The Shattered Star, page 37
“I can’t outrun them.”
“Then do it for us,” Kerensa said. “We don’t want to worry about accidentally hurting you.”
“You don’t have swords.” They only had the daggers they had taken from the farmhouse. Pathetic things meant for gutting a dead deer, not battle.
“We’ll manage,” Alair ground out.
“I won’t leave you.”
“That’s sweet, but you can’t fight,” Kerensa said. “You’ll distract us.”
“I can—”
“Caes, please go,” Alair said.
“I won’t abandon you.”
“Shit,” Kerensa said, “they’re getting close.”
“Run!” Alair suddenly yelled, louder than she ever heard him before. With his words a push pressed against her mind—an urge to go, to flee, at the same moment a headache overwhelmed her in pain. But it faded quickly, enough that Caes regained consciousness right before her knees hit the ground. Did Alair intend to do that? Or was he desperate, overcome with fear?
It didn’t matter.
Alair, her Soul Carver, had taken off his surcoat and stood holding a knife in his hands. He wasn’t dressed for battle, and neither was Kerensa. They weren’t prepared for this. Caes had just gotten him back, and now she had to leave—again. And possibly for the last time.
But they were right. Her lips trembled, the weight of her uselessness settling in her. She would only be in the way. She had to go.
Blinking back tears, Caes pushed herself up and ran, finding fresh strength upon hearing the chaos erupting behind her. Whatever chased them was close—so close. Kerensa and Alair called out to each other, using some strange Soul Carver phrases she didn’t understand. Regardless, her way was forward. Upwards. Around boulders, through bare shrubbery, and over weaving pathways paved with lose gravel that tested her balance.
She was tired. So tired.
How far did she have to go?
As far as she could.
And then, when she could run no longer, her shaking legs threatening to give out, she turned to look behind her—below her—and saw them.
They were just soldiers. Ardinani soldiers. Dozens. Normally, they would’ve been nothing for Kerensa and Alair to handle.
But they were not normal. Something about the soldiers was wrong. So desperately wrong. Twisted. Maybe they used to be human, but they weren’t any longer. The soldiers emitted the same eerie sounds she had heard before, the same soul-churning howls.
But that was not all. Even from this distance, Caes was able to see that the soldiers moved awkwardly, like puppets whose strings were pulled taunt and given sudden slack. But they were fast. So fast. Their limbs swirled in a terrifying blurred dance of blades as their heads lopped from one side to another. They were faster than any human ought to be, and they fought like someone or something else forced their movements, using them and then letting limbs fall limp when they weren’t immediately needed.
What had happened to them? What were they?
As for the Soul Carvers…
Caes had seen Soul Carvers duel. She had seen Cylis, Kerensa, and Marva fight to escape Fyrie. She had seen the carnage Cylis inflicted in Bethrian’s estate.
But it was nothing compared to what Alair and Kerensa unleashed on the soldiers.
Alair placed his hand over his eyes, and then at once three of the soldiers turned on their comrades, hacking at their friends. With three soldiers turned, the other soldiers were suddenly distracted by their companions, swarming and focusing on the traitors. Where normal soldiers would have paused or panicked at their friends turning against them, these instead kept on fighting without hesitation.
Alair froze, lost in his world, whatever hell he went to when he used his gifts. Was that blood pouring from Alair’s ears? Or was she imagining what must have been there? She was so far away.
“Alair!” she screamed, terrified that he would be killed while distracted.
As for Kerensa, she was a towering inferno. She fought the soldiers, a human buried in flame. If the soldiers were human, they would’ve been felled fast by the Soul Carver, who matched them blow for blow.
But these were something else entirely, something that was able to avoid the worst of her flames. When the soldiers fell—and a couple had—they were hard won victories. Would Kerensa have enough strength to fight until they were all dead?
Caes wiped tears from her eyes, ignoring the mud her hands that had spread across her face. She couldn’t stay to watch. They wouldn’t want her to. If she could see them, and the soldiers, she was still far too close, and their battle was nowhere near done.
Alone, she took off once more, running up the mountainside and through a gully, one that blocked her view entirely of the carnage below. Her heart pounded in her ears and cold air seared her burning lungs. Soon, the screams and howls faded behind her. All that was left was silence. Silence, and the wind whistling through the mountains, and her persistent steps pounding on the rocks.
Alair. Kerensa.
Alair. Kerensa.
Alair.
Kerensa.
Caes’s chest ached, and from more than physical effort. Her breath raced, her thoughts darting as quick as her heart. Were Alair and Kerensa alright? Should she go back? Could she help them?
No. She couldn’t. She couldn’t fight. And somehow, she knew that those soldiers were hunting her.
Kerensa and Alair told her to run.
She’d listen.
Once more she pushed herself, forcing one foot past another. Upwards and onwards. Nothing existed but the mountains and her burning lungs. She ran until she couldn’t run any longer and collapsed on a boulder, gasping for breath. The stone and grit were rough under her moist fingers. Her lungs cried for relief. Water—she needed it, and her flask had been left with Alair. Just a few minutes—she would rest for just a few minutes—and then she would run again. The Soul Carvers would find her. They would, when the battle was done. For now, she was safe and where they wanted her to be.
