whispered.
Unseen by Shorn, his attention entirely taken up by the portal, a warrior approached.
Renir’s axe flew through the air, killing the soldier.
Leaning down to retrieve his weapon from the dead soldier’s back, Renir glanced into Shorn’s eyes. They were unfocused, as though he stared at something distant…perhaps, even, in the past. Renir understood instantly that it was the effect of the portal. He backed away from it, but he did not know enough about it to know whether it needed Shorn’s attention, or whether even to try to return his friend to sensibility.
But, looking around him, they were in a circle of calm. No soldiers approached — not yet. They had bought themselves some time.
And he did not think it would be long. Wind howled from the portal, blowing Shorn’s hair back from his scarred face, and Renir could hear voices rising (underneath the voices, eerie words drifted, but the voice in his head spoke over them, ‘do not listen’ it said…he had learned to trust the voice in his head.) Instead, he could hear human voices.
“We are nearly there,” one said, and he knew that no Protocrat would need such assurances.
Allies were coming.
He hoped they had brought an army, but any help would be welcome. He turned his attention to the battle flowing around them, like a river around a rock. Ignored by all, he stood guard at Shorn’s back.
Their friends were coming. It had been a long wait. Soon, they would know…had they won the day, or would they fail before ever seeing the fabled red wizard’s ancient face.
He hefted his axe, taking comfort in its weight, and began to sing. Anything was better than the pleading of the souls trapped within the portal.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Her tears coursed down her cheeks, washing clear the grime from her face, but they could not cleanse her heart.
She knew the voices for what they were. Lost souls, the echoes of the ages. If her father had been with them, she would have heard his voice. A voice she had not heard since she was a child, but nevertheless lived on in her mind. It was that voice which she heard now.
‘There is no peace this side of death, daughter, and to wish so is folly. There is only the fight. Always, no matter how hard the path you travel, remember this; to fight for yourself, that is natural. To fight for others: that is divine. I will love you whichever you choose, just so long as you fight…’
And she fought. She fought against the desire to put her head down, to end the suffering. She fought because she knew that those she lost along the way would want her to. She was a fighter. That was all she had. All her life had been a struggle, and until her last breath she would rail against her fate. She would strive, overcome…she might not succeed…she was not a fool. The odds were stacked heavily against her, but she was in until the end. The easy way out was for cowards. Her father had raised no cowards.
But, oh, the pain she felt. It was as real, as solid, as a blow to the chest. Her ribs ached, her breathing was hard. She sobbed, and felt her heart labouring in her chest. Sharp pains racked her body, but she knew it was just the pain of loss. She was not injured, but once more she had been destined to lose a man she loved.
That he did not love her in return mattered little. She had grown to love him, to love his face, his gentle eyes, even his fierce hands that wielded a sword…what choice did he have? It was a time of war. Perhaps, in another life, he might have been a scholar, or a farmer…still she would have loved him. A man’s nature does not change, whatever he holds in his hand.
And so, her tears fresh, her pain real, she wandered blindly in the tunnel, the souls of the lost calling her name, knowing her past, her hopes, her dreams, her fears, but they did not understand her, not at all. If they did, they would know she would not be swayed. In this pitch black afterworld, their hunger was all there was. But Tirielle had no room for pity. She followed the voices of the living. That was where her duty was, and always would be.
She followed them, the real and solid. The Sard talked constantly. She let herself be led by their words, ever forward. She had heard that in the wilderness a person tended to walk in circles. She hoped that was not their fate.
The voices of the dead came from outside, tinny and frightening, pleading, urging, begging her to come to them. No matter how persuasive they were, she was not about to go to them.
She was not ready to join the dead.
Her skin prickled, and she turned around. Something was following her. A blinding light, rushing toward her through the tunnel. She could suddenly see Carth’s broad back through the tunnel ahead of her.
“Something’s coming!” she called.
Carth spared enough breath to call back to her.
“Run,” he said, with no urgency, but she thought she knew what was coming — the destruction of one side of the portal. The world of the living was reclaiming this place.
So j’ark had finally died, joined the lost. She hoped he would find peace, some sort of resolution. Strangely, now she knew he was gone and that there was no hope of him ever joining her, her tears dried up. He had done what he set out to do. Looking behind her, she realised this was their only chance. She ran. The light felt warm on her back. It was approaching.
It seemed like an age, but it was difficult to tell the passage of time in the blackness, and even the light rushing toward them was only peace, nothing to be afraid of, let it wash over you…she shook her head, and renewed her pace.
In moments, she could see light in front of her, too. Like snow falling, or ice.
She saw Carth disappear, and she threw herself forward at the approaching light, away from the chasing, blinding light. She knew which side she wanted to be on.
The voices of the dead cried out in anguish.
In her head, she heard one among them.
“I love you,” it said. She knew the voice well. It sounded clear, crisp, but it did not plead for her to stay. She knew he was not among them. He was no longer lost.
She dived through, from darkness into light.
Chapter Eighty-Five
And tumbled into the arms of a grizzled warrior, strong arms wrapping round her and pulling her away from the portal.
“Run!” the warrior urged. She needed no imprecations — she could feel the wind howling through portal at her back. She ran as hard as she could, the burly warrior’s boots slapping the cracked ice beside her.
There was no time to question, no time to take in the amazing sights around her (ash raining down, the sizzle of a magical battle, a trio of barbaric warriors herding them toward a mountain larger than she had imagined possible…but only noticed in the blink of an eye.)
Then the world exploded. The wind was suddenly pulling at her (no! not back into the after world) and she was struggling against it, running with all her might. Quintal was beside her then, and threw her to the ground.
