Descent Into Fury Page 5

  Nothing gave answer. Despair overcame Vincent then, his anger shoved aside by a sense of both emptiness and panic. The emptiness grew, smothering all fear and pain, but the absence of these things was no comfort. Some small, nagging splinter of reason lingered, warning the Merchant that his body was failing him, that he must breathe, that if he did not, all would end, all would be lost.

  Yet he could not. Or, he did not. And it shamed him.

  What was black became white.

  “Vin, my love.” The voice was everywhere.

  Anie!

  Vincent called to her in his thoughts, but no words came.

  “It is as before, my love, remember? You may only listen.”

  Vincent remembered. He had been here before. The secrets he had been hiding from himself since his death in the throne room came flooding back. Secrets he had learned on his last visit to this place between places, timeless truths that gave answer to the great mysteries of life. Yet even these meant nothing when compared to the sweetness of the voice that delivered them.

  Oh, I love you Anie! Please, let me tell you… let me hold you…

  “You must return again, Vin. It is not time.”

  A soundless scream vainly sought escape from Vincent’s being.

  “Do not fear, my love. She loves you—”

  But I love you. Only you. Always, forever you.

  “—and you must love her in return. And above all, you must love Tahr, my brave, sweet man. For without your love, she will be lost forever. As will all things.”

  I miss you, Anie. Sweet wife, I miss you so.

  “Go now, love. Do not fear. I will see you again, but only if you succeed.”

  How? What do I do? Tell me, please, I will do anything for you. But I am lost—

  “Do not fail me, my love. Do not fail Tahr. Upon your deeds, all things rely.”

  Please, let me see you! Just once, please…

  “Goodbye, sweet husband.”

  No! Please, no!

  Vincent’s mournful cry carried him back to the world of the living.

  ~

  “Maris.”

  Chaneela gently shook her shoulder.

  “Wake up, Maris. He wants to see you.”

  Maris shot out of bed, making for the door before Chaneela grabbed her.

  “You need to dress, dear.”

  “Oh. I, um… tell him I will be right there.”

  For the three days since his visit with Anie, Vincent had refused visitors. He would only see Gerald, and only because Gerald would not leave his side. He would sleep, scream, wake, and sleep again. The wizard offered what comfort he could, when he could, but mainly his efforts were dedicated to the grisly task of rebuilding what he could of Vincent’s face. Only that morning, when Gerald assured Vincent he had done all he could do, did he again permit Chaneela into the room, and only then to gauge her reaction.

  It was as Vincent had feared.

  Chaneela entered with a cup of tea on a saucer. While, to her credit, her face did not betray her reaction, the clattering of the cup and saucer did.

  “That bad?” Vincent asked dryly.

  Chaneela set the saucer down on the table beside the bed. She swallowed, glancing at the hand mirror Gerald had left Vincent. It lay face down on the bed. “Haven’t you looked yet?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Can’t get up the nerve.”

  Chaneela reached over Vincent’s legs for the mirror. She placed it in his hand.

  “Gerald says you’re getting stronger. How is the pain?”

  Vincent did not reply.

  “Maris wants to see you.”

  Vincent scoffed. “She thinks she wants to see me.”

  “Well, how would you know? You won’t even look at yourself.”

  “It’s not so simple, Chan—”

  “It’s exactly that simple. Or did you injure your spine as well?”

  Vincent glared darkly. Chaneela was unfazed.

  “Gerald’s work is done. He says you can walk, and if you can walk, you can ride. You can’t stay here forever.” She stood. “I’m going to get Maris. Look at yourself first if you want, or don’t.”

  Chaneela left the room without further comment. Vincent stared at the back of the mirror in his hand. He was not ready, but Chaneela was right—they could not stay there forever.

