Soul's Reckoning (Broken Well Trilogy) (24 page)

Opening the floodgates as wide as he could, he
poured
his power into her. She shrieked as shadow filled her, her knees trembling as she fell to them. His vision swam with blazing light as he flung his remaining arm around her neck like a grapple, hauling his bones up against hers. Every last drop went into her .
 
.
 
. all his reserves, and then even the magic that animated him. She shuddered in his grip, her bones clacking against his, her ward failing as she tried to shake him off. He held on as tightly as his fading strength allowed, and her hand came to rest on his chest, exploding it with fire.

•

Fahren heard Elessa’s cries, could sense the fonts of power behind him, but facing Charla and Corlas together was taxing despite their weakened state. Something was happening, however, and he knew his attention was needed. With a great push he knocked Corlas from his feet, the man’s sunset ward seeming to have all but set.

‘Stop this, Corlas!’ he called. ‘I do not wish to kill you!’

‘What a coincidence,’ said Corlas, pushing up on his elbows. ‘I don’t wish you to either.’ He flicked a finger at Fahren, and Fahren tensed for more Old Magic – but nothing came. Corlas scowled, exhausted by the look of him. Charla ran to his side, covering him with her own waning ward. The moment of distraction was what Fahren needed, and he dared to glance at what was happening in the middle of the clearing.

Fazel was wrapped around Elessa, the broken end of his spine wiggling in the air, his once-black bones now seared white. Although she struggled against him, his grip was strong, as if his hand was the last place any strength remained. She was truly undead now, to his eyes as well as mind, for much of her flesh had torn away, her skull revealed down one half of her head. Her hand plunged against Fazel’s chest, and she released a fireball. It burst between them messily, shattering his rib cage and spilling through what was left of his back .
 
.
 
. and yet they did not fly apart, but embraced each other in the flames. The last of her flesh smouldered to nothing and they collapsed, bones upon bones falling to the ground, puffing to ash as they landed.

Elessa and Fazel were gone.

Near the ashes and fading flames, a tear in the world was growing larger. As its edges crackled with all the spectrum, the outline of a body formed within.

‘Look!’ cried Fahren. ‘Corlas, let us put aside our quarrel a moment! Your son is being reborn!’

As Charla helped him to his feet, Corlas did not take his eyes from the silhouette forming in the gateway of the Stone. Meanwhile there was movement by the trees as Jaya and Lalenda stepped out of hiding. Slowly they all converged around the Stone, casting untrusting glances at one another as they formed a ring around it.

‘There is nothing to be gained,’ cautioned Fahren, ‘from further strife.’

‘Silence,’ said Corlas.

Another figure padded out of the trees. Tyrellan, his face impassive as he took them all in.

’Nothing to be gained,’ he echoed, warily moving to stand by Lalenda. ‘Losara will be represented too.’

‘It will not be Losara any more,’ said Fahren.

Behind Tyrellan floated a beautiful butterfly. It circled the goblin once and then landed on his shoulder, where it opened and closed its colourful wings. Tyrellan barely glanced at it, but instead met Fahren’s eyes.

‘Your have poor taste in allies, Throne.’

‘Silence!’ shouted Corlas, making them all start.

The gateway opened wide .
 
.
 
. and yet the figure inside had not taken a final shape.

Losara’s recollections became like tributaries into the stream of Bel’s past. It was an odd feeling as his history reshaped itself, concurrent events mixing in with each other, remembered by the one they were becoming, yet also by the both that had been .
 
.
 
.

A boy ran through the Open Halls, the strip of fur tied round his head signifying that he played the hugger. A young Hiza chased after him, brandishing a wooden sword .
 
.
 
. while a boy also sat unseen in a dark corner of Skygrip, watching others play nearby, wondering why they took such joy in hurling a ball of string to one another. Should he try to join in, he wondered, to understand what it was they did? The ball came towards him and he stepped from the shadows to catch it – but it banged against his fumbling hands and fell to the floor. He crouched to retrieve it, looked up to find the other children whispering to one another, casting about worried glances.

‘Is this how?’ he asked, raising the ball to throw it to the nearest – but the boy backed off, shaking his head.

‘That’s all right, lord,’ he said. ‘You keep it.’

They left him there, standing alone, the end of the ball unwinding between his fingers. He looked about and realised that shadows had stuck to him, stretching elastic from the wall to his body, and shook them off in annoyance .
 
.
 
.

‘Ho ho, you rascals!’ chortled Corlas as Bel and Hiza raced past, knocking over a shield. ‘Get him, Hiza – I hear that one hugged an entire village to death!’

‘Grar!’ yowled Bel, and made for a tree .
 
.
 
.

