Clammy slime coated her legs as she waded calf-deep in the swampy marsh. An iron dagger was in one hand. She slashed it across her palm. Her intended creation required energy from the wielder. Blood was an excellent source. It dripped into the murky water when she tightly clenched her fist. She sang in the ancient language of the Druid Elious. The Apokrypy wasn't necessary, but the Gifted used it sometimes to aid their binding of different Crafts. The threads of the Crafts shimmered like threads of gold as her concentration deepened; strings of pure power to accompany her soaring voice.
As her song enveloped the vicinity, the mist swirled and gathered into a winding form that glowed with muted light. Her fingers wove intricate forms in the air as she rocked to and fro. Tropos and Aether intertwined. Dihysis, the Craft of water threaded with the others. The miasma took shape as her song reached a crescendo. A serpentine creature spawned from the glowing fog, solid yet hazy, as though formed of steam. Celestine ended her song with a pointed finger, the precise direction where the human army approached. The creature hissed and swiftly vanished as though whisked by strong winds.
"It hunts." Her skin dripped perspiration, her body trembled at the touch of the breeze. Her eyes closed. Alaric knew that through her connection she saw the whirring of the landscape as the miasma streaked unnaturally fast through the marsh. She felt its hunger, its burning desire to kill.
"I see the army."
Alaric focused and linked to her mind, viewing the world through the miasma's eyes. The army looked strange in its scarlet vision, a steel insect with many legs that wound across the marshlands. But in the front was the Reaver, an obsidian beetle that radiated terror and death. In front was their enemy. The Night Mare reared, her scream of challenge rippled through the miasma like a river of fire.
Celestine struck with the miasma, tasting the sweet ebony pulse, breathing in the waves of dark power. It was hers to take. The scream of the Night Mare turned from challenge to pain. When Celestine smiled, Alaric felt her triumph.
Then flame surged from all around the miasma. It razed across the bond like razor wire. Celestine screamed as her body faltered. Her bond with the miasma tore like rotted fabric.
The agony in her mind could not touch Alaric. "Hold." He soothed her pain with his voice. "You must not let go, or you will lose control. The sensation of pain is only a trick of your mind. Master the focus, and concentrate."
She gritted her teeth, muffling the agony. Blood trickled from her mouth, and Alaric heard the sound of her bones cracking. Unable to focus, she lost control of the miasma. Alaric saw the Night Mare's head as it bore through the flames, eyes lit as though it sought to set the world ablaze.
Celestine struck with everything she had left.
Alaric severed the link as the fire ate her mind. She went limp and fell forward. The water hissed as she sank, the dark liquid eagerly pulled her into its clutches.
He sighed, focusing Transference. Water streamed from her body as he set raised her from the swamp and set her on the muddy ground, where she vomited liquid until she practically gave out. Her once-beautiful body was battered, discolored, limp, and broken. Lifting her head took the greatest effort, but she managed to find him. She smiled through the pain, proud of her accomplishment in spite of the agony that wracked her.
Alaric spoke quietly. "Is the Night Mare dead?"
"It is, milord." Her throat was a dry rasp. "The miasma did not survive, but it took the Night Mare with it to the beyond."
He nodded. "You have done well, child. Now, I must leave you."
"Milord…?" She tried to rise, but her body betrayed her. Her face was a grimy mask of confusion as she fell back into the mud.
He gazed at her without emotion. "Curious. I find it interesting that you, as many of the Gifted, are bound to handicapping your potential by pointless rituals. You do not realize that access to the Crafts is a matter of sheer focus, will, and discipline — nothing else. I could have performed the same feat with far less effort, but I must conserve my strength for the battle. So I needed you to do this task for me, even though I knew it would be much more strenuous for you."
She reached out her hand to him as a child would her father. "Milord…" Tears trickled down her cheeks as her body seized uncontrollably. "You can use just a…portion of your power to heal me. It would not take much."
"That is true."
"Please, milord…please grant your servant that small favor—" Blood stained Celestine's lips. Alaric knew that she did not have long.
"No."
The single word seemed to cut her far deeper than any wound she had already endured. She gasped, and her eyes glazed into a numb stare. Alaric turned his back to her. "I still must face the Reaver, child. There is no one else who can. You must understand that if even a portion of my power is drained when I need it, all will fall. I will not allow that."
He stepped into the shadows of the blistered trees until only the silver tint of his hair was visible. "I am sorry, my dear. I intend to destroy the Gifted after I heal my people. So you see, this is only the beginning. I regret that you must be the first, but the truth is I do not need you or any of your brethren anymore." The darkness swallowed him completely as he focused the Shadowmeld that would return him to Aceldama.
Celestine lay where he left her, naked and alone. The pale gold of her hair was sullied by muck, her face frozen in shock. Her skin practically glowed in contrast to the twisted surroundings that only seemed more sinister as the shadows practically slithered toward her. Alaric felt a stab of guilt at the image as the dark vortex yanked him to his destination.
I did as I had to. There is no turning back for any of us.
Chapter 62: Rhanu
The army made their way past the volcanic valley and waded through more marshland. Spirits were depressingly low, the soldiers fearful and subdued. Spring was cool in the highlands, but it was unseasonably warm in the mist. The men dripped sweat beneath their coats of armor. Every step was hampered by upturned roots or stones as if the very ground were against them.
Small wonder no army has ever taken Aceldama. Nature itself turns against us. The men will be undone before they ever see an odji should this continue for long.
Ayna pulled rein, halting her horse. "Listen."
Rhanu focused his senses. Something whispered on the air, an eerie yet hauntingly beautiful sound — an evocative voice on the wind. The song was in a language unheard, just out of the range of his understanding.
One by one the company paused as the sound drifted to their ears. It was foreign yet oddly familiar, a sound both sad and stirring. Rhanu's mind drifted to thoughts of his homeland, before the dark times. He and Tameri would go to the market for figs and dates. They had a game where he would distract a cart owner while she slipped honeyed date rolls in the folds of her gown. No one ever suspected her, focusing their attention on him instead. Later they would sit under the broad leaves of a great palm, stuffing their faces and giggling as the wind swept some of the heat away…
"Rhanu!"
Ayna's voice brought his mind back to focus. He swayed in the saddle, shaking his head from the dizziness. Ayna steadied him with a firm arm.
"You must not listen to the song. It spirits something evil toward us."
The army had fared no better than he had, but the harsh voice of the Reaver cut through their trance. Steam billowed from the hooves of the Night Mare as she galloped through the foul water.
"Move away from the waters, or you will die."