TWENTY-SEVEN
A Predator’s Decision
The Rossin ran through the streets of Vermillion like a creature maddened. Its citizens scattered screaming, as he bounded past them. He knocked many over, but he did not turn to devour them. His only thought was to get away from Derodak and what he was about to unleash. All his plans to gain his freedom seemed to have come to nothing. The Fensena had not come back, and his pelt was on the back of that cunning Sensitive partner of Sorcha’s who was hundreds of miles away. Still he would take what he had.
Yet, what was it he had?
Soon, the Maker of Ways would arrive and then there would be no going back. The Otherside would swallow this realm, and he would be in dire danger. He had many enemies in that realm, and time did not matter to them.
As his great padded paws fell on the last bit of paved road in Vermillion, he stopped. He had reached the Edge—the most unfortunate patch of swampy ground in the city. Here the marshy ground supported only the poorest of the city, before giving way to wetlands that stretched for miles. He would have to swim, and then get as far from Vermillion as possible. Hiding was not in the Rossin’s nature, but he would have to learn it quickly if he wanted to survive.
He’d just placed one paw onto the wet ground that was the beginning of the wilderness, when a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
It was his host. Raed Syndar Rossin was near the surface, listening, and now speaking, and that was highly unusual behavior.
The great cat shook his mane, breathing hard.
The cat turned and glanced over his shoulder. From here, there was a narrow view of the Imperial Island in the distance. He knew what would be going on there. It wouldn’t be long now.
The Rossin growled deeply, his claws flexing into the ground for an instant.
Raed’s voice didn’t seem as weak and foolish as it had in the past.
It was true. This was his world, and it had weakened him too much—if he went back to the Otherside it would mean certain destruction. If he did not fight, then there was no hope.
The great pard roared, howling his frustration into the wilderness, and then he made his decision.
The Rossin wheeled about, and this time sprang back toward the palace. His paws hit the cobblestones with rhythmic thumps that sounded like battle drums in his ears. He roared, tossing his head and snarling at the challenge to come.
Soon enough he had eaten up the distance between the Edge and the Imperial Island, and was barreling along the Bridge of Gilt. Inside, he felt Raed Syndar Rossin share his determination and strength. It was an odd sensation since both of them had spent years battling each other. Now, feeling the human’s strength of will, the Rossin wondered at it. Had he underestimated his host all this time? What might they have achieved if they had worked together? What might they still do?
They sprang onto the square and bounded toward the castle wall. The human defenders had all been slain by the Circle of Stars and replaced by Deacons. These Deacons, Raed let the Rossin hate.
He saw fire, green and red, flash at him from left and right as Deacons on the battlements threw their runes at him. None had any effect, flowing over and through him. It was exhilarating more than anything. When the great cat leapt at the postern gate in the palace doors, they cracked and broke under him. The Vermillion palace had not been made to stand attack in any real sense. The city was protection enough for the palace of an Emperor, but the Rossin was not a normal foe.
He was full of pride and arrogance as he ran through the pleasure gardens and toward the main rooms. His goal was the main staircase. When he had been there last, it had been the only staircase.
Behind, the great cat could feel the Deacons forming a Conclave, but even for Derodak’s children that would not be an instantaneous thing. He smashed through another door, and filled the palace with his roar. It had been generations since he had been here, and the building was much, much grander than it had been then.
However, there was one thing that had not changed. The cat turned his head and snarled. He could feel it under his paws like a hot piece of metal. The breach where nearly a thousand years ago he had stood with Derodak and pledged his allegiance to the Rossins—giving them his name and his power—still existed.
It was the weakest point between the Otherside and the human realm, and even after it had sealed, a scar remained on the fabric of reality.
Now it was screaming once more.
The Rossin knew that there could only be a few more moments. He flicked his head in the other direction and felt another presence appearing near him, a familiar one. It should have been upsetting, but in fact this new arrival gave him hope.
However, there was no time to waste on waiting for reinforcements. The Rossin wheeled about and bounded down the steps—moving much faster than any human could ever hope to. He passed quickly from the newer parts, through to the Ancient mosaicked walls, and finally into the bare caverns. Along the way he found Deacons waiting for him in their dark cloaks. They held up their foci and tried to use runes on him. When that failed, they tried to use swords. The Rossin sprang on them and snapped them as easily as twigs. They had not expected his return, and the one of their number who could stop him was otherwise engaged.
By the time the Rossin reached the final chamber, he was soaked in blood and flesh, though the blood did not please him as it once had. A terrible sound split the air just as his paw was on the threshold. The great cat looked up at the carved Maker of Ways and saw it was crumbling away. Then the whole ground shook, forcing the cat to spread his paws and brace as it rumbled under him.
Then he smelled it; the hot, fetid odor of the Otherside; something that he had hoped never to experience again. His roar of outrage was lost in the tumult. He bolted through the door toward it.
For a moment all he could see was the geistlord, the Maker of Ways. He towered in the tiny cavern, because above it was more than just a cavern now. The huge form of the Maker was holding apart the breach, two large tentacles in the human realm, while his wide black green shoulders were braced in the Otherside.
Eyes like red lanterns were fixed on the new world, and behind him were all the host of the undead. Closest burned the Murashev, Herald of Doom, ready to burn brightly. For a heartbeat, the Rossin saw nothing but those dire figures. The Maker was pressing on the breach, his strength alone holding it open.
The power to summon the Maker was beyond anyone in the human realm, even Derodak. Thinking of him made the Rossin capable of pulling his eyes away from the looming geistlord.
Below, near one of the writhing tentacles, he saw Derodak and Sorcha Faris. The Arch Abbot was leaning over her, pressing his hand against her collarbone, his eyes boring into hers. She was limp and pale, but her eyes were focused somewhere else.
It was the Wrayth in her. The Rossin saw with all the accuracy of a Sensitive. She was being forced to use those powers to connect with all of humanity. They could not feel it, but she was their conduit, gathering their wills to make the breach and the summons.
Yet still the Arch Abbot had time to spare for the Rossin. He looked up, full of power, and then held out his leather-clad hand. The shield rune sprang up between them, burning scarlet and unbearably hot in the room. It was Derodak, and he was like none of his lesser children.
The Rossin paced back and forth before the burning flames and contemplated the end of the world that had been his home. His frustration burned as brightly as the fire between them.
To have come so close and then be stymied by his old enemy was beyond frustrating. Still as much as he roared and raged, the shield of flame still held him.
