Harbinger (35 page)

Then she saw nothing but green, as the power of the rune Shayst enveloped her. All the power that had fueled her body was drawn away with a searing pain in her bones. One of the Deacons stepped toward her and drew more of the power over her runes.

Severed from everything, she sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Derodak’s hands wrapped around her hair, and she was dragged upward. Sorcha scrambled, but it was a fruitless, weak gesture. They tied her hands behind her back and threw her over the saddle of the Arch Abbot’s Breed stallion.

When he got up behind her, he patted her on the back like she was some kind of pet. “That really was a waste of time; by the end of today the Rossin—in fact all the geists and geistlords—will be under my control.”

Sorcha hated the sound of his voice and hated to think that he was right. “You reach too far,” she gasped, tasting the sweat of the horse and his rider in her mouth. “The geists are much too powerful for you. You cannot control them all at once—no one can.”

His hand now rested on her head. “That is why I have you.”

She had no answer for that, because he did have her, and she knew what she had felt from the Wrayth. That connection was what he meant to use. If she could have wriggled free and dashed herself against the cobblestones, she would have. However, Derodak had left her with no opportunities for self-sacrifice.

Blood . . . it was always about blood. Sorcha did not want to die, but she was grateful that if she did, she would not have to see what would come after. Though, if the Otherside had direct access to this world, then would human souls still travel there? Or would they be caught and used by the geists?

She needed Merrick. She needed Raed. Yet Sorcha was very glad they were not here.

Finally, they reached the walls of the Imperial Palace. Hands grabbed at her, uncaring about any hurt they caused her, and bundled her down off the horse. Sorcha’s feet were unsteady under her, but she made a great effort to remain on them.

Derodak and his Circle of Stars stood around and smiled. They were looking at the palace with the expressions of zealots, as if they were coming home. Through her hair, Sorcha saw the cannons and soldiers on the wall. Human defenses gave her no hope, even as the soldiers lowered their weapons and made ready to fire.

“Prepare the way,” Derodak ordered his Deacons. His children hustled to obey him: some faded away into Voishem, phasing out of the world and dashing toward the walls, while others claimed Pyet and walked toward the walls wreathed in flame.

The screams of the palace defenders were the only sounds to be heard in the palace square for quite some time. It was a macabre music, accompanied by the occasional gunshot.

Then when all grew silent again, Derodak and the ranks of his Deacons marched toward the palace. Two of his Circle pushed open the main gates and let them in; thus was the palace taken, in a matter of moments.

Sorcha could not help but think that if the Order of the Eye and the Fist had not been crushed, things would have been very different. However, that was why Derodak had made sure to dispose of them first.

The sounds of more gunfire gave her some hope, but they were distant and up ahead of them in the depths of the palace. Sorcha could only guess that some doughty souls were fighting a rearguard action in there.

They had to step over bodies as Derodak led them deeper into the palace, but it was not to the throne room he was aiming—which surprised Sorcha. His grip on her arm was now firmer. “We must hurry. I am about to show you something very special,” he whispered.

Sorcha made no reply. They were on the central staircase now. Above, many flights of stairs went up, or to different wings of the palace, but again that was not the direction that they went. Derodak directed them down.

They had to step over one more body on the way, and it was the one body that could have reached Sorcha. Garil lay on the first landing, half of his face burned off and his hand clenched in agony. He might have been afraid of Sorcha and what she was, but he had been her friend for many years before that. She was not surprised he had died defending the palace.

“You are so proud of yourself,” Sorcha screamed, twisting around and spitting her words in Derodak’s face, “killing old men and women! How does that make you a leader of men?”

She got no answer from the Arch Abbot; he merely pushed her down the stairs more quickly. Sorcha wondered if her old friend had seen his death coming. She also wondered if she was really about to be the peril that he had warned Aachon about months ago. It was looking more and more likely that he had been right.

That thought gave her pause. She swallowed back tears for Garil and all the rest to come. Sorcha would not let Derodak see her cry.

As they went, the trail of Deacons following them diminished as Derodak posted more and more of them as guards in the corridors or landings they passed. Eventually there were only five of them, plus Sorcha and the Arch Abbot.

Though she’d never been down this deep into the caverns, she made the connection to what Zofiya had told them had happened when she freed the geistlord that had caused so many problems in Orinthal.

In fact, they passed a section of a wall that had been brought down in one of the side corridors. Derodak paused. “Hatipai would have made a fine sacrifice for this . . .” He sounded almost regretful.

Then pulling her on, they continued deeper down. The walls went from carved to smooth rock, until they came to a doorway. The carving of the many-tentacled creature guarded this doorway, and she knew immediately who it was: the Maker of Ways.

She planted her feet, struggling for a moment, but Derodak summoned the Rune of Flesh and yanked her forcibly in. The rest of his Deacons remained outside. It was just Sorcha and him in a small cave. Her eyes were drawn to the strange little door in the middle of the floor. It looked like it had been hammered out of some kind of silver material.

Derodak did not seem at all pleased by this. “By the Bones!” He forgot all about her for a moment, dropping to his knees to examine the hatch. Strangely however, he didn’t touch it.

Something displeased him, because he began yelling at no one in particular in a language Sorcha did not understand. She watched him curiously wondering if he might fall dead of apoplexy right there and then. It could only be hoped.

Unfortunately he recovered after a few minutes, pushed his hair out of his eyes and turned on her with a smile. “Don’t worry, my dear, everything is still on track.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. “I know you are not a Sensitive, but you must be able to feel it!”

Sorcha hadn’t wanted to mention it, but she did. Even to her weakened and damaged Center the pulse of the place was unnerving.