Slowly, she caught her breath and steadied her heart. Little other than the wind made a sound. The mountain would’ve been beautiful, in normal circumstances. Here, the battle below was a world away. Pine trees dotted the landscape, and jagged grey boulders, some larger than homes, jutted towards the sky. It was beautiful. It was quiet—
Then she noticed moving shapes in the gully, seemingly little bigger than dogs from this distance. A distance they closed with startling speed, catching up to her before she could run.
Two soldiers had gotten past Kerensa and Alair.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Up close, Caes could see that the soldiers’ wrongness was more than their movements, even in the dark. Their eyes were the solid deep red of blood, and there was dried blood crusting on their foreheads. Their mouths hung open too far to be natural, caught in an eternal scream.
What foul magic was this?
The men weren’t human. No, nothing about them was human.
Not anymore.
Caes screamed and tried to run. She made it only a few steps before one of the soldiers caught up to her, shoving her to the ground, scraping her knees on the gravel. Crying out, Caes rolled and grabbed a rock, lopping it at the nearest solider—it bounced off harmlessly. She may as well have thrown a pillow, for all the good it did.
Like large cats on a hunt, the soldiers slowly approached, watching her cower beneath them. But Caes wasn’t going to cower. Not if she could do anything about it.
One slow step after another the soldiers pressed forward, swords held high, as Caes struggled to push herself upright. They were in front of her. They were over her. They were going to strike.
She braced herself for the killing blow, preparing to die for the second time.
“Caes!” Cylis called out. Suddenly an icicle impaled itself through the soldiers’ heart. One soldier fell over, done. Then Cylis revealed himself from behind the dead creature.
Cylis?
“Cylis!” Caes screamed, taking advantage of the chaos to move away from the remaining solider. This one wasn’t distracted like its dead companion had been. This one was going to fight.
Cylis faced the creature, sword drawn, his frost magic turning him into the same horror she had seen at Bethrian’s estate. Bloated purple skin. Oozing eyes. Frosted breath. Cylis attacked the creature, leveling everything he had at the foul creation.
But this soldier didn’t fall.
The monster met Cylis’s attacks, returning them in kind, and the two of them quickly descended into a flurry of blows. Whose limbs were whose? It was impossible to say. Caes had seen Soul Carvers fight, but not like this, not where every little movement could mean the difference between victory and death. Caes watched, holding her breath, caught between wanting to flee and not wanting to distract Cylis.
And then the soldier suddenly ducked Cylis’s swing and tripped him, sending him to the ground, his head hitting stone. Cylis laid there, unmoving.
Dead?
No.
No.
No, he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.
Slowly, as the solider turned his attention on Caes, Cylis groaned and struggled to push himself up. But any relief she felt was gone as the soldier focused on her.
With Cylis no longer a threat, the soldier again approached Caes, sword drawn. This was it. She was going to die.
No matter how many rocks she threw at the soldier. No matter how much she cursed him.
She was going to die.
She cried out in terror and desperation. She had nothing to fight with.
Nothing.
The stones did nothing.
Her screams did nothing.
Suddenly, the solider lunged his weapon towards her heart, and in that moment, two things happened.
The first was that Cylis, desperate, suddenly darted to stand in front of the soldier’s sword, blocking it from impaling Caes.
The second was that Caes reached around Cylis and gripped the blade with her bare hands. It was not going to stab her friend—not if she could help it.
For a moment she felt nothing but the cold metal against her skin. And then fire. The sword sliced her hands deep, past her flesh and to the bone. She screamed in agony. Her hands burned like she was gripping burning coals. Still, she didn’t let go and instead gripped the blade harder while Cylis collapsed to the ground under her.
Safe.
There. No matter what happened now, Cylis didn’t die in some stupid attempt to save her. Not that attempt at least.
Or, so she thought, in between the agony that overwhelmed her senses.
And then she was gone.
Gone.
Or at least her awareness was. There was no mountain, no Cylis, no soldier, and no sword.
Instead, she stood in a dark, silent space. A cave? How did she get into a cave? Whatever—wherever—she was, there was little light and an eerie mist that shrouded everything.
Including a door.
A door seemingly to nowhere stood in front of her. Made of iron, it appeared unmovable. For a long moment she took in her surroundings. The cave. The solitude. The door. She should’ve been confused—overwhelmed—yet she felt none of these things. Nothing other than calm.
Peace.
“What is this?” she whispered with mild curiosity, walking up to the iron door. There were inscriptions on it, markings she recognized from her research on the goddesses. They were Shirla’s. A spell? A ward? Slowly, she reached out a hand and touched the door, and instantly her familiar headache erupted, sending her careening to the ground until she broke contact with the metal. The headache faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind a dull ache. But with the pain came memories.
Cylis.
She had been in the middle of a fight, trying—foolishly trying—to save Cylis. She had grabbed the sword. She stopped the sword with her bare hands. Caes held her hands out in front of her, turning them up and then over. They were intact, no blade had ever marred them.
But this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
One of those things couldn’t be real. Which one was it?
Cylis. She had to get back to Cylis.