The memories flowed both ways, to him and from him, going to the other part, which he could not yet control.

Losara.

Yes?

Why do you persist?

A pause.

Bel.
A statement more than anything else.

Yes, that’s right. I’m Bel.
We
are Bel.

Lessons with Battu arrived .
 
.
 
. and those with Fahren flowed away. Heron looked down into his crib, emaciated and miserable .
 
.
 
. and Corlas picked him up, jiggling him in the air. Tyrellan, thought of with affection, pointed a claw down a winding corridor .
 
.
 
. and now the First Slave was in the distance, riding along behind the shadowmander, terrorising his people.

Do not fight, Losara. You are the lesser. Take your place quietly so we may go on to win the war for the light.

Losara considered the words.
Maybe
, he said.

There is no maybe. You should never have existed. All you are is your magic. Without it, you are nothing.

Do you really believe that?

Let us see how you would fare in my place.

Suddenly Losara stood in the throng of battle, his feet firm on the ground.

No shadow to turn to and whisk off as
, came Bel’s voice.

Metal clashed a finger’s breadth from his ear. He was pushed to his knees as two warriors battled by, a Saurian and a huge Arabodedas repeatedly clashing two-handed swords.

Get up
, said Bel.
You’re vulnerable down there.

Losara scrabbled to his feet, felt a scabbard bang against his leg.

You have no magic. The sword is your only ally. Remember the prophecy, Losara – the blue-haired man raises a sword high in victory.

Losara drew the blade, heavy in his grip. A Mire Pixie came at him, holding a small shield with one hand, claws extending from the other.

Your enemy
, said Bel,
for this moment.

No.

In this heartbeat.

No.

It is my memory, Losara. You are playing my part, albeit with your own weak carcass.

The pixie hissed, and Losara backed away. Around him he could feel the heat of bodies, the ground trembling with the thud of feet and the falling dead. Someone jostled him from behind, and he did not know if it was friend or foe.

What is it like?
said Bel.
Without your power? The knowledge that, at any moment, from any direction, you could feel cold steel slide into you?

An axe struck the limply held blade from Losara’s hands. The Arabodedas who wielded it moved before him, glowering from under spiky brows. ‘They sent a scrap like you?’ he said in a disgusted tone, and raised the axe again. ‘What did they think
you
were going to do?’

The scene began to fade and the axe-head, now ephemeral, passed through him.

So
, said Losara,
because I wouldn’t make a great warrior, you are superior – is that your point?

Bel found himself unsure what his point had been.

Your strength is a talent
, continued Losara,
just like my magic. What’s the difference, really? Let us be fair, then, and see how you would manage in one of
my
memories.

Bel raced towards a copse of trees, marvelling at how it felt to travel through the grass in this strange shadow form. He could sense his power, great and deep, knew how to wield it – power that should have been his, he thought jealously.

I do not guard my knowledge from you
, said Losara,
as you did your swordsmanship
.
I am more interested in seeing how you use it, rather than watching you flounder about looking lost. Anyone can tell you that a fish thrown from a mountain will not fare well.

Bel entered the trees, and discovered a troop of Varenkai who had been ransacking the Fenvarrow supply carts. The mages in the group sensed his presence immediately.

I shall do better than you, I suspect
, he said, stepping from the shadows.
You, I now seem to recall, when faced with such clear enemies, chose instead to dally.
He extended his hands, revelling in the power that sprang forth. Blue energy swept through the soldiers, and the mages’ light wards did not stand for more than moments. As they shattered, the mages screamed with the rest, their muscles melting and their brains boiling. Bel was ecstatic with what he wielded, but too quickly it was over.

You see?
he said triumphantly.
I do not flee to cogitate when faced with such a simple scenario.

No
, said Losara.
Instead you seize with gusto the opportunity to murder your own countrymen.

Do not twist things
.
We both know these are insubstantial figments, less than ghosts, and this but an exercise.

Our talents are not the sum of who we are. It is how we use them that defines us.

Bel grew angry. Why were they even having this conversation? Why had Losara not disappeared into him yet?

And you
do not use yours as you could,
he said,
pausing instead to ponder every move
.
Ambivalent in the face of a single path, seeking ways to get lost in the brush.

There was a laugh then, but Bel was not sure if it came from him or Losara.

Yes
, said Losara.
I would not deny that your focus is mighty. Your sight narrows to your aim exclusively while the rest fades to unimportance. For a time I was worried that you are so directed .
 
.
 
.

.
 
.
 
. while you meander thoughtfully, reticent to take action.

Thinking about my options, Bel, about what course to take. That is the way of things when one is not a follower.

I am
not
a follower.

Self-denial .
 
.
 