However, what was even more so was his grip on her arm. She had already seen the runes he had made for himself. When she glanced down at the marks on his arms, she saw the silvered forms were shifting on the surface of his skin like undersea creatures. Her breath was stolen as they crossed over to her flesh.

Where he touched her, she felt as if hot irons were being applied, and she screamed. Derodak shoved her down against the floor, and Sorcha found her legs couldn’t hold her. Now Derodak wrapped his arms around her, until they were pressed as close as lovers. Worse than these new runes on her was the sensation of him drawing something from her.

Sorcha’s voice cracked in her throat and then died. The real world no longer mattered. Derodak was guiding her Wrayth heritage, pushing it out into the world, wider and wider.

Sorcha felt as though she might crack under the pressure, but somehow she did not. Her mind blurred, struggling to hold on to some vague sense of self as she became a vessel for human experience. She was being forced to take in the whole world of humans. Women, men, children, young, old, the newborn and the dying; she reached out and touched them all.

Though Sorcha could not control them as the Wrayth had wanted, she could draw a tiny portion of them into herself. Derodak fed on that piece, fed on it and then used it in his own way.

Dimly she realized he was speaking in the language of the Ancients, the language of the Ehtia. The Otherside was so close now. The room plunged into icy chill, the kind that even Sorcha, floating and distant, could feel in her bones.

Then he began to cut her, spreading her blood on the sand. It didn’t hurt because she was barely there, but Sorcha understood now. This sand was here for a reason, carefully protected. This was the front door of the Otherside. The sand was from there, not from this world.

As she managed to look up, Sorcha saw the thing that was written about in all the history books. The Break.

The moment when the Otherside opened was the greatest terror of all people—the one event that all cultures, all civilizations had felt the agony of.

Now Sorcha began to appreciate what those ancestors had seen; the world was ripping apart and beyond it was the Otherside. She and Merrick had traveled there once, but their mind—at least hers—had forgotten the details.

Flames, emptiness and eternal hunger waited there. Linked with her Sensitive they had flung their souls into it once, but their minds had carefully hidden it from them. Now it was displayed in its full glory and horror. She recalled all the pain, flames and danger they had risked. It was no place for a human. It was the realm where the Ehtia had their very bodies ripped from them. None could survive there. She felt the alternating cold and heat on her worn-out body.

That was not her greatest fear anymore, because something else was coming. As Sorcha lay back in the sand, bleeding, a giant gray tentacle was pushing apart the breach, ripping a hole through the roof of the cavern and into the world.

Sorcha wanted to scream, to do something to release the pressure, but she had nothing—no choice but to experience the true horror of it all. Derodak was laughing in triumph, sure that he was about to become the greatest being in any realm.

Then he lowered his gaze, pulled out the knife and began to slowly dissect Sorcha Faris on the sands of the Otherside as fuel for the Maker of Ways.

The Rossin ran through the streets of Vermillion like a creature maddened. Its citizens scattered screaming, as he bounded past them. He knocked many over, but he did not turn to devour them. His only thought was to get away from Derodak and what he was about to unleash. All his plans to gain his freedom seemed to have come to nothing. The Fensena had not come back, and his pelt was on the back of that cunning Sensitive partner of Sorcha’s who was hundreds of miles away. Still he would take what he had.

Yet, what was it he had?

Soon, the Maker of Ways would arrive and then there would be no going back. The Otherside would swallow this realm, and he would be in dire danger. He had many enemies in that realm, and time did not matter to them.

As his great padded paws fell on the last bit of paved road in Vermillion, he stopped. He had reached the Edge—the most unfortunate patch of swampy ground in the city. Here the marshy ground supported only the poorest of the city, before giving way to wetlands that stretched for miles. He would have to swim, and then get as far from Vermillion as possible. Hiding was not in the Rossin’s nature, but he would have to learn it quickly if he wanted to survive.

He’d just placed one paw onto the wet ground that was the beginning of the wilderness, when a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

It was his host. Raed Syndar Rossin was near the surface, listening, and now speaking, and that was highly unusual behavior.

The great cat shook his mane, breathing hard.

The great geistlord does not run!
Raed continued, his voice growing stronger by the moment.
The Rossin stays and fights.

The cat turned and glanced over his shoulder. From here, there was a narrow view of the Imperial Island in the distance. He knew what would be going on there. It wouldn’t be long now.

The Rossin growled deeply, his claws flexing into the ground for an instant.

Raed’s voice didn’t seem as weak and foolish as it had in the past.
You are the Rossin, and this is your world. You must fight for it.

It was true. This was his world, and it had weakened him too much—if he went back to the Otherside it would mean certain destruction. If he did not fight, then there was no hope.

The great pard roared, howling his frustration into the wilderness, and then he made his decision.

The Rossin wheeled about, and this time sprang back toward the palace. His paws hit the cobblestones with rhythmic thumps that sounded like battle drums in his ears. He roared, tossing his head and snarling at the challenge to come.

Soon enough he had eaten up the distance between the Edge and the Imperial Island, and was barreling along the Bridge of Gilt. Inside, he felt Raed Syndar Rossin share his determination and strength. It was an odd sensation since both of them had spent years battling each other. Now, feeling the human’s strength of will, the Rossin wondered at it. Had he underestimated his host all this time? What might they have achieved if they had worked together? What might they still do?

They sprang onto the square and bounded toward the castle wall. The human defenders had all been slain by the Circle of Stars and replaced by Deacons. These Deacons, Raed let the Rossin hate.

He saw fire, green and red, flash at him from left and right as Deacons on the battlements threw their runes at him. None had any effect, flowing over and through him. It was exhilarating more than anything. When the great cat leapt at the postern gate in the palace doors, they cracked and broke under him. The Vermillion palace had not been made to stand attack in any real sense. The city was protection enough for the palace of an Emperor, but the Rossin was not a normal foe.