The Black Book, page 29
part #2 of The Cycle of the Scour Series
Rowe snorted. Myla smiled. I quickened my pace. Wate had stopped reading from his tome and was now waving the alien red rod around and feeding nether into the bloody designs of the icon. I lobbed some nether at him. He dashed it away, but the frustration on his face was enough to make me try it again.
"Kill them!" Wate commanded. "In the name of your homeland and your ancestors who died fighting theirs!"
The four attendants drew long knives, but none of them seemed to want to make the first move. A man with a shaved head drew his face into a snarl, bounced on his feet, and charged us. I brought him down with a single bolt of nether. He landed face-first and stayed where he fell. The other three assistants had been ready to follow his lead. Seeing how easily I'd killed him—how hopeless they'd be—they fell back across the chamber, even as Wate yelled at them for cowardice.
The demon was still straining to haul its shoulders free from the gate. As I neared it, I felt drawn to it, as if the ground had tilted underfoot. I gave it a wide berth as I chased after Wate. He was comfortable or desperate enough to stick closer to the design, though, meaning he had to travel less distance than we did, and for several very long seconds he easily kept us from gaining any ground on him, running us in farcical circles even as the most horrifying thing I'd ever seen in my life drew one of its arms free from whatever hellish plane it was crossing over from. The limb was long and thin with no real differences in thickness or musculature from one part to another, more like the leg of a crab than the arm of a man.
"We don't have time for this," Myla said.
She broke in the opposite direction, intending to pincer Wate from the other side. I threw a handful of ether at Wate's face, exploding it just before he could counter it, hoping to dazzle or distract him. He was composed enough that he didn't even instinctually swat at it with his hand.
But maybe that was because he had bigger matters on his mind. Like the fact that in about a quarter of a minute, he was going to run right into Myla—and I would be right on his heels. He yelled at his three surviving attendants for aid. But no matter how he threatened them, they knew that obeying him would only lead to an immediate and pointless death.
Wate slowed as he neared his date with Myla. She wreathed one arm in nether and the other in ether. The light of the latter gleamed across the resolve of her face.
"This isn't how you imagined it would end, was it?" she said. "If the gods love our land at all, your life will be the last one spent on this stupid scheme."
She raised her arms. The ether glared like the sun while the nether spun in a frenzy. I drew on both powers myself, ready to synchronize my attack with hers.
"You're right," Wate said solemnly. "I didn't imagine it would end like this. This is even better than I hoped."
With the sound of ripping canvas, the demon tore its second arm free from the pattern of blood. It lashed its featureless black claws at Myla. She threw all the strength she'd gathered at it, but the demon's hand swept onward, knocking her through the air.
22
My legs went as limp as buckwheat noodles. The thing's hand was half the size of Myla and I feared it had knocked her dead with a single blow. But she was already pushing herself up to her hands and knees, crawling dazedly away as she sent the nether to heal whatever damage had been done to her.
The demon grabbed hold of both sides of the gate and pressed itself upward. Ready to step fully forth into our world. As it neared its waist, though, it came to a sudden stop—and bashed its fists on the floor, bellowing in its groaning-door voice.
Stuck? Had Wate bungled the rite, or did it simply require more work to complete? Whatever the case, it wasn't much consolation. The demon had both arms free and had more than enough reach to control the center of the chamber, giving Wate all the time he needed to finish the ritual. And what could we do to stop it?
Well, I supposed I could kill the damn thing.
I tossed a few simple darts at it. It seemed completely unworried by these, reaching out for Myla. I yelled her name; she was already ahead of me, scrambling to put herself out of the demon's reach. It leaned forward as far as it could, its arm stretching impossibly far. Its claws crashed down inches from her feet.
She shot her hand forward. Ether ripped into the thing's eyes and face. Puffs of shadow shot out from the wounds. Was the monster made of the stuff? On sheer intuition, I reached for the nether spilling out of it and pulled it toward me as hard as I could. The demon tossed its head like I'd jerked on its reins. A few wisps of it flew toward me. The wounds had been shallow, though, and closed almost immediately, not unlike the way the wights had healed themselves.
