Sam Bowring - Destiny's Rift

‘No.’

‘There were no …projects …in place when you took your leave of Fenvarrow?’

‘No. Although Losara had just returned from visiting the gods, so who knows what secrets they revealed to him? They also sent him on a pilgrimage around Fenvarrow, though to what purpose, I was not privy.’ Bitterness again.

‘I see.’

Fahren fell silent. He had been hoping, more fervently than he’d let on, that Battu would have some knowledge or clue as to what the creature was, or how it could be defeated. Truth be told, he was at a loss as to what to make of the reports he’d received.

‘I did have a thought, years ago,’ said Battu. ‘The shadowmanders, as you no doubt know, live along the border and instinctively attack anything born of light. I once thought to myself: what a shame it is they do not grow larger.’

‘It seems they do.’

‘It sounds akin to legacy magic,’ said Battu, ‘on some enormous scale.’

‘On an impossible scale,’ agreed Fahren. He had already run through that possibility in his head a dozen times, but it seemed inconceivable.

‘I fear I must journey to the Morningbridge Peaks,’ he went on. ‘If Losara has learned something from his gods, maybe I can learn something from mine.’

‘The Morningbridge Peaks?’ echoed Battu dully.

‘Yes. The last place in the world you would wish to go. And so, to prove your loyalty, you will come with me.’

Battu stopped short, staring in horror from underneath his hood.

‘Now,’ said Fahren, ‘I want to introduce you to your honour guard of lightfists, who will accompany you at all times during your stay here at the Open Halls.’

Bel watched Nicha reorganising the surviving troops. She seemed cross with him for placing them in danger, against her advice. They had lost a fair few, but that was the way of battle, wasn’t it? He could not take on the burden of each individual death, or else he’d never be able to move a pace.

He well remembered the aftermath of his first mission, to Drel Forest, when he had fallen into a black mood over failing to save his comrades. What was different? Those soldiers had been his friends, or maybe it had been the influence of that damn weaver …or the understanding that while his destiny might protect him, it did not necessarily protect those around him. It had also been the first time he had enjoyed killing, and perhaps he had mistaken the emptiness he felt after rising from that fug as guilt.

He could not afford guilt.

His hand closed around the Stone. It felt right there, hanging around his neck. While it had stopped the magic of the lightfists helping him, that seemed an acceptable trade-off for being immune to all magic. It seemed, in fact, fair. If his counterpart was going to have all this magical power, how could Bel hope to defy him without balancing the odds somehow? Even if the Stone was never used to fulfil the purpose they had retrieved it for, it seemed a most worthwhile thing to possess. He could cut a swathe through the heart of any shadow army, untouched by spells. They would only be able to send swords against him – and swords did not worry him.

Only the shadowmander concerned him. Whether it was magical or not, it did not seem to care for the rules. But then again, he also knew, Losara could not set it upon him.

Immune from your magic , he thought. Immune from your creature. And I have the object that can end your trespassing in the world, take you in where you belong and bury you where your screams can’t be heard. Truly, Losara, you have much to fear in the coming days.

Fahren sighed as he lay down to sleep. There was at least one good thing about being the Throne, he supposed – the bed was bigger than any one man had a right to.

The latest development at Holdwith was truly worrying. No army could stand against a creature as impervious as the one Bel’s report described. Perhaps Bel was simply mistaken – after all, his troops had been caught unawares, and there could hardly have been time for the lightfists with him to mount a properly concentrated attack. Besides, as with all magically resistant monsters, there were always other ways to attack …and yet Bel had said the mander did not react to physical force either. The creature was something new, something unknown, and they faced enough unknowns already.

To Morningbridge, then , he thought. Tomorrow. And pray that Arkus will speak to me.

Another thought tickled the edge of his mind, treacherously, unwelcome. It had been there ever since that terrible day he’d entered these very quarters to find Losara standing over Naphur’s dead body. When Bel had come to confront his other , Losara had said, ‘The way to defeat me – it would not be to strike yourself down, would it?’

He had never asked Bel about it but could guess what Losara meant. The two blue-haired men shared a soul, so if one fell, it made sense that so would the other. Thus, if it really came down to the bones, if everything went bad, if it turned out there was no other way to stop Losara …there would still be that way.

He screwed up his eyes, unwilling to face his own dark thoughts, unable to get comfortable in his huge, plush bed.

In the clearing before the hut, Corlas worked on training his warriors. The youngest were the most fluid, the most graceful, having been brought up in Whisperwood and never knowing much of their Varenkai roots. They were Sprites now, almost full-blooded, and they wielded Old Magic with ease and abandon. In the older ones, who had lived other lives before coming here, the magic was not as strong. A lifetime of habits were hard to shrug off …yet each of them was making progress. As for himself, he was empowered, chosen by Vyasinth to lead her people, and lent something by her – of that he was certain. Despite this, as he strode about barking orders, Corlas felt a glimmer of his former life tugging at him – for he had been a taskmaster once before, charged with teaching young people to fight, not least his boy. But not like this.

‘Nindere, Charla!’ he said.

His young wife grinned as she stepped into place opposite Nindere, who was just as eager to show off his skills. Others gathered to watch the duel.

He raised his hand. ‘On my mark,’ he said. ‘One …two …three!’

As his hand came down, both Charla and Nindere flung theirs up. Light and darkness flashed around them, melding as they wrestled, each in command of their own threads. Charla stepped sideways as Nindere brought an old log erupting up through the ground, then pushed forward and down under his defences. A series of vines curled upwards to wind around his legs, travel around his waist and along his arms. Despite the determination in his eyes he was quickly entangled, and soon covered from head to toe in snaking vines. Charla began to direct his arms like a puppeteer, making him do a halting, clumsy dance. She laughed and all laughed with her, even Nindere.

‘Rrr,’ he growled from within his living prison. ‘Best of three?’

‘No need to humiliate you further,’ said Charla.

‘Charla wins the bout,’ announced Corlas.

She skipped across the ground, threw her arms around him and hauled herself up to kiss his cheek. She never did listen to his pleas about keeping their affections private, and never could he bring himself to be too angry with her about it.

‘Favouritism,’ said Nindere, and Corlas chuckled.

‘It is not my vines that have you so entwined,’ he said. ‘Charla beat you with no aid from me.’

‘Well, Charla … if you wouldn’t mind …’