  Vincent turned the mirror over, keeping his good eye closed for just a breath longer. He steeled himself and opened it, peering at his reflection. The left side of his face appeared normal, for the most part, aside from a missing eyebrow. The right side was partially obscured by a towel Gerald had loosely secured in place, the eye and much of his jaw fully covered. The horror began at the cleft of his chin. Somehow, Gerald had rebuilt a cheek for him, closing the open wound that exposed his teeth and bone, but the flesh there was closer in appearance to ground meat than to a man’s face. Pink, raw, mottled… he knew what lay under the towel would be no better; worse, certainly. He could not look.

  Vincent resisted the urge to weep. Anie’s warning resounded in his mind…

  “Upon your deeds, all things rely.”

  A knock at the door. Vincent set down the mirror and adjusted the towel, covering a bit more of his face. He reached to the lantern on the nightstand, turning down the flame.

  “Come in.”

  Maris entered as if walking on glass. She lifted her eyes in Vincent’s direction, barely, then turned, closing the heavy door behind her. She did not immediately turn back around.

  “It’s all right, Mare.” A quiver in Vincent’s voice betrayed the fiction.

  Maris turned and walked to Vincent’s bedside, pausing for a moment at the foot of the bed, then turning to choose the chair to his left. She sat and reached for his hand. Vincent grasped it and looked up, into her face, but her eyes remained focused on their intertwined fingers.

  “Gerald tells me the worst is over,” she said.

  “He tells me the same. My wounds are closed, and he no longer fears infection. He is—”

  “He is very skilled. You are lucky to have him.”

  “I am lucky to have you as well.”

  Maris looked up, into Vincent’s eye. She held his gaze firmly for a time, her own eyes filling with tears, but she refused to blink, refused to focus elsewhere. After a long moment she did blink, releasing a cascade of tears down pallid cheeks. She let her eyes wander across his face, slowly. Her breath caught when her gaze settled on his lips. There, the towel did not conceal.

  “The pain…”

  “It is tolerable now. And it will fade.”

  Maris released Vincent’s hand, reaching towards the towel. He moved to stop her.

  “Maris—”

  “I have to see. Please.”

  Vincent took a steadying breath. “All right. Go ahead. But—”

  Maris removed the towel in one quick, fluid motion, as if she could frighten away what lay underneath.

  “Oh!” she yelped, jumping to her feet.

  Maris covered her mouth with her hand. Her brow creased and furrowed, revulsion reshaping her features. Vincent reached for her hand. She pulled away and took a step back, gagging.

  “I… I’m sorry, Vincent, I can’t…”

  Maris ran from the room.

  Vincent picked up the mirror, his hand shaking, recalling Anie’s words…

  “She loves you.”

  He glanced into the mirror.

  Oh, my sweet wife. Not even you could love this.

  VIII: THE NORTHERN ROAD

  ALL WAS GREY; the road, dusted in a miserable blend of snow and ash; the sky, obscured by a single colorless cloud extending infinitely in all directions. The trees, the brush, even Phantom’s majestic coat… the world had descended into a cold, drab, boundless purgatory, and Barris rode through it.

  Phantom carried the knight slowly north, the elf and horse each lacking the heart to ride at speed. For the first time since the day many years ago when Terrias wed another, the First Knight of Thornwood
fell to despair. He had known, then, that his heart would one day heal, or, if not heal, at least beat again. He had known the time would come when he could again find the strength to eat, to train, to ride, perhaps even to laugh. On this day, he knew no such thing.

  It had been Mikallis, then, whose innocence and joy had lifted Barris’ heart from its desolation. Now, the boy he would have called son was no more. Barris knew that somewhere, perhaps near, the abomination that took his life flew over Tahr, stalking its next prey. Soon, if the lessons of Ya Di proved true, he and his knights would face it.

  But the outcome of that battle may be of no consequence, Barris considered. Without the Five, we cannot stand against what comes after.

  When he was young, Trellia had once told Barris that he had missed his calling, that his should have been the life of a Ranger. Few elves could match Barris’ skill with a sword, however, even in his earliest youth, and thus his path had been decided. But fewer still could equal his tracking instincts. “You will see what has been, Barris,” she had said. “You will see through the eyes of the beasts. You will read the land. You will sense its breath, its story.” Barris had ignored Trellia then; the call of glinting steel had long before captured his heart.

  But she was right, as was Nishali many years later when she echoed the sentiment. “If you had been a Ranger, I would not be First,” she had said. Barris’ ability to read the land, to see past events in his mind’s eye, to coax memories from the minds of beasts and interpret them, even days after they had taken place, was unrivaled. The evidence had left no doubt: Aria, J’arn, Shyla and Lucan—along with Wolf—had vanished into thin air. For this, there were few explanations, and the more Barris pondered the matter, the more his despair took hold.

  His first, instinctive analysis was borne of hope, he knew: some magic had whisked the companions away, protecting them from the dragon. But in truth, Barris knew of no such spell, and he knew as much about magic as any elf. Certainly, they had been whisked away, as he had seen through Triumph’s eyes and memories. But by what? By whom?

  The dragon was enormous, and for such a great beast to fly, to breathe fire, it must, Barris imagined, be possessing of great magic. If such a spell existed, certainly the beast carried enough innate power to invoke it. But why would it? It had been bearing down on the companions, ready to strike; no, the beast did not cast them away.

  It was known that Redemption, the ancient sword Barris had given Lucan which he now again carried, was capable of great magics, but the sword had lain beside Mikallis’ body. No, this was not the answer.

  Some time had passed since Barris had seen the companions. It was possible that they had come to gain some token, some artifact capable of protecting them, hiding them, even transporting them in a moment of great need… this still seemed most likely to Barris, but the idea begged other ominous questions: where did they go? Did they survive the spell? Would they ever return? Could they ever return?

  Phantom started, throwing his head. He stood pat, refusing to ride further, stamping. Barris returned his attention to the present, looking ahead. The knight listened.

  A rustle in the brush, perhaps a hundred paces ahead. Something closed on their position. Barris let himself slip into the Bond, sharing his consciousness with Phantom, sensing the ground through the great stallion’s hooves. Whatever it was that came, it was large.

  The knight slid from the saddle, grasping Redemption but leaving it sheathed. He could feel the cold of the hilt through his glove; a sensation Barris found comforting.

  A grey mass bounded onto the trail then, thirty paces ahead. It made for the elf. Barris recognized the beast to be a bear, but a terrible, emaciated example of what was once certainly a great beast. She should be hibernating, Barris thought, but understood: she had not stored enough fat to survive the winter. Now she was starving, as were her cubs, most likely.

  Barris tried the Bond. “Easy, Mother. I mean you no—”

  An ear-splitting roar emitted from the bear. Barris expected her to rear up, to threaten, but instead she tore ahead. He barely unsheathed his sword before she had reached him. Barris swung Redemption mightily, but at the last moment the bear lunged left, for Phantom.

  Phantom reared. Barris screamed and leapt to his right mid-swing, carving a red line across the bear’s gaunt thigh, but not before its claws raked Phantom’s belly. The black stallion went down emitting an awful, painful cry to match Barris’ own. The bear turned on Barris and lunged, through the air toward the knight, its right paw wound to strike.

  Inhale.

  Barris dropped to a knee. Redemption danced in his hand, an extension of his will, its tip carving the bear’s neck open on the first stroke, right to left. He reversed his grip and slashed to the right, opening the beast’s chest. The knight spun on his knee, the sword’s momentum carrying him in a full circle, his left hand coming up to reinforce the next stroke, cleaving the bear’s hind leg. The dying bear’s hindquarters were still aloft as Barris propelled himself upwards, turning, lunging into the air after the animal. He landed with his full weight on the hilt, burying Redemption into the bear’s ribs from behind, piercing its heart.

  Exhale.

  “Phantom!” Barris left his sword in the bear and scrambled to reach the great stallion, who lay panting on his side in the snow and ash. He lay a hand on Phantom’s shoulder, his friend’s pain and fear conveyed instantly, terribly, through the Bond.