Still, it was heartening to know we could hurt it. Because the thing was huge and terrifying. Enough so that I thought it made more sense to go after Wate instead, because if he finished releasing the demon and then turned his sorcery on us, we wouldn't live long enough to get out a good scream.
I threw my latest volley at Wate, controlling the path of each missile, hoping I'd be able to twist one past his guard while he was distracted by whatever the rod was doing. The demon reared up and turned its gaze on me. Myla jogged forward and called down more light from above. Movement caught my eye—one of Wate's attendants was running toward her, knife in hand.
"Myla! Watch—"
The demon twisted away from me, lashing its arms toward her—apparently it could sense that she was moving—in a path that would inevitably crash into her. But the attendant was almost on her, too. Seeing the demon was about to strike her, he skidded to a hard stop and then grabbed the back of his thigh in pain.
He'd miscalculated, though. The demon's hand struck him square in the middle. He crumpled around it as it hurled him through the air, his feet spinning over his head. He had nearly done a full flip when he crashed into the side of a pillar head-first. The crunch was even louder than the groans of the demon.
Myla danced back toward the far wall, out of range of the shadowy demon, but far enough from Wate that he could easily counter anything she threw at him. I ambled nearer to him. Going at him like this might be slowing him down, but he was getting closer to finishing the ritual with each second. Was there another way?
While I dithered on this, Wate broke from his work with the rod and rattled off a slew of nether in my direction. As it neared me, though, it broke away toward Rowe, who'd been shadowing me to my right. I squawked in surprise and diverted my counterpunches Rowe's way. Shadows burst apart like dandelion seeds. Rowe ran backwards, turning his right side toward the assault and barring his arm over his head. That was about all a normal person could do to protect themselves against sorcery: try to make the shots that would have killed you merely hurt the dickens out of you instead.
I closed on Rowe, fending off one blow after another. Sparks surrounded him, vanishing before they touched the ground. Something dark flashed through the profusion of dying nether. Rowe grunted, swaying backwards. And dropped.
He was bleeding. He was bleeding a lot. The bolt had hit him under his raised arm. That meant lung damage. Lungs were always bad; when you looked at the nether inside them, you saw they were full of a sort of tiny, frothy tissue so dense with structure it felt impossible to put back together.
But the nether knew the ways of the body better than any physician. I poured it into Rowe's side like molten iron into a cast. Wherever it touched, fresh flesh was restored. I'd always been a good healer, and I was done before Wate could hit at us again.
I thought I'd healed him well, at least—the hole was gone, no more bleeding, the nether within him circulating normally—but Rowe didn't stir. Had he fainted from the trauma of the wound? People did that sometimes, but now really wasn't the best—
"Cally!" Myla yelled.
The demon had given up pursuing her and was pulling itself about toward me and Rowe. With no chance of dragging Rowe out of harm's way, I ran away instead, tossing bits of ether behind me in hopes the abomination would follow me. It did, lifting its chest and drawing back its arm. As its upper body fell toward me, it whipped its arm forward.
I dived to the side. The demon's hand crashed down, dust and pubbles washing over me. I got up and ran. Circling around the design on the floor, I was getting closer to Wate again, and pelted him with both ether and nether. He ran counter-clockwise away from me. Myla hurried to cut him off, but he forced her back with a fierce barrage.
He stumbled on a loose bone, throwing his arms to the side and tilting forward as he fought for balance. I only had a small pool of nether at hand, but I threw it after him before the moment was lost. He dashed it apart inches before it struck his throat.
"That's as close as you'll get, child." His words were haughty enough, but he was still running away from me, circling the gate in the floor. "I can feel your command slipping. How much longer do you think you can hold out?"
