How he longed to just be gone, pursuing his old dreams of escaping the city. Seeing real forests, where the canals were streams, where the fauna wasn’t imported, living his life as an arch-druid in the wild, no people to trouble him… He needed nothing to survive except his wits and his will – he could climb the mountains to their peaks, exist in the stillness beyond the bounds of the world…
But that would mean changing, in a different way, and he knew his personal desires were selfish. How many could he save, here? Power didn’t entitle you to anything but obligations. Saving others was just the self-evident obligation. The money didn’t hurt either – not that he had spent any of it yet. Though he’d been a man for a whole year today, nothing had changed. Aladros and Fentor were still residing in Mother and Father’s house. They still spoke down to him, expected things of him that he could never provide. And he could never stand up to them. He backed down, time and again.
He was a healer. A protector. Not a bully. Not a killer.
As he flew he curled his talons. He could feel it in his flesh, this strange owl-flesh in which he’d coated his soul – the very beak he wore in this form was a signifier.
That he was wrong.
He could be what he was not.
As he landed near his home and got changed, he looked down at his mask. The beak was melted now. He’d find a new one as close to the original as he could, but it would never be quite the same.
Everything was born a killer. Flies screamed as they felt the deadly touch of the spider’s string. The wolf fed her pups with fat derived from the baby beavers she’d feasted on. Even the plants choked one another, struggling in a slow, desperate dance for sunlight – you could keep them spread out, incapable of violating one another’s space, but only artificially. Only for a period of time. Inevitably chaos would come, new plants filling the gaps until there was no longer enough for everyone – and who was there to say that it was wrong? That Mekesta’s work was unnatural? Perhaps evil was the natural way of things. Death… was natural.
And hadn’t he done evil even in saving those children? Hadn’t he done the work of death? He’d traded hundreds of animals’ lives for the lives of six kids. He hadn’t been able to think of a different way to do it – was that enough to make it right?
He didn’t feel it was.
There was no way to avoid death. So what if he refused meat, ate only vegetables? Were the plants any less alive? Did they possess a small-enough quantity of that indescribable essence called soul that consuming them was somehow okay? Whose responsibility was it to say that, and why? Who got to decide on life?
No one. Only death.
Only Vaahn.
He walked through the treeline, looking at his home. He was approaching from the front, not far from the path – the faux-castle main building and the two lavish wings encircled the courtyard and its pond (deep enough to swim in, and deep enough to drown in if your brothers had a mind). The globes were all still on in the lounge – he doubted anyone would be asleep yet. Unfortunately they weren’t out at the theatre tonight – they’d been out yesterday, and they never went twice in a row.
His grouse, Avenar, was perched on one of the low branches in the last tree.
“You okay, Kind One?” the bird chirped in its grandfatherly tone – he’d aged fast. “You smell funny again.”
“I feel funny,” the boy replied. “You, hm,” he thought of all the birds he’d gotten killed tonight, “you shouldn’t be around me, right now, Av.”
“Are you sure? There –“
“You ate a worm not two minutes ago.”
“Well, yes, I’m not above a little worm! I –“
“It’s still alive, Av.” The boy’s voice was cold. “D-dying. I can feel it. Just – just go home, okay?”
The grouse didn’t take off, but Theor didn’t wait, exiting the bushes, heading for the house.
When he reached the main building the attendant respectfully opened the right-hand door for him, but Aladros was just on his way out and barged through him, right there in the narrow doorway.
“Out of my way, short-ass,” Aladros snarled – the kind of comment that was the closest thing to an apology Theor ever got.
Theor only just managed to go slack in time, let himself be thrown back as his eldest brother met him shoulder-to-shoulder.
But instead of twisting aside, he spun back and caught Aladros by the wrist.
His brother’s bones were as brittle as the stem of a wine-glass. It was difficult not to exert a little extra pressure, test their strength…
Instincts were at work that had lain buried for long years. His muscles and mouth moved as though of their own accord.
“Come with me,” he said, taking a step farther towards the hall, ignoring the wide-eyed attendant.
His pace and grip were inexorable. Even before Aladros had thought of an adequately cutting response to this startling turn of events he was being yanked off-balance, gasping as he was dragged along by his little brother.
“Did you know,” Theor said dreamily as he strode across towards the hall, “twenty minutes ago I was fifty feet tall?”
“What – are you – doing?” Aladros panted, clawing at Theor’s curled fingers with his free hand, completely incapable of budging them even a little.
What am I doing?
Theor didn’t reply, but cast him a sidelong glance. His big brother still wasn’t submitting – there was no panic on the coarse, Amranian features. Only anger.
So Theor just smiled grimly in response.
