Consensus Breaking (The Auran Chronicles Book 2) (23 page)

Seb opened his eyes, his mind returning to the land of the living. A cocktail of cold, pain, damp and fatigue hit him all at once.

He wished he’d remained unconscious.

Above him the broken branches marked the path he’d crashed through the canopy as he fell from the sky.

Yet, unbelievably, he lived.

How? How the hell had he survived that? His mind was a blur, his last memory being that thing, the sheol with immense power that broke his body. No - that wasn’t his last memory. There was something else. A meeting. A room. Those lizard warrior things again. The images were murky, the conversation fragments of sounds that he could not recall.

Perhaps if he used Sentio?

He tried. Failed. No bloody chance. The Weave was there, but his body was so battered it was like trying to herd cats. He couldn’t connect, not for anything meaningful anyway. Avatari was there, working away in the background, but its effect was weak, barely keeping the pain at bay and working hard to piece together the damage he’d done to his insides.

Thankfully, his mind was intact. Otherwise the rest would just give up the ghost.

So where the hell was he?
Teleport.
That was the Script he’d called. He’d never used it before, but had seen it in the Novo library in his mind. It needed a destination, he remembered that much. He’d thrown something at it, an image, a memory, and it had accepted it greedily. And it had worked.

Give or take several hundred feet.

So the question remained. Where had he arrived? A forest. Trees. There was something familiar about them. About their size, their shape. The way they acted like a wall, blotting out the world to any prying eyes.

He turned his head, the movement lesser in pain now - a good sign. There was a path nearby made of white stone. Weeds were trying to claim it but it clung on defiantly. Through the trees to his right he could make something else out too. A structure. Stone.

Large.

A gargoyle.

A shiver ran through him as he recognised his location.

Skelwith. Home of the Magistry. The
former
home of the Magistry.

How far? No way. No bloody way. He’d seen
teleports
, but they were only for the immediate area. A mage had to have been to a location for it to work, but it still only worked over metres.

Not several miles.

How had he done that?

An explosion of sensations rattled inside his brain. His body now repaired to a level that his
sense
had reactivated. Echoes came back. Wildlife and vegetation for miles around. No humans at all. There…

Shit.

Sheol. Ferals. Not good.

Most had gone, God knows where. They’d vanished into whatever cracks Marek had pulled them through. But those that were totally beyond control resisted the call. They remained, loitering around areas strong in the Weave, like Haven.

Like Skelwith.

Their images came clearer now. A dozen of them, scattered throughout the forest. The sheol had frozen in place, their own innate
sense
detecting Seb’s presence before his shield had hidden him from view.

His stomach knotted. They were coming. All of them.

He tried to stand, but a jab of hot fire lanced through his ankle and he collapsed to the ground. Sweat sprouted from every pore as the fire receded.

He looked down at the leg. It looked normal, but as he peered beyond he saw it then, and collapsed back into the dirt.

A broken bone. He’d broken his bloody ankle.

Despair came then, creeping in, using his fear as a lever. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run. They would tear him limb from limb. It would be easier if he killed himself and save himself the torment.

They were coming, bounding through the trees. Their whoops and snarls drifted through the undergrowth, the sheol excited that they’d finally found live prey.

Seb rolled onto his other side. Thankfully his other leg seemed intact. He grabbed hold of a knot protruding out from a nearby tree and used it to hoist himself up. Pain flashed through his bad leg but Avatari smothered it quickly, preventing him from passing out. He just needed…where was it? Where? Hopefully it had landed nearby.

He held out a hand and called. Something rustled in the undergrowth and then the staff he’d carried with him flew like a dart. It smacked into his hand. He began hobbling through the undergrowth, instinct guiding him to the ruins of the first home he’d ever really known.

Seb moved from tree to tree, limping in bursts, going as far as he could before the pain became too much. The sheol were seconds away, sniffing in the dark like hounds. They didn’t have his trail but it wouldn’t take long to find him regardless. He had to move, and move quickly.

Seb crashed through a blackberry bush and stepped onto the path. On his left the path curved away and upwards, towards, he recalled, the ancient stone bench where he’d sat with Cade so many months before. It was a dead end. He turned right, heading down towards a junction that he knew led off in two directions. To the mansion, or what was left it, or the driveway that led back into civilisation.  He had no vehicle to speak of, so the latter wouldn’t get him anywhere. Instead he turned left, towards the mansion.

Something burst from the undergrowth ahead of him. Two sheol, teenagers once, but now a hybrid of human and daemon. They skidded into the path before him. One saw him at once and nearly toppled over in surprise.

‘Mageling,’ it snarled, ‘a mageling!’ It scrambled forwards, almost mindless, reaching clawed hands out towards him. ‘I feed!’ it growled, ‘tonight I feed!’

Seb smashed its head to a pulp with one overhead smash.

The other wasn’t quite as gone as its now deceased friend. It skirted around Seb, recognising the damage that the weapon could cause. It focused on his left side, trying to keep where he held his withered hand to his chest. It struck out, faster than he could pivot. Pain exploded down his side as talons raked across his ribs.

The sensation came almost immediately, that numbing fire, sprouting from the wound, spreading out like veins. He hadn’t felt it for so long and yet the memory came quickly.

Clementine. The church. Where it all began.

His vision began to blur as he staggered about the path. The sheol grinned, its rotten teeth bared. It knew he was lost, that it only needed time. At the edge of his
sense
he felt more coming, answering that innate call they all shared. They bounded through the forest now, at least twenty, perhaps more.

