James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

The servant’s neck snapped like a twig. A low moan went up from the stunned onlookers.

Davian felt himself whirl, scanning the crowd. The priest. A holy man, supposedly. He had done this. People leapt from his path; a few of his friends called out to him, pleaded with him to stop, but none moved to get in his way. They knew better. They could all try to stop him, and it would be meaningless, nothing to him. He would brush them aside like flies. He would find the priest and kill him, slowly and painfully.

It didn’t take him long. He sent his vision high above the castle, scanning the surrounding lands; almost immediately he spotted the lone figure scrambling along the north road, slipping on loose shale as it hurried down the steep hillside. The plain brown robe was obvious, even from this distance, even in the gloom.

He moved, faster than he had ever moved before, and yet somehow with a cold deliberateness, a calm that belied the raging fire inside him. He walked, but those around him stood like statues. The wind seemed to slow so that he could barely feel it, and even the fire of the torches moved sluggishly. He took one off its bracket as he passed, leaving the castle and streaking northward. Somehow he knew that anyone watching would see only a blur of orange light, nothing more.

He walked in front of the priest, setting his feet firmly in the portly man’s path. Davian wanted to see his face. He wanted to see his expression when he realised he was going to die.

The priest skidded to a stop when he saw Davian in front of him. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, but the rest of his skin was pale as a ghost. His expression was one of pure terror.

“Mercy,” he muttered, falling over as he moved backward as quickly as he could. Even sitting down he tried to scramble away, his eyes wild. “Mercy. It was not me. I swear it by El. It was not me.”

Davian took in the priest’s muddied clothes. His arms were bare, and he could see long scratches on them. Any semblance of calm evaporated.

He reached out with Essence, holding the terrified man down. Then he concentrated on the man’s hands. The priest screamed as the little finger on his left hand snapped backward with a sharp crack. Davian released it and moved on to the next finger. Crack. The middle, the forefinger, the thumb. Then the other hand. Crack. Crack. Crack. Davian barely knew what he was doing. All he wanted was for this man to feel the pain he was feeling now. To feel worse.

He moved on. He broke every toe, the priest’s screams intensifying until finally they died to almost a whimper.

Davian frowned. That wouldn’t do. The man had felt nothing yet.

He concentrated. He fed Essence into the priest, allowing the broken bones to mend themselves. He hadn’t bothered to straighten them; most healed at ghastly angles, deformed and likely still agonizing. Even so, the worst of the pain would be gone.

He changed the flow of Essence, pointed it at the man’s blood. Heated it. A little at first, then more, until he could feel it boiling. The priest screamed properly this time. Prolonged cries of pain, gut-wrenching screams of agony. Davian watched impassively, feeling nothing. Not satisfaction. Not sorrow. This was not revenge. This was justice, plain and simple.

Ensuring he still fed enough Essence into the man to keep him conscious, he turned another sliver of energy into a razor, thin and sharp. With one flick of the wrist, he castrated him.

The priest made no noise now - just lay there, back arched, spasming. His mind was trying desperately to shut down, but Davian concentrated, made sure it was aware of every moment of what was happening. Boiling blood spilled out into the dirt, hissing as it hit the cold ground. This was how he would die. Bleeding out in slow agony.

Davian made sure the man had absorbed enough Essence to keep him conscious to the end, then leaned forward until the priest was focused on his face.

“For Ell,” he said softly.

He turned and walked back up towards the castle.

He’d come further than he’d realised; it was a good mile back to Caer Lyordas from where he was. How had he come here so quickly? He tried to remember. Everything was a blur….

Suddenly it came crashing in on him. What had happened. What he’d done. He dropped to his knees and vomited, retching until his stomach was empty. Once he was finished, he stood shakily and kept walking to the castle. In a distant kind of way, he knew he was in shock.

A crowd of people were waiting for him outside the gates, but he pushed by them, barely even hearing their questions or meaningless offerings of sympathy. He moved straight past them back to where his wife’s body lay. Someone had moved her from the gutter, laying her in the middle of the courtyard, her hands carefully folded over her breasts. Despite the position, she looked anything but peaceful. Her dress, torn and bloodied, told the true story.

He stood over her, looking down vacantly. Inside, he felt… nothing. An emptiness so profound that it made it difficult to breathe. It was all so meaningless. She was gone, gone in a moment and suddenly nothing that was to come mattered any more.

“No.” The word came from his throat unbidden. He knelt, cupping her cheek with his hand. “No.”

He reached deep inside, drawing once again on Essence. Despite all his efforts tonight, his Reserve was nearly full again. But he knew somehow, instinctively, that even with all his powers he could never generate enough Essence to bring her back. He needed more. So much more.

He reached out. He could feel the Essence all around him, everywhere in the castle and its surrounds. The trees and grass. The torches on the walls.

The people.

There was no time to think; every second he delayed made it harder to bring her back. He drew in Essence, then let it flow into Ell. Her entire body glowed with the soft yellow light, but it wasn’t nearly enough. As his Reserve came close to dry, he started pulling Essence from around him. Vaguely, he could sense the grass withering; in the distance over the wind he could hear trees collapsing to the ground. The torches winked out around the castle one by one.

It was still not enough.

There was a scream from somewhere in the castle as the first person fell, dead, drained of their Essence. Screams started up elsewhere, but they were cut off as Davian snatched away their life force, taking it into himself and then letting it flow into Ell. In his mind, the area became darker and darker, until there was no Essence left. No life. Nothing but him.

He’d drained his Reserve long ago, but he knew there was more. He was so close; he could almost see her breathing again, could almost see a tinge of red returning to her smooth cheeks. He tapped into his own Essence, the force that was sustaining his body. All he had left.

He felt his limbs growing numb; his hand slipped from Ell’s cheek, the link finally broken. Had it worked? He strained to see her face, her chest, anything that might indicate if she were alive. But he was so tired.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was back in Deilannis opposite Malshash. He stood there for a long moment, aghast, unsure what to say. Malshash wore a similar expression, though his was mixed with something that sent a shiver of fear through Davian. White-hot anger.

Davian blinked, suddenly making a connection. Malshash’s form today was familiar. The man from the wedding, the one who had tried to comfort him. Ilrin.