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Authors: Ron Collins
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remembered Braxidane’s contempt for him as his simple desire to save life served to destroy it instead.
It was suddenly very hard to breathe.
“Braxidane!”
Garrick yelled as he leapt atop the same rock where Sunathri had made her final defense.
“Braxidane!”
The wind whistled through the clearing.
Sweat from his brow dripped onto the rock.
Perhaps the mages around him would think him daft as he was speaking aloud, but he didn’t care.
“It’s not fair,” he yelled into the wind in a raw voice. “It’s not fair.”
For a moment, Garrick thought he heard his superior’s voice.
There is no ‘fair,’ Garrick,
he thought he heard. But he was wrong. Garrick may well be as insane as the Freeborn would think he was, but he wasn’t going to delude himself on purpose. He was on his own, now. Braxidane wasn’t with him on God’s Tower, and he wasn’t going to be here on the battlefield.
He despised the planewalker then. He despised Braxidane for his power, and for his callous nature. He hated him for the way Braxidane played with his psyche, hated him for this “gift” of balance that gave him the blood-mad exhilaration of ripping souls in battle in tandem with the heartbreaking joy of bringing life to the wounded.
“What is it you want, Braxidane?” he finally whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
He was met with only silence.
Garrick turned his bloodshot gaze to the battlefield.
The mages stared at him with expectant eyes. Sunathri was dead—the news spread quickly. Now the mages of her order looked to him.
He was god-touched. He was the one who had changed their fortunes, the one who had brought them back from the very edge of death itself. He felt numb. Bile burned in his stomach.
You monster,
Garrick thought.
You had this in mind since the first moment.
He sensed Sunathri’s life force around him, then, just as he had once tasted Arianna’s life force. He felt her flow through him, warming him. He tasted her memories, so solid that he thought for a moment she might have risen from the dead. And he remembered her kiss, her willingness to give herself up for her cause, the fire that had been in her eyes the first time he saw her.
Then she was gone.
Chapter 22
Garrick retreated up the mountain to be alone, but instead of solace, he found that the high perch merely served to give him a better view from which to watch the army as it dealt with the blood-price of this victory. He watched as columns of black smoke disappeared into thin air, and he watched as others buried dead in the same pits and trenches that, earlier in the week, they had dug as defenses. He watched as mages picked through the battlefield to retrieve mementos and other reminders of the dead so that they might be delivered back to their families, and he watch smiths and tanners and others as they bent to repair whatever could be repaired for the trip home.
Yes, Garrick thought from this distant perch high on the mountainside, the blood-price for this victory was quite clear.
And as the perch gave him his view, it also lent a view to those who remained of the Freeborn. They looked to him with pressure in their gazes—unspoken, but clear. Crushing. Stifling. It wrapped its tentacles around Garrick like a serpent of the sea, and squeezed his breath away.
It was too much, all too much.
He could not take Sunathri’s place.
As he watched the men and women of Dorfort’s army clean the field of battle, Garrick felt a gap greater than anyone else on that field possibly could. He understood something no one else could possibly understand.
He had been angry at Braxidane because his superior had not come to his aid. It was a fair anger, he supposed. But as nighttime stole over the horizon and the air grew crisp, Garrick felt a deeper truth. Braxidane
would
have come if he could have—just as the other planewalkers who were so clearly behind the powers of Jormar and Parathay would have come to the aid of the orders’
It was suddenly very hard to breathe.
“Braxidane!”
Garrick yelled as he leapt atop the same rock where Sunathri had made her final defense.
“Braxidane!”
The wind whistled through the clearing.
Sweat from his brow dripped onto the rock.
Perhaps the mages around him would think him daft as he was speaking aloud, but he didn’t care.
“It’s not fair,” he yelled into the wind in a raw voice. “It’s not fair.”
For a moment, Garrick thought he heard his superior’s voice.
There is no ‘fair,’ Garrick,
he thought he heard. But he was wrong. Garrick may well be as insane as the Freeborn would think he was, but he wasn’t going to delude himself on purpose. He was on his own, now. Braxidane wasn’t with him on God’s Tower, and he wasn’t going to be here on the battlefield.
He despised the planewalker then. He despised Braxidane for his power, and for his callous nature. He hated him for the way Braxidane played with his psyche, hated him for this “gift” of balance that gave him the blood-mad exhilaration of ripping souls in battle in tandem with the heartbreaking joy of bringing life to the wounded.
“What is it you want, Braxidane?” he finally whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
He was met with only silence.
Garrick turned his bloodshot gaze to the battlefield.
The mages stared at him with expectant eyes. Sunathri was dead—the news spread quickly. Now the mages of her order looked to him.
He was god-touched. He was the one who had changed their fortunes, the one who had brought them back from the very edge of death itself. He felt numb. Bile burned in his stomach.
You monster,
Garrick thought.
You had this in mind since the first moment.
He sensed Sunathri’s life force around him, then, just as he had once tasted Arianna’s life force. He felt her flow through him, warming him. He tasted her memories, so solid that he thought for a moment she might have risen from the dead. And he remembered her kiss, her willingness to give herself up for her cause, the fire that had been in her eyes the first time he saw her.
Then she was gone.
Chapter 22
Garrick retreated up the mountain to be alone, but instead of solace, he found that the high perch merely served to give him a better view from which to watch the army as it dealt with the blood-price of this victory. He watched as columns of black smoke disappeared into thin air, and he watched as others buried dead in the same pits and trenches that, earlier in the week, they had dug as defenses. He watched as mages picked through the battlefield to retrieve mementos and other reminders of the dead so that they might be delivered back to their families, and he watch smiths and tanners and others as they bent to repair whatever could be repaired for the trip home.
Yes, Garrick thought from this distant perch high on the mountainside, the blood-price for this victory was quite clear.
And as the perch gave him his view, it also lent a view to those who remained of the Freeborn. They looked to him with pressure in their gazes—unspoken, but clear. Crushing. Stifling. It wrapped its tentacles around Garrick like a serpent of the sea, and squeezed his breath away.
It was too much, all too much.
He could not take Sunathri’s place.
As he watched the men and women of Dorfort’s army clean the field of battle, Garrick felt a gap greater than anyone else on that field possibly could. He understood something no one else could possibly understand.
He had been angry at Braxidane because his superior had not come to his aid. It was a fair anger, he supposed. But as nighttime stole over the horizon and the air grew crisp, Garrick felt a deeper truth. Braxidane
would
have come if he could have—just as the other planewalkers who were so clearly behind the powers of Jormar and Parathay would have come to the aid of the orders’
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