Seeing that smile caused Aladros to snap – he surged closer, bringing his free hand up into a fist, swinging around to smash the druid in the nose, a full-force, full-bodied blow –
And yelped.
Theor’s bones were harder than stone now, and the split skin sealed before much blood was spilled. The same couldn’t be said of Aladros’s hand, its third knuckle suddenly migrated an inch up the back of his hand, a minor fracture in his wrist…
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Theor entered the lounge, thrusting the door open a little too hard, taking it off its hinges. At least it was still intact.
Father was sitting on the velveted couch, poring over the open tome which sat upon the table, his wine-glass in his hand. Fentor was with him, already coiling out of his seat, far faster than Father, outrage on his face as he stood –
A divination spell. Reflexes.
Theor smiled again.
Predict this.
The outrage on Fentor’s face turned to horror, as Theor used his grip on Aladros’s wrist to hurl one brother across the room into the other.
He was pretty sure he’d at least dislocated Aladros’s shoulder with that throw. If the man’s screams were anything to go by, he could’ve partially torn the arm off too.
Oh well.
“Theoras!” Father’s voice was low, sharp, incensed.
The druid halted. He felt the panic he’d so longed to see on Aladros’s face now spreading through him.
What am I doing!
“Master!” came the choked voice of Holos from behind him – the servant was standing in the vacant doorway to the lounge, staring at Theor’s two brothers lying together, sprawled and entangled before the cold hearth.
“Thurula aeloran,” Aladros gasped, rising, pointing his damaged hand at Theor with the central three fingers extended, his thumb trapping his pinkie, “inaeron mervidia.”
Whatever Aladros had been hoping would happen, nothing did, and he sank back down to his knees, crestfallen. Theor’s hidden amulet took care of that.
Thank you Lovebright.
“Begone from here, Holos,” Father said in a tone that brooked no refusal, his slightly-slurred voice still low, his almost-glazed eyes fixed unblinkingly on his arch-druid son.
Holos backed out of the room, then turned and fled.
“F-Father –“
“Do not speak to me.” He didn’t sound angry; his voice wasn’t loud. Dispassionate. Level. “You have brought only shame to this family –“
“It’s my-my birth-”
Father hurled his wine-glass down, shattering it on the hearthstones.
A silence broken only by the laboured breathing of Theor’s brothers settled on the room, heavy enough to press down on the druid’s skin.
“Do not speak to me,” Father repeated, his voice even quieter. “You have brought only shame to this family with your flagrant disrespect, your complete, abysmal lack of control. Do you think that your Mother and I were not aware of your… condition?”
“You – you knew th-”
“Do not speak to me!” Father screamed.
Theor went stiff, eyes wide, fingers clenched, but his foot tapped on the carpet as though it had a mind of its own.
As Father spoke he approached, step by menacing step, and Theor’s world was one of ever-increasing dread, terror, as a man standing and staring while a glacier loomed above, grinding closer and closer –
“You thought we would not notice? Truly? The arrival of this farcical Nighteye, the very same week in which you began to pursue ‘additional studies’ at night? You thought you were so clever. I knew it was you the following morning! And that time on the hunt – the bird, healing itself!”
The scorn lashed him.
“You think to impress us with your antics? Tell me – are you now a mighty wizard? Azalar shakech! Iz zim lathar!”
The hand which had held the wine-glass was now an upraised fist, burning in a nimbus of white-hot flame.
He held the fist there, shimmering in incandescent power, then –
“No,” Father said sorrowfully, lowering the hand. “You have naught you have earned and far more than you deserve. If it is your wish to get yourself killed, be at it! I shall suffer to feed and clothe you of my purse, until such a day comes, Yune willing. Now, begone from my sight.”
Theor felt the paralysis on him begin to loosen – he exhaled heavily, slumped –
“Wait – on second thoughts, halt.”
The boy looked into Father’s face.
“First, help your brothers to their feet. Heal their wounds. Go!” he barked, seeing Theor’s hesitation. “Be at it!”
The druid did his best to keep the tears from flooding down his face as he did what he was told, to hold them back until he was safe in the privacy of his room.
But, as with everything, he failed.
* * *
4th Illost, 998 NE
“Feychilde! Ve are coming!”
The fact that the shield was still up spoke to the fact that the sorcerer was okay, out there, somehow.
Killstop and Stormsword will save him, Nighteye reassured himself.
He stood in the doorless doorway of the assassin’s guild on Welderway, looking at the ghouls frenziedly hurling themselves at the sorcerous barrier Feychilde had left in place. Half of the wretches had run off somewhere, but a fair number remained – the half-ring of protection extended into the street and there were enough of them to surround it in rows two or three deep.
He’d fought some reanimated skeletons once, but the ghouