Guyrin looked at his hands. They were speckled with black blood and beginning to itch as if the stuff were caustic. With barely a thought, he changed the blood to sand and brushed it from his fingers. The Chaos rushed through him. So much power. Why did I ever decide that someone else should be in charge of it? In charge of me? They can’t see the malleability, the possibilities! He knew in the back of his mind that the pain would come soon, that the Chaos would extract its price from its body in the form of new growths and cancers, painful lesions and enervating illnesses… but he didn’t care. He was mighty.
Abruptly he decided that he hated these tunnels. They reeked of old, spent Chaos, and he’d never liked enclosed spaces. I’ll make it different. That’s what I should do. They’ll appreciate it. He realized that Gamarron was in front of him, talking to him carefully, as one might to a child or a dangerously unstable madman. The old man’s mouth was moving, his beard waggling with the movement, but Guyrin couldn’t get the words to make sense. Trying to confine his understanding enough to pay attention to mortal speech was nigh unto impossible when in the grip of the Chaos. It hardly matters what he’s saying anyways. I’m the one who decides now.
He reached into the shape of Gamarron’s being and felt the resonance of it, felt the shape of the savages of the Black Isle, and then reached out until he felt the corresponding vibrations of the place where he fit. That’s where he wants us to go, isn’t it? Why spend all that time walking? Walking is for idiots. This will be better.
He smiled broadly to the others, taking them all in with his gaze, making sure they were included in his shaping. Even the Naga man. He’s funny. I like him. And the salamander too, what the hell? They were all crouched warily away from him as if he were some frightening beast. It made him laugh. No, no, I killed the scary demon beast, didn’t you see? He forced himself to make words with his mouth to reassure them. “I’ve got it all taken care of,” he told them. “You’ll never have to walk anywhere again.” It would have been better to say it without the brittle, sharp-edged laugh, he knew, but he was fairly certain they got the gist of it.
He pushed against the Chaos, snatching them all out of the world and into darkness.
Chapter 19 Provoking the Powerful
Renna had never come to consciousness in the middle of vomiting before, and she definitely didn’t like it. She hadn’t puked on her hands, thankfully, but those hands were clenched in a coarse, dry, black sand she had never seen before. The sun was shining brightly on her back, but the air was cold, and she couldn’t make sense of any of it. What the hell is going on? She wanted to scream the words while punching every face she could find, but such pleasures were beyond her until she finished emptying her stomach. It was taking a long time.
She felt hands grip her shoulders and hold her steady until the spasms passed. Their grip was strong, but not confining – a touch meant to give comfort. She pulled away as soon as she could. She wiped her mouth on the hem of the dirty brown dress she was wearing, reflecting grimly on the fact that she was probably putting nearly as much filth onto her mouth as she was removing. A few months ago, it would have sent her into a panic. Amazing what running for your life all the time does to you.
It was Gamarron next to her, of course. Seeing him safe raised her spirits a bit. It wasn’t that she had feelings for him; rather, she had plans for him. Still, it was nice to have someone reliable nearby. Despite his recent bouts of anger and instability, he was one of the least foolish people she had ever met.
“What happened?” she coughed, spitting sour bile into the black sand. “Where are we?”
The bearded monk pointed to the others of their party, each of whom was struggling to regain consciousness with varying degrees of success. She was surprised to see Tychus spread out on the earth in the midst of them, his hands rubbing at his face. Guyrin was the only one not moving at all. A reddish growth the size of a large melon had appeared along his spine, splitting her old Weaver tunic at the seams. The skin of his arms had gone translucent somehow, and she could see all the muscles and tendons beneath. He was face-down in the sand, and bright red blood trickled from one ear. “Is he dead?” she asked softly.
“His heart beats,” Gamarron responded, “but his breathing is irregular, and his color… well, you can see. He used too much of the Chaos. We’re very lucky he didn’t kill us all.”
“What did he do? Where are we?” she repeated, annoyed at repeating herself. As if I cared about the well-being of a fat, lazy moron that has consumed a fortune in drugs.
“Where we wished to be,” Gamarron said with quiet satisfaction. “Welcome to the Black Isle, Mistress.”
“Don’t call me that,” she responded