  “Shh, easy now, friend, easy…” Barris sent what comfort he could through the Bond, with little effect. He examined the wound. Deep, parallel gashes gouged across Phantom’s flank and barrel. Blood leaked freely from the wound, but evenly. Barris felt sure that no major artery had been severed, but the wound was terribly deep. If not for the saddle strap catching a claw, Phantom would surely have been beyond help. Any stress, even standing, even the weight of Phantom’s own organs, could open his belly completely. The wound would have to be sewn shut, and quickly, and if Phantom fought him…

  Barris had needle and leather in his saddlebag, but Phantom lay atop it. He would need to remove the saddle and slide it out from under the horse.

  Barris let himself slip deeply into the Bond.

  ~Hear me, friend. You must trust me.~

  He moved to unstrap the saddle. Phantom kicked weakly.

  ~No, you cannot kick, great beast. You must be still. Trust me, please. I will save you, but you must trust me…~

  The procedure took the better part of an hour. Barris first packed the wound with snow, hoping to dull Phantom’s pain, and perhaps he had succeeded, to some degree, but not nearly enough to still his friend. Phantom had bitten Barris twice as he sewed the gash shut, the second bite opening a wound in Barris’ thigh that nearly required its own stitches. Hooves battered the knight, leaving his upper body a purple, bruised mess before he tied the last knot.

  Phantom understood that Barris had finished and wanted to stand. The wound still oozed blood in places, and Barris feared the stiches would not hold, but there was no more he could do, not to heal his friend nor prevent him from rising.

  Barris kept a hand on Phantom’s shoulder as he stood, sensing his pain as if it were his own, testing it, feeling for internal damage through the Bond. He felt none, but what he did feel alarmed him anew. Phantom’s right hind leg was badly strained near the stifle, a deep tissue injury that would have slowed him to a walk, gash or no. There was no way to know if it would aggravate or heal on its own; only time would tell.

  “I am so sorry, my friend. Let us get off the road and rest for a day. You will feel better tomorrow.”

  Barris pulled Redemption free from the dead bear, wiped it clean it on its fur, and sheathed it. He gathered the saddle and bags; he would carry them himself.

  Barris led Phantom from the road into the trees, thick droplets of blood leaving a trail in the snow as the grey day darkened to black.

  IX: THE DOORS OF NYR AVI

  TIME PASSED, presumably. Mikallis could not tell. Perhaps
, here, time moved differently. Perhaps not at all. No, that seemed unlikely. Certainly, time marched forward elsewhere. Aria needed him, or she would. What had He said?

  “… she will need you, and on that day, you will need to be more than what you are.”

  What I am is dead, thought Mikallis. What I need to be is alive, or I am good to no one.

  Yet of course there was more to it. He had a choice to make—not whether to return to the world of the living, but how.

  Mikallis turned, examining his illuminated surroundings. These were the fabled Doors of Nyr Avi, of new life. Mention of the Doors was made sparingly in the old texts. Overwhelmingly, the elven scholars familiar with the lore believed such references to be no more than parable, representative of the choices available to one after death. Growing up in the Evanti household, where knowledge and study were prized above all, Mikallis had been among few in his generation to have viewed the original writings, and while he recalled very little, he knew there should be a sixth door.

  He also knew, or at least now began to suspect, that his understanding of the texts had been insufficient, if not erroneous altogether. To this, the first two doors held what he believed were obvious clues. This one… the knocker in the shape of an elm. That one… solid stone, the relief of an axe…

  The first would have to do with Eyreloch, Mikallis reasoned, perhaps its ancient elms. It would make sense for such a door to be available to an elf. But he felt strongly that the second door led to Stonarris, the resting place of all good and honorable dwarves. This could only mean that Nyr Avi was not merely a nexus between worlds for the elven people, as he had been taught. It was more likely a waypoint for all people.

  Following that logic, Mikallis supposed that the other doors were meant for other races. But the missing door…

  Mikallis shook his head against the idea. No. It cannot be. Aria would have no cause to be there.