. something new to me. All your life, you have done as others wished. Fahren –

It was never Fahren’s wish that I turn out a soldier.

– has been a guiding hand, steering you always, teaching you that the shadow is to be feared .
 
.
 
.

Just as you were taught by Battu, by Tyrellan, by Heron, to hate the light.

Naphur .
 
.
 
.

Whom I defied when I returned to the peacekeepers after Drel. Whom I wrested command from when we marched to conquer Fenvarrow.

That never happened, Bel. It was just a dream.

Maybe. Or maybe I could have won without resorting to any of this.

And in the end we both would have died. Is that what you want?

No.

Corlas .
 
.
 
.

Corlas never told me how to live.

Losara paused.
I suppose he did not. Arkus .
 
.
 
.

Do not invoke Arkus when you have
followed
instructions from your own gods also .
 
.
 
. what of the pilgrimage you made?

As he said the words Bel experienced a rush of images, remembered travelling around Fenvarrow, taking in its beauty .
 
.
 
. but the sense of wonder disappeared quickly, not yet his emotion to possess.

You follow, Bel. How else can you pursue your end so vigorously and yet not even know what you fight for?

Around them, Crystalweb appeared.

Remember this place?

Of course. What does it have to do with anything?

Bel fell silent as he saw his past self walking along the raised path through white-barked trees. Following him were Jaya, Hiza, M’Meska, Fazel and Gellan, all of whom were taking in the surrounding sights with fascination. Rain broke across crystal leaves while the sun still shone, and refracted colours raced across branches and down thick trunks, into glimmering piles of broken shards that twinkled like dangerous treasure.

Look at your face.

Past-Bel seemed dour, annoyed.

You cannot understand what makes the rest of us marvel
, said Losara
. Even I, the disguised spy from Fenvarrow, am forced to take stock of a place such as this. Yet you feel nothing, do not appreciate what you fight for, cannot.

I don’t fight for weird trees and magical spiders, that’s for sure.

Nor for the architectural triumph of the Open Halls, or the golden sands of the Furoara .
 
.
 
. or a tiny fish in the Shallow Sea, or the towering Arkus Heights. Where does it begin with you?

If you enjoy my land so much, why do you resist joining me?

My own land is beautiful too.

What? Dankness and darkness?

Since you cannot admire your own, I hardly think you’re in a position to judge mine. Don’t you think we shadow folk
like
where we live?

Blades clashed again, and they were back in the battle, this time as it was happening at that very moment. A Mireform roared as swords fell upon him – Eldew was no longer his towering self, for he had taken much damage. An arrow sank into his beady white eye, but he blinked it out rapidly.

‘Hack it to pieces!’ called a troop leader. ‘Arrows do no good!’

Eldew cut gaps in the line of soldiers attacking him, but others filled them quickly, closing in from all sides. As his legs were slashed from under him, he collapsed to the ground to pool amorphously. He was overwhelmed, and tried to escape his muddy remains as a worm-like thing.

‘Get it!’ screamed the troop leader, and the forest of surrounding feet began to stomp. Eldew dodged once, twice, and then slithered under a heel that came down hard upon him.

What is in his mind’s eye?
said Losara.
His last thoughts as he departs this world?

Eldew stood at the edge of Swampwild as dawn broke, the shadows just beginning to soften. Green hills stood lump-like above the bog, netted together by willow and bridge, rotting slowly and ripe with the smell of wet wood. There were ten types of moss underfoot, twenty types of ferns, and all manner of things in the mud and water. How his home pulsated with life, an unfelt heartbeat, yet the air was still enough to hear a dewdrop falling into a pool twenty paces away .
 
.
 
.

What makes you think I care
, said Bel,
that your monsters romanticise some muck-hole? Do you expect me to be sympathetic to this one, who butchered a whole village for no good reason?

Losara sighed.
You accuse me of thinking too much, but you do not think enough .
 
.
 
. and you call yourself a leader .
 
.
 
.

And so I am.

Then why, when you were offered the Throneship .
 
.
 
.

A meeting room in the Open Halls barracks where Bel, Gerent Brahl and Fahren sat at a table.

‘The people will surely rally to you,’ said Brahl. ‘I could not imagine a more natural figurehead.’

Bel nodded. ‘And when the time comes, I will gladly lead the charge. However, I was born to fight, not to rule.’

You said it yourself, Bel.

Do not use my own recollections against me. I was there, you know. Let us see how this continues.

‘You have heard Fahren speak of what I must accomplish,’ said Bel. ‘I have been charged by Arkus himself to retrieve the Stone of Evenings Mild. Thus, for a time at least, my path leads elsewhere.’

‘I agree,’ said Fahren. ‘A direct order from Arkus should not be ignored.’