The sheol leapt. He couldn’t deflect it. He ducked low, more talons raking his back as it tumbled over. He fell back against a tree as the creature spun about. It launched again. Novo wasn’t an option, his mind was treacle now. Only Avatari, his ever faithful, didn’t desert him. He waited until the last possible moment, when he could almost smell the daemon’s rancid breath, then spun away. He caught the creature round the back of the head and smashed it into the tree, its face caving under the impact. It slid to the floor, still alive, but gurgling as it drowned in its own blood.

He had to go. He had to get to safety. But where? Behind him the path seemed to close in, the trees like a sinister stone wall, constricting, removing any route that led away from this place. The other way led to the ruins of what had once been Skelwith, but where now just lay memories of where many of his kind had been slaughtered by Marek and his forces.

Ironic really, that after all this time he would now die in the same place.

The familiar, chilling howl of the sheol came now, carried across the still of the forest. He lunged forwards, dragging his leaden foot behind him. The poison, even countered by Avatari, coursed through his veins. Every step was agony, his muscles hardening, his body seemingly shutting down around him.

Perhaps it would be easier to just lay down and die?

He slowed. The thought, clear and loud in his mind, seemed to make perfect sense. He couldn’t make it. This last ditch effort was the desperate thrashes of a dying mind, trying to cling on to life. Cold logic came now.
Just stop. Don’t fight. Let it take you. The Weave will welcome you.

He stopped. Smiled. Dropped to his knees.

The sheol were almost upon him. Not a dozen. Not twenty. More like fifty, all gathered around the magical scars caused by Skelwith’s destruction.

He calmed his mind. He would only need one Script. One last call to the Weave. It came easily. A focus of power. An explosion of energy, with him as the epicentre.

I’ll be with you soon, old man,
he smiled.

The runes burned in his mind’s eye. They glowed, awaiting that final command to let it go. Let it all go. Seb took a final breath, calm and steady, and -

- A light. Some kind of glow, white, like snow, appeared before him.

He raised a hand, trying to shield himself from the glare. A silhouette appeared, the figure’s identity hidden by the light behind them.

Who is that?

The sheol poured onto the path from all sides. They fell over themselves in a mindless frenzy, all drawn like sharks to blood.

Somewhere, something clicked. Did someone curse? Something flew through the air. He couldn’t see it, but he felt it, the change in air pressure detected by his fading powers. Something zoomed past his ear, barely an inch.

The world exploded into white light. Sheol screamed. A wave of force picked him up. He flew. Trees beckoned. The air smelled of burned flesh.

Then everything turned black.

***

It was the smell that he noticed first. Damp. Rotten wood. Mixed with something else that he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

Before he could ponder the thought further, his stomach clenched and gurgled. He rolled to one side. Something hot roared up his throat. It gushed out of his mouth, hitting the floor with a splatter. It seemed to go on for an age. In the end, he was retching air, his stomach throbbing with the effort. When at last the urge to vomit had subsided, he sat up, taking in his surroundings.

A room. No, an alcove, huddled against a wall. A wooden cabinet stood next to his bed, a single candle long burned to the wick. Avatari filled in the blanks, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom the unease made way for recognition. A wave of emotion crashed over him.

The Drain.

How? What had happened? The last thing he remembered were the sheol, a swarm, almost on him. Something appeared. Someone. But he hadn’t
sensed
anything, no ripple of the Weave. The world had exploded in white fire.

Phosphorous.

At least that explained one thing. Whoever had saved his life was not Unaware, or at least, they knew of the ways of the Aware.

He swung his feet onto the floor, avoiding the stinking pool of vomit. He held his breath and dropped a rag from the bedside cabinet onto the sick by his feet. He wiped up the mess and pushed it against the wall.

A flicker of memory made him smile. For a moment he was back in time two years, getting ready for another day of rounds with Caleb or more beatings at the hands of Cade.

Happier times.

He lifted up the acolyte smock he’d been put in and checked out his ribs. He smiled again.

Black algae. It was a large splat of the stuff, no doubt filling its belly on the sheol poison. The last time he’d seen it Cade has used it as an emergency patch to keep him alive until more powerful magicks could be used. Not now though. Already he could feel Avatari burning away, taking over from the efforts of the algae and consuming the poison on its own. His ankle throbbed, but no longer was the foot facing at an impossible angle. And his arm…

…no way.

The skin was pink, like new, the rotting black veneer had gone, as had the smell. It felt sore, but it was still attached.

He would live. But how the hell he had was beyond him.

A noise from beyond the arch made him start. He
sensed
. No, definitely not Aware, but life, definitely. The aura was human, but it was a strange mix. Unaware with something else. Something he’d not seen before.

Seb crept to the arch and peered round. For a moment his heart nearly leapt out of his throat.

An old man, stooped and frail, squatted down in front of a log fire. The man had his back to Seb, grey wispy hair pouring down a thin back where his spine showed through a tatty brown jumper. The man leant against a crooked staff as he squatted, staring into the fire.

‘Who are you?’ his voice made him start, not realising he was going to speak until he actually said the words.

The man jumped and nearly fell over. He tried to stand up quickly but slowed halfway, wincing and reaching a gnarled hand to his hip.

‘Shit, boy, you’ll give me a heart attack. I thought I’d told you about that already?’

The man turned around. The room began to spin. Logic battled longing. This couldn’t be. It just could not be.