Transformation (44 page)
Authors: Carol Berg
Concentrate. See what lies here in this life-destroying heat. What is the meaning of the landforms, so harsh, so devoid of life, the sparse, tangled scrub that could never bloom in such desolation? What dangers lie hidden in the rocks or the smeared clouds? Is the vulture the enemy or is something else lurking, waiting for the warrior who will come?
The land trembled beneath my feet. Out on the seared plains several of the towering rock stacks toppled, raising clouds of red dust, and wide cracks opened in the land. My spine tightened with foreboding. Galadon was a master at creating practice illusions. I had died a thousand times in his creations, astonished to find myself still breathing when he pulled me out. But this one ... how was it possible that I could taste the faint traces of sulfur in the hot wind and feel the grit of sand between my teeth?
I needed to see what lay at the bottom of the cliffs on which I stood, but I could not convince myself to walk to the edge and peer downward. I would be too visible outlined against the orange sky.
Foolish. This is an illusion like all the rest. Nothing more. He’s just convinced an Aife to help him, to make it more real.
Yet I sank to my knees and crept across the hot rocks.
Foolish. This is an illusion like all the rest. Nothing more. He’s just convinced an Aife to help him, to make it more real.
Yet I sank to my knees and crept across the hot rocks.
At the bottom of the cliff was a warren of rocks, sharp, dangerous spires reaching a quarter of the way up the cliff. It was impossible to penetrate the thick shadows between them. The flat light shifted subtly, and in an instant the shadows were gone and I could examine the deep clefts and crannies. Nothing moved. Yet there was something....
My hand slipped on the loose talus, and an edge of rock bit into it, cutting the skin, leaving a thin line of blood seeping from the cut. I stared at the blood. Touched it. Tasted it. In a vision you did not bleed—not blood that you could taste.
What have you done, master?
What have you done, master?
Before I could reset my mind to consider that the place I stood was real, the dust haze far to my left parted to reveal a shimmering rectangle—a portal. A tiny figure stepped through, too distant for me to see his face, though I could hear his booming voice clearly. “I am the Warden, sent by the Aife, Scourge of Demons, to challenge you for this vessel. Hyssad! Begone!”
There! One of the stacks of rock in the shadows of the cliff moved, but there was no quaking of the earth to cause it. Did the Warden see it? A piercing glint of light from the warrior’s hand ... the knife. My right hand ached for the silver knife and my left for the smooth, palm-sized oval of the Luthen mirror—the artifact from our ancient past that could paralyze a demon by showing it its own reflection.
The warrior moved forward slowly. Hunting. Examining the landscape as I had done. Would he see the lurking danger? Would he locate the source of the demon music that grated on the soul like steel on glass? Was the warrior real, too, or was he some masterful creation of my mentor?
If he was real, then how was this possible? Two portals in the same soul. It was the Warden’s burden ... to be alone in the domain of evil. And how could I have come to such a place unprepared, without sharing in the Aife’s weaving that made the passage possible?
“I reject your challenge, vermin.” The voice echoed from the rocks, twisting my stomach with revulsion at the sound of it. “I claim this vessel for my own. Its food is rich and satisfies me beyond any I have tasted.”
The landscape shuddered. More vents gaped in the plain, spewing foul-smelling smoke. For an instant the sky darkened. With an explosive clap, a crack ripped through the rock where I lay prostrate. I rolled to the right, and when my gaze settled on the plain once again, the warrior and the monster were already engaged. How had it happened so quickly? Somewhere a tormented victim was screaming in agony at the wrenching horror in his head.
The monster had separated itself from the rocks that disguised it. It was red and lumpy, its shape that of a huge caterpillar, but with legs as thick as trees and huge paws at the end of each appendage. Its eyes were set into bony hollows, its neck ringed with jagged cartilage. The hide would be thick and tough; to find the vulnerable spot would require long and careful testing. Yet the Warden had already transformed the silver knife into a spear. Why a spear? What had he seen that I had missed? A spear, once thrown, is useless. You have to be sure. They had scarcely begun their battle.
The Warden dodged a blow from the monster’s bulbous paw. Gracefully, for such a large man. A very large man, I realized, considering the distance between us. Broad-shouldered. Tall. He feinted with the spear. A give and take of moves and parries. Slowly. Precisely. Like a dance where all the steps were known and practiced. After only a few exchanges, the monster rose up on its hind end, waving its six legs and bellowing in ear-shattering defiance. The Warden dodged another blow, then launched the spear. It lodged low in the creature’s belly. Green foulness spurted from the wound, slathering the warrior and the red dirt.
