fingers he stripped off his shirt and pants, and then as fresh pain washed over him, huddled on the ground. He was as weak as a kitten in this moment.

Ever since Sorcha’s new Order had come to the citadel the Rossin had been stirring, but at first Raed had been able to ignore the sensation. He had thrown himself into the joy of actually being able to be with Sorcha, even if it was at the worst possible time. When she wasn’t wrapped in Deacon business, they had stolen moments together, hungry for each other. It had meant that he was out from under the watchful eye of Aachon, his first mate on the
Dominion
who had brought the remaining crew with them to this place. Aachon had easily taken over the running of the lay Brothers, and for once let his role as Raed’s conscience lapse.

It was—quite naturally—the precise moment when he needed a conscience and a friend the most. Yet every time Raed had opened his mouth to share what was happening to him with Sorcha or Aachon, his voice locked in his throat; the Rossin would not let him.

His body was moving; that horrible crawling sensation that preceded the Rossin taking the reins. Blackness wrapped itself around him, and tore him away from reality.

The Rossin sprang into the cool night with an unrestrained snarl. The great cat looked back over his shoulder at the citadel hanging on the granite rock face like an unnatural growth—which it was. It was full of Deacons, every one of them scurrying about, replete with all sorts of concerns. A small breach was opening up there, and the true nature of what they had unleashed was apparent. The smell of blood and sweat reached his sensitive nose even here.

Yes, the foolish humans were realizing only now that things had changed. Geistlords on the Otherside were stirring, and the hated Derodak, first of everything, was the instigator. The Rossin’s jaw, which could crush a man like a fly, opened wide, displaying his saber teeth, and a growl rumbled in his chest.

No, that particular enmity would have to wait for the moment. He turned his thickly maned head away from the citadel and the distant screams of its inhabitants. They had earned whatever came through from the Otherside.

What the Rossin wanted, his former subjects and rivals could not give to him. His freedom would not be brought from the Otherside . . . that would be found elsewhere. The great cat bounded off down the length of the riverbed, leaping over rocks and bushes with speed not even a horse could manage in this terrain.

It felt good to be moving away from the Deacons, their runes, and the corrupt Patternmaker that they had hung their dreams on. The night was chilly and the moon low in the sky—perfect weather for hunting.

The river valley eventually faded away again, and the Rossin stood, head raised into the wind, on the edge of a cliff that dropped away in another series of rapids and waterfalls. The cat opened his mouth and roared. It was a full-throated proclamation of his pride and his strength, but it was meant for one set of ears in particular.

The Rossin did not have long to wait. The Fensena padded out of the low scrub near the river. Humanity called him the Oath Bender, and a hundred other unpleasant terms, but the geistlord admitted they were not given without cause.

The huge coyote with eyes of burning gold looked in his direction with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and began to trot toward him. When he reached a rock just below the Rossin, he dropped back one paw, and performed a bow that a circus pony would have been proud of.

Well met, my lord of the great long tooth,
the fellow geistlord offered mind to mind rather than using humanity’s more difficult words.
We are met again in strange times.