The battle was gone, and now she was in some strange place with a door that triggered her headaches. The same headaches that had plagued her ever since she had met Soul Carvers.
A realization dawned on her. Little memories from how Alair described how magic worked when he tampered with the seal on her mind.
Pain, especially extreme pain, caused the mind to shift, and could make magic unpredictable. The pain—and her need—could’ve pushed her to the one place that could save her. If she was brave enough.
If she was desperate enough.
The iron door. A door that led nowhere. And yet...could it be…was this the seal on her magic? The one Lyritan had claimed she would beg him to remove?
Ha. Even now she wasn’t desperate for a god. Besides, he wasn’t here. If anything was going to be done she would have to save herself.
But she was desperate. If she didn’t act, Cylis was going to die—and Alair and Kerensa, if they weren’t dead already. Not to mention herself.
What would removing the seal do? Would it give her magic to save Cylis? What would it do to her? She had stopped the blade for now—but the wielder was still there, waiting for them.
No matter the cost, she was going to save them.
No matter what.
Caes reached out and grasped the door’s iron handle, ignoring the sudden pain threatening to undo her. Screaming, she held on. She stayed conscious. She stayed there, pushing onward. She forced her mind to hold as she faced the agony as one faced a pounding storm.
She couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not now.
She clutched to the handle with every bit of strength she had.
And pulled.
Caes’s eyes darted open. Her heart raced and her head spun as she attempted to orient herself.
The door was gone. The fog was gone. The dark was gone.
Yet, the twisted solider was still in front of her, grinning with blood-covered teeth. Its red eyes stared at her, somehow relishing this moment with whatever consciousness that remained within.
The same pain shot through her arms. She was still gripping the blade with her bloody hands. The blade that sliced, deeper and deeper, threatening to tear apart her fingers.
“No!” she screamed.
Stop. Stop. Stop. If only it would stop. The sword had to go away. It had to stop. All of it had to stop.
All of it.
At first there was nothing.
And then everything changed and slowed, like in a dream.
Instead of a blade, dust floated on the air. The sword was gone, seemingly changed into fragments that floated away on the wind. The gaping wounds were still on Caes’s hands, and she stood there, shaking, and taking in the ruinous mess of what was left of her hands.
The solider looked at the hilt, all that remained of his weapon. Stunned, even in the form he was now. The gesture was so human that Caes could see what the soldier used to be, before magic twisted him into this. The solider was young, barely old enough to have a solid beard. How had he come here? What had been done to him? To all of them? Caes doubted that whatever it was, they were willing.
However, Caes didn’t have time to rejoice. Rejoice? How could she?
She burned.
The pain of the sword gave way to fresh fire that lurked under her skin, actual fire that sent blisters up and down her arms. Before her eyes her flesh fused together, her hand and fingers healed, but there was no relief. What healed then burned, her torn flesh replaced with blistering wounds. It seemed she would keep her hands, but at what cost? Caes collapsed, watching the healing blisters spread up her arms and then burst, sending out a golden light.
Divine light.
Caes cried out, overwhelmed between the misery stewing under her skin and the combat that erupted around her as the solider regained his bearings. In the moments of distraction, Cylis acted. With a swift movement he leaped, grabbed the soldier and poured ice into him. Cylis held the soldier’s head close to his, ignoring the dying man’s unholy yowls and thrashes as he gripped the man’s throat. A monster of ice and blood, Cylis ended the solider, not stopping until the man was a solid piece of flesh that was then dropped unceremoniously to the ground.
Dead.
Lost in fresh agony, Caes barely watched. Cylis would protect her. Cylis was watching over her. But in this, she was left alone to face the light ripping through her body.
Mortals were not made to hold the gods’ power. They burned.
And whatever she was, it seemed that Caes was still far too mortal.
How long did she sit there while the light tore through her, both healing and torturing her? Hours? Days? Seconds? Finally, she blinked, able to take in her surroundings. The acute pain faded, leaving an afterglow so that all seemed a dream. Or a nightmare.
“Caes,” Cylis said, panting and sitting down beside her. He wiped a fleck of the soldier’s blood from his cheek. His skin faded to a more human tone, leaving behind only purplish hints. “What happened? What’s wrong—this—your arms—”
“I removed the seal,” Caes gasped. “On my power. I…” The skin-toned blisters on her arm leaked clear fluid, but the pain they caused, that was nothing to the chaos swimming in her mind, of things she had long forgotten and memories washing over her, until her past and present mixed in a murky miasma suffocating her awareness.
Oh, gods and goddesses—who was she? How…how could she have forgotten so much…With the sensation of waking up from a dream, Caes took in the world, but now…there was so much more. So much she had forgotten. And with the tiny hint of whatever divinity she had awakened, so much more she understood. And felt.
She had a mortal’s body. She always had, to a point. But she was a vessel, a seed for divinity. She had power she was tasked to grow and yet she could not touch, lest it destroy her.
Her name.
Her name wasn’t Caes. At least, not until recently. She was Liuva, as Lyritan had named her. Karima and Shirla—how could she have forgotten who they were to her and what they did? What they wanted to do. And Lyritan…her heart ached.