The land trembled when the beast toppled and lay still.
Now,
I thought, my tense body urging the man to hurry, to finish the deed before the moment was past, even while my mind wondered at the shape of the battle.
Take it now. It must be now.
Now,
I thought, my tense body urging the man to hurry, to finish the deed before the moment was past, even while my mind wondered at the shape of the battle.
Take it now. It must be now.
As if at my bidding the warrior raised his left hand high and a glare of brilliant silver shot from it as he spoke. “Hyssad, rai-kirah. Begone or die.”
Watch out!
I flinched—for some reason thinking the man in danger, when he was clearly in control. With his right hand, the Warden wrenched the spear away, changed the weapon into a broadsword, and slashed the monster’s belly from its neck to its hind end, loosing its entrails that dried and shriveled instantly in the heat.
I flinched—for some reason thinking the man in danger, when he was clearly in control. With his right hand, the Warden wrenched the spear away, changed the weapon into a broadsword, and slashed the monster’s belly from its neck to its hind end, loosing its entrails that dried and shriveled instantly in the heat.
Then came a mind-ripping scream of fury as made a shengar’s cry no more than an infant’s whimper. Demons loathed the Luthen mirror. They could not resist looking at it, though they knew the consequences. Only in the instant their physical form was dead could you capture them with it, for only then would they see their demon aspect rather than the physical being. Timing was all.
The scream told me that the warrior had succeeded in taking the demon captive, yet something jarred me about the scene, beyond the unbelievable speed of its resolution. Even as the man changed the sword back to a silver knife, ready to dispatch the demon should it choose death, I tried to recapture what I had seen. What was wrong?
A first-year student could have picked it out. The timing! The warrior had dispatched the monster
after
he had raised the mirror. But the mirror was only effective after the physical beast was dead. I had flinched because the demon beast had moved just before the sword bit into its gut. Too quick. Too easy. The Warden didn’t have the demon in his control. I wanted to cry out a warning, but I was drowned out by the bellowing demon. Because it was outside of physical form, it spoke in its own nerve-scraping voice, using the demon language, a tongue so vile you studied it only in daylight, lest your nights be forever filled with words of dread. “Never will I yield to such whining scum as you. Take me if you can.”
after
he had raised the mirror. But the mirror was only effective after the physical beast was dead. I had flinched because the demon beast had moved just before the sword bit into its gut. Too quick. Too easy. The Warden didn’t have the demon in his control. I wanted to cry out a warning, but I was drowned out by the bellowing demon. Because it was outside of physical form, it spoke in its own nerve-scraping voice, using the demon language, a tongue so vile you studied it only in daylight, lest your nights be forever filled with words of dread. “Never will I yield to such whining scum as you. Take me if you can.”
The knife flashed, the silver Warden’s knife that could be changed to whatever weapon was needed, that could slice through the incorporeal body of a demon if you could calculate exactly where that was. The faint mournful wail of a dying demon floated on the cooling breeze. The light began to brighten. The warrior knelt and opened his arms wide to embrace victory and peace.
But I had no peace. There had been no demon captured, so no demon was dead. Since I existed in that place, I would have felt it. Every demon death was a palpable alteration in the aspect of the universe. That was why we were so wary of killing them all. The change would be so monumental, we believed that nature could not tolerate it. Better to keep fighting than to destroy the very thing you were out to protect. But this one ... This demon was gone, but still alive. Unbound. This scene was all wrong.
“Warden, I challenge this claim of victory. This sham. This craven falsehood.” The thundering voice spoke the very thoughts in my head, but its source was a white-haired figure in a blue cloak who had walked onto the battlefield while I wasn’t looking. Galadon.
I rubbed my eyes and shifted senses back and forth, but still I saw what was impossible. Incredible enough that I was present, somehow able to observe a battle beyond a true portal, but now another had come there, and two humans faced each other on the battlefield.
The warrior was astonished also. “How in Verdonne’s name came you here, wicked old man?”
Blast and curse all treachery. The Warden was Rhys. No one but the three of us—Rhys, Ysanne, and myself—had ever dared call Galadon “wicked old man.”
