Read Online Tower of Trials: Book One of Guardian Spirit by Jodi Ralston - Free Book Online
Authors: Jodi Ralston
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burdens and, despite the spreading pain, redoubled his speed—
Which made the mortals shake and not stop.
The mortals! He had forgotten to consider their needs. Prolonged journeys this way could asphyxiate the bayards—what about the far weaker, far more mortal humans?
Guard slowed down. Their shaking eased slightly . . . but the retrievers shushing movements sped up.
Close, we have to be close to the exit, Guard thought as he took a bend, sheering too closely to a wall. That set off a flare of anger in the parts he considered Shalott.
Guard “whispered” to him to be still.
Of course, that incited worse behavior.
And of course, they couldn’t obey. How could they? Humans weren’t made to handle aetherization. He couldn’t, not until he was nine, after years of partaking aether-laced breath. He remembered how the early transformations felt like drowning, not strangling. Drowning.
They thrashed from panic and . . . the lack of air, clawing at him, nearly making him lose his hold. They both dipped dangerously, and he couldn’t hold back a cry of pain as he caught them, bunched them tighter, and lifted.
His vision blurred.
Everything hurt.
That was why he first thought it an illusion, a warning sign, that shaky splash of white a ways ahead, the color he sometimes saw with a bad transition back to human form. But it was the only color beside bronze.
Thank the goddess, it was real. The white stone-wood that covered the false tomb-wood exits existed inside the tunnel’s far wall, too. That meant . . . he turned his “head” to count the retrievers remaining, to pick block shapes from the blurs of bronze, but he found he couldn’t move that much.
So Guard relied on memory and guesswork instead. There couldn’t be three left, with the final one in this stretch at least nine feet from the exit.
Now two left. Smoke-Lydia’s shakes were stilling. Not a good sign.
He couldn’t even “shout” an encouragement; he was too tired.
Now one retriever.
Guard passed it up and waited impatiently for the patch of bronze to shift (indicating the retriever was moving into the maze proper). He darted out the opening it left behind . . .
. . . and badly misjudged its speed and proximity. Its gauntlet swiped, the freezing cold burning less than an inch from his trailing back.
He lost his grip on his charges.
With one last burst of energy, Guard thrust both dilating, throbbing masses ahead of him, through the black opening cut through the searing white. The male tumbled into mortal form and to safety out the maze. But once through, Shalott began to scream raggedly.
Lydia did not make it as far, too weak. She ended up on her side, arm outstretched toward the door. With a moan, she drew up one leg. Guard swooped down, grabbed her, but it was hard to find a hold on her flesh, as his smoke form fell apart. He collapsed next to her.
But the opening was there. Right there. Inches away.
And the last retriever, not weak in the least, had gained, rolling over the hem of her green skirt. It stopped, reached down, and reached for her nearest ankle. Guard was faster. Bow not ready at hand, he pulled his knife and threw it instead.
It hit true, embedding itself in a bronze palm.
When the retriever reached to remove the now milky white and quivering blade, Guard grabbed Lydia under her arms and hauled her to the door. The trapped edge of her skirt ripped easily, freeing her.
They made it through the opening just at the blade was removed . . .
. . . and exploded in the retriever’s hand.
Guard threw them both down on the cold, white stone-wood landing outside the doorway as bits of tomb-wood shrapnel sailed through the air.
They were through.
They had made it.
Won the first Trial.
Except, as Guard looked up from the cracked, white flagstones, where was the male? The male’s breathy, scared sound caught his ear.
That was when Lydia looked up, too, and began screaming. The male, Guard realized, had never stopped
Which made the mortals shake and not stop.
The mortals! He had forgotten to consider their needs. Prolonged journeys this way could asphyxiate the bayards—what about the far weaker, far more mortal humans?
Guard slowed down. Their shaking eased slightly . . . but the retrievers shushing movements sped up.
Close, we have to be close to the exit, Guard thought as he took a bend, sheering too closely to a wall. That set off a flare of anger in the parts he considered Shalott.
Guard “whispered” to him to be still.
Of course, that incited worse behavior.
And of course, they couldn’t obey. How could they? Humans weren’t made to handle aetherization. He couldn’t, not until he was nine, after years of partaking aether-laced breath. He remembered how the early transformations felt like drowning, not strangling. Drowning.
They thrashed from panic and . . . the lack of air, clawing at him, nearly making him lose his hold. They both dipped dangerously, and he couldn’t hold back a cry of pain as he caught them, bunched them tighter, and lifted.
His vision blurred.
Everything hurt.
That was why he first thought it an illusion, a warning sign, that shaky splash of white a ways ahead, the color he sometimes saw with a bad transition back to human form. But it was the only color beside bronze.
Thank the goddess, it was real. The white stone-wood that covered the false tomb-wood exits existed inside the tunnel’s far wall, too. That meant . . . he turned his “head” to count the retrievers remaining, to pick block shapes from the blurs of bronze, but he found he couldn’t move that much.
So Guard relied on memory and guesswork instead. There couldn’t be three left, with the final one in this stretch at least nine feet from the exit.
Now two left. Smoke-Lydia’s shakes were stilling. Not a good sign.
He couldn’t even “shout” an encouragement; he was too tired.
Now one retriever.
Guard passed it up and waited impatiently for the patch of bronze to shift (indicating the retriever was moving into the maze proper). He darted out the opening it left behind . . .
. . . and badly misjudged its speed and proximity. Its gauntlet swiped, the freezing cold burning less than an inch from his trailing back.
He lost his grip on his charges.
With one last burst of energy, Guard thrust both dilating, throbbing masses ahead of him, through the black opening cut through the searing white. The male tumbled into mortal form and to safety out the maze. But once through, Shalott began to scream raggedly.
Lydia did not make it as far, too weak. She ended up on her side, arm outstretched toward the door. With a moan, she drew up one leg. Guard swooped down, grabbed her, but it was hard to find a hold on her flesh, as his smoke form fell apart. He collapsed next to her.
But the opening was there. Right there. Inches away.
And the last retriever, not weak in the least, had gained, rolling over the hem of her green skirt. It stopped, reached down, and reached for her nearest ankle. Guard was faster. Bow not ready at hand, he pulled his knife and threw it instead.
It hit true, embedding itself in a bronze palm.
When the retriever reached to remove the now milky white and quivering blade, Guard grabbed Lydia under her arms and hauled her to the door. The trapped edge of her skirt ripped easily, freeing her.
They made it through the opening just at the blade was removed . . .
. . . and exploded in the retriever’s hand.
Guard threw them both down on the cold, white stone-wood landing outside the doorway as bits of tomb-wood shrapnel sailed through the air.
They were through.
They had made it.
Won the first Trial.
Except, as Guard looked up from the cracked, white flagstones, where was the male? The male’s breathy, scared sound caught his ear.
That was when Lydia looked up, too, and began screaming. The male, Guard realized, had never stopped
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