I clenched my jaw. He wasn't wrong. The demon gathered itself and swung for me again, obliging me to run outward, putting even more space between myself and Wate. My powers were running low: should I save them for when we were close enough that a lucky strike could blow past his defenses, risking that he might fully free the demon before I had that chance? Or should I make one last wild charge at him right now? Or I could cast away all responsibility of making a choice and keep doing the same thing—but the decision to not make a decision was almost always a worse option than any of the ones you were dithering over.
I would charge him, then. And pray I could somehow bring Wate down before his demon ripped me apart.
I slowed down, pretending I was out of breath to let Wate get even further ahead of me. If he fell for it, I'd reverse course and cut across the gate to get to him. This would require dodging the demon, but with any luck the very insanity of the plan would catch both enemies off guard. Wate smiled, circling behind the safety of his creation.
Something stirred behind him. Rowe popped to his feet, sword in hand. He cocked back his arms. The demon groaned, snapping its arm forward and pointing at Rowe.
Wate whirled. Rowe swung. The blade was aimed for Wate's neck—I'd seen Rowe take the heads of a dozen men with a strike just like it—but Wate moved with the unnatural speed possessed by some sorcerers, cringing downward while thrusting up his arm to ward off the blow.
Rowe swept the blade downward. But Wate had already lowered himself too far. Instead of cutting through the nethermancer's neck, the sword clipped through his forearm. Wate's hand tumbled to the ground. It was still holding the rod.
I gave a wordless yell of triumph; in the center of the chamber, the demon gave a deep-toned bleat, anguished and furious. Wisps of shadows rose from it like steam. Wate stumbled backward, clutching his stump, face warped with wrath and pain. Rowe drew back his sword for the killing blow.
If anyone had been watching, it would look like we were about to win. But all the blood was draining from my face. I knew exactly what was coming.
Shadows coagulated in Wate's remaining hand. As Rowe swung his blade, Wate thrust out his arm. The nether punched through Rowe's chest. He dropped.
I screamed. I don't think I meant to. I found myself running, toward Wate, right across the bloody design. The demon took a swipe at me, but Wate's loss of the rod must have addled it, for its blow was as clumsy as a puppy. Blood pumped from Wate's stump with each beat of his heart and he swaddled the wound in shadows. I threw a glowing bolt at him with all the fury of Taim swinging his golden hammer. Relief washed over Wate's face as he stanched his arm. Almost as an afterthought, he brushed aside my attack.
I had already launched another. Wate dispatched these missiles as well, but his face was creased with focus and he had to back off a couple of steps. Could I drive him away from the demon? Enough that Myla and I could bring him down together?
The demon was behind me now, Wate between me and the cavern wall. Myla was running towards me, but the abomination had regained its senses, clawing at her with both of its freakishly long arms. She scampered back.
"The rod!" Myla yelled. "Get the rod!"
I lunged at Wate, who jerked back. I sprang backwards and dashed toward the red rod, which had rolled a yard away from the severed hand.
Yet Wate knew just what I was up to—maybe because Myla had just shouted it out—and blasted me and the ground in front of the rod with nether. I jumped backward.
"To think," Wate said. "You serve Taim, but you betray him by touching the shadows. That means when you die fighting me, you won't be delivered to Taim's garden, but to the wasteland of perdition."
He was wrong about one thing: wherever I was to wind up, it wouldn't be determined by Taim's judgment, but Arawn's. But I feared he wasn't wrong that, within the next minute or two, I would indeed find myself facing divine judgment.
He drove me further back yet. Close enough to the gateway that the demon raked at me, its claws falling inches short of my ankles. Wate smirked at me and edged toward the rod.
"You've made this more exciting than it ought to have been," he said. "I hope you've taken this time to make your peace."
He bent his knees, keeping his eyes on me as he groped for the rod. Hands shaking, as much because my command was slipping from me as from fear, I flooded him with ether, obliging him to straighten up and disperse it.