“You think you have explored the depth and breadth of power, Warden, but it is only the depth and breadth of corruption. There are many aspects of melydda beyond those you know.”
“I know you have no business in this place ... and neither do I anymore. This battle is done. There is no sham. Let’s get out, then you will explain how it’s possible for you to be here.”
“You claim your business is done. Yet you have allowed a demon to leave this vessel unbound—yes, I saw it. You claim victory, yet it walks the earth again, free to take another for its pleasure. What mockery have you made of your oath?”
“You’re mad, old man. I killed the demon, as I’ve killed every one of them for ten years. It’s why they stay away from us and adhere to our bargain. No wonder you’ve twisted the ways of the world to follow me here. You’re afraid to face me with this accusation on a human plane where all can see how you’ve grown feeble with age.”
“I fear nothing save that your corruption continues unchecked. You will bring our people to ruin, and the rest of the world alongside.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. If it weren’t for me, we would all be dead.” Rhys turned his back and walked off in the direction of the portal.
Galadon called after him. “You’ve not answered my challenge, boy. I demand satisfaction from you. Here. Now. Before your wickedness goes any further.”
Rhys halted and looked back. “You can’t mean this. I have no grievance with you ... save perhaps your everlasting blindness.”
“Others will know of this violation unless you silence me this day.”
What was Galadon doing?
Rhys hesitated, then strolled back toward our mentor. The old man leaned on his staff, the hot wind fluttering his white hair and blue robe. The two were so far away, yet I could hear them clearly, and through their words envision the stubborn resolve on Galadon’s face and the nervous cockiness on Rhys’s.
Yet it was not just fury that flowed from Rhys, but long-held pain and bitterness. “Who would believe you? They’ll see only the great teacher overtaken by age and grief when faced with the ruin of his favorite. Do you think my old friend can save us by playing at Warden’s training? Oh, yes, I’ve watched your games with him these past few nights. Sixteen years, old man. He cannot light a candle with his melydda. You’ve been afraid to test him, because you know it’s true. You just can’t bear to give up the hope. Perhaps it’s time you gave a little thought to the rest of us.”
“He is the Warrior. He will find what he needs. He will save us all—Ezzarian and Derzhi and Khelid. He was born for it.”
“What care have we for the Derzhi or the Khelid or the cursed Empire they desire? Let them exterminate each other. We’ll take care of whatever is left. Send your failed pupil back to his slave masters, old man. It is I who’s done what’s necessary to save us, because you were too busy mourning a dead man.” Rhys was only a few paces away from the figure in blue.
Galadon extended his arms to Rhys. “It is not your reason that speaks such cruelty, lad. Even now your jealous heart echoes the desires of rai-kirah, as it did the day you abandoned your dearest friend to slavers and tainted yourself with corruption. As it has since the day you lost your first battle and sold your soul to hide it. Did you think I wouldn’t guess what happened all those years ago? Did you think you could make such a bargain and never have to pay the price?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It is not too late. Put it away, my son. See your own gifts and crave not those that were never meant for you. Or tell me how long it will be until you look into your own mirror and see the eyes of a demon.”
With a roar Rhys raised his knife and changed it into a sword. Galadon did likewise with his staff. Though a formidable warrior in his youth, he would never have been a match for Rhys. Frantically I looked for a way down from the precipice. As far as I could see to the right or the left was a sheer drop to the razor-edged rocks below. Endless wastes behind me. There was no time. Rhys’s sword ripped Galadon’s shoulder, and the old man stumbled backward. Grotesque laughter assaulted my ears. From wherever he had gone, the demon watched and fed. Galadon stayed on his feet, but his sword wavered in the orange light. Rhys feinted, causing Galadon to stagger left, but the old man recovered and nicked Rhys with a powerful stroke. In pained rage Rhys beat Galadon back and back and back....
I could not permit it. Such a storm of anger and indignation came over me that I was incapable of reason or doubt. Galadon was going to die at the hand of my friend, and a demon was growing stronger as it happened. I could not stand back and watch it.
I closed my eyes and reached into the depths of my being, ripping away layer upon layer of fear and horror, pain and despair, shutting out grief, cooling anger, focusing my inner eye upon the essence, the core that gave shape to the soul named Seyonne. There I grasped the cold hard knot that lay where melydda had once lived, and I breathed upon it, willing it to take fire.
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