David Farland - Lords of the Seventh Swarm

One green bird dived toward him, and Zeus emitted a keen wail and raised his hands to cover his face, folding great black wings behind protectively.

Orick gaped in astonishment. He recognized those birds, had thought only hours ago that one of them was the Holy Spirit, descending in the form of a dove. And he recalled the green pool he’d drunk from when he licked the water from Tallea’s lips. And he remembered the feeling of something stirring within him, and the terrifying sense of doom he’d felt as the birds of light swooped over him, the sense that he was being judged.

And the truth of what had happened struck him to the core.

The pale birds now drew into a tight circle and wheeled above Zeus, flying faster and faster, like the lip of a whirlwind. Zeus could not take to the air, could not hope to escape them.

One bird dived like a hawk, raked Zeus’s head with its claws, then rose again soundlessly, blazing fiercely bright.

Renewed. The bird was renewed. Orick could only imagine that the bird of light had somehow fed upon Zeus, taken energy from him.

More birds came, here and there, up near the ceiling, appearing to fly through the stone, dropping like some fiery and magnificent fruit from the great dew tree.

Zeus huddled in fear, scurrying back from the bright beings above, and only now did Orick see that this dark being was but a shadow, as incorporeal as the birds that flew above.

Zeus flew a short ways, tried to reach his own corpse, the body he had sloughed off a moment before.

The mouth was wide-open, as if in a silent scream, and the black form sought to struggle back into it, as a hermit crab will take up an old shell.

I can lay down my life, and take it up again , Orick thought. Zeus had laid his life aside, now he wanted it back. Yet it was not an easy fit. He writhed and twisted, struggling to reenter his body.

But as Zeus worked to take up his life, a bright bolt of green shot down, raked its claws over his head, gouging deeply.

Worms of purple light bled from Zeus, and a ragged wound formed.

The emerald birds seemed to take courage from this attack.

A second form swept down on flaming wings.

It grasped Zeus with its talons and pulled at his dark soul, opening more wounds, so that the black skin of the creature seemed torn wide, spilling light.

The bird clung to him, bit deeply.

In pain and terror, the creature that was Zeus raised its hands, protecting its shadowy face, and tried to beat its attacker back.

A third bird of light descended, blazing like a green furnace, grabbed Zeus’s wing in its beak, and tore.

Purple flames of light erupted from the joint at Zeus’s back.

He turned and pummeled vainly at his attackers, striking with all his might. The birds of light flapped their wings, retreated to the air.

Zeus’s black form bled purple light that erupted from a dozen major wounds, yet Zeus struggled on. For half a moment, the black thing drooped, as if weary, as if it would simply die.

Yet in that moment, the shadowy form surged back into Zeus’s body, flowing like something molten, sliding into Zeus’s throat.

Zeus lay on his back, his mouth gaping wide, purple light shining from it as if he’d swallowed a glow globe. His eyes, too, glowed purple.

He breathed raggedly, struggling, and gave a choking sob.

The birds of light dived now, redoubling the attack, as if furious with Zeus.

Zeus raised one hand, as if to hold them at bay, and a bolt of lightning cracked the air, splitting the sky.

For half a second, the bird of light glowed brilliantly, caught in its arc, and then veered away. The others also swerved in their fight, suddenly wary.

“Damn you!” Zeus shouted. And he began laughing, a throaty croak. He struggled up to one elbow. The green birds of light became frantic, one swooped near.

Zeus threw another lightning bolt, cracking the sky, and for half a second, Orick was blinded.

Then Zeus began to shriek. Orick blinked, struggled to see what was happening.

Zeus was shrieking, rolling on the ground. All around him was a confusion of green light, emerald brilliance that baffled the eyes. Zeus held up his hand, as if to shoot off another lightning bolt, but none came. He was out of energy. The flock of birds seemed to be ripping him, dipping their beaks into his body, tearing away flesh. Yet Orick could see no physical damage, no bloody wounds, no gaping rents. Instead, the birds were dipping their faces down deep, below the level of flesh, tearing away something more essential.

For nearly a minute the birds took him, ripping at him, and Zeus’s cries diminished. He stopped rolling, stopped trying to fight them at all.

Until one by one, the birds of light rose, ascended back up through the stone roof, back up past the odd stone pipes and hoary machinery.

Orick ran to Zeus, more from curiosity than from any desire to help the man.

Zeus took labored breaths. The light in his mouth and eyes was dimming, fading so that Orick almost wondered if he imagined that he saw the purples. Tears slid down his cheeks. Orick knew he would die, that he could not last much longer.

Nearby, Thomas was climbing down a root to see if Lord Felph, by some miracle, remained alive.

Zeus gasped. “Help me! Help!” Orick could not help him.

Zeus looked up, imploringly. “They … stopped me. Almost, almost I was one of them, but they fought me.”

Zeus acted as if he wanted Orick to pity him.

But Orick felt no pity. Zeus had taken the Waters of Strength, and would have withheld them from Gallen. Having entered the gates of heaven, he would bar the way from all who would follow.

“Water!” Zeus begged, desperate. “Give … more.”

Orick dared not. Perhaps the Water would heal Zeus. To let such a monster live just didn’t seem right.

Orick backed away, as Zeus sagged, his last breath coming out with a rattle.

Down by the water’s edge, Thomas checked Fetph’s corpse, found it dead.

“Go and protect Lord Felph,” Thomas said aloud, “then return.”

He got up woodenly, and began climbing through the tangled roots of the great tree, heading out of Teeawah.

Orick would have argued with Thomas, told him to stay. It would be dangerous for one old man to wander off alone, with the sfuz waking.

But Thomas wore a Guide, and right now, there was nothing Orick could do to stop the old fellow from leaving, short of biting his pants and hanging on.

Tallea whispered urgently in Orick’s ear, “Orick, we have to get the Waters for Gallen and go-if you still want it. If you think it will do any good.” The hour was growing late.

Orick didn’t know how long ago Gallen and Maggie had reached Felph’s palace, did not know if they had battled.

Yet, somehow, he imagined that the hour was past. He was too late.

Orick wondered. The Qualeewoohs claimed to have conquered time, space, nature, self. What would that entail?

Do I have such powers? Can I reach Gallen?

More importantly, what good would the Waters be, if Gallen met a fate like that of Zeus?

And yet, and yet-not everyone met Zeus’s fate, Orick knew. The Qualeewoohs had judged Zeus, found him lacking.

Orick looked down at the pool, shimmering velvet in the darkness. His heart pounded. From distant reaches of the caverns came a frantic whistling.

Gallen woke to the sound of rain battering the tall windows of Felph’s palace, and so fierce and incessant was the pattering that for a moment he thought it was an anxious neighbor rapping at the windows.

He opened his eyes slowly, recalling the night he’d first met Veriasse and the Lady Everynne back on Tihrglas, a night when it rained madly, as it did now.