I didn't think this was as pointless as it felt. For Myla had started running pell-mell across the designs drawn on the floor. She hadn't said anything about it, which was good, but when I looked at her, I knew in my bones she had an idea. As if reading my thoughts, the demon twisted its body to confront her, whipping its claws at her. She threw a shadowy spear toward its palm. Nether, against a demon? I wanted to laugh, but my mirth stuck in my throat.
The spear shot toward the demon's hand—and bent under it, flying in Wate's direction instead. Myla broke to her right, away from the summoning. I was still picking away at Wate, occupying him enough that he waited to fling a bit of nether at the incoming spear until it was dangerously close to striking him.
Myla's attack bent again. Away from Wate. And right into the red rod lying on the ground.
Light flashed through the chamber, far brighter than ether. I blinked but all I saw was darkness and stars. Myla cried out. So did Wate. Bones clattered; something thudded. I still couldn't see, but I called to the nether, forcing it to obey me despite its reluctance to do so, and struck out at Wate. He gasped. But the noise was cut off by the ear-ringing groan of the demon.
The dazzle faded from my eyes. To my left, Wate was sitting near the ruins of the red rod, kicking himself backward as he pressed the nether to a wound in his gut. To my right, the demon was thrashing about and trying to press itself up from the gate in the ground, jerking its head and shoulders like something was biting at its trapped legs. Smoky trails of nether boiled from its seamless skin.
Myla lay on her side ten feet from it. Bones were scattered in the wake of where she'd skidded after the demon struck her. Her head was turned from me, so I couldn't see if her eyes were open, but she was perfectly still.
I threw more light at Wate. I knew he'd block it, but that's why the very next thing I did was run to Rowe and pick up his sword.
Wate pressed his hand to his stomach, sealing the wound there. Instead of standing, he continued to scoot backward across the stone. "You fool. You don't know what you've done."
The demon collapsed to one side. It pushed itself back up, turning to Wate and reaching out for him the way a young boy reaches out to his mother after hurting himself.
"I know exactly what I've done." I stepped toward the nethermancer. "I've brought an end to the same horror I stopped in the north."
Wate grinned, his teeth red with blood. "And the horror here—where do you think it came from? How do you think we found it?"
"At a guess, by committing hideous atrocities. You know, like human sacrifices." I lifted my sword.
"This weapon was gifted to us." He reached for a satchel on his hip. "But those who gave it had no idea of its true power."
He seemed to want to talk. I badly wanted to listen. But the weight of the sword in my hand reminded me that the man who owned it was dying—and the man before me was the one who'd tried to kill him.
I swung. Wate had been waiting for this and fired a black bolt at my head. I had been waiting for this, too, and deflected it with a wedge of light. The blade came down on his skull. I felt the crunch of it in my arm. His arms shot straight out in front of him, then went limp. The sword was stuck; I had to plant my boot on his head to yank it free.
A groan echoed through the cavern. I spun around. With a gut-curdling tear, the demon wrenched itself free of the gate—and from its lower body. Scraps of shadows trailed behind it like intestines. It dragged itself toward me and lifted its right hand high. It spread its claws and swung.
Shadows trailed from its arm, no longer like mist, but like the smoke of a raging fire. The limb grew fuzzy; I could see through it to the ceiling of the chamber. Its claws raked down, into my chest, but they'd become as insubstantial as the steam from a gutted body in a winter field. Coldness burned down through my ribs. The claws disappeared before they reached the ground, and so did the rest of the demon.
The chamber stood silent.
23
I ran to Wate's side and flung open the satchel he'd been reaching for before I struck him down. Somehow I knew what I would find there: a book. One with additional loose pages stuffed inside it.
I crammed the book into my pouch. Neither Rowe nor Myla had stirred. For a moment I didn't know which to tend to first. Then I sprinted toward Rowe, sliding to the ground beside him.
I poured nether into the hole in his chest. It swirled about the blood there, but didn't seem to want to sink into his skin. I splashed even more shadows across him, willing them to get to work, to mend and knit and restore. Was my power running so short? No, it was near its end, but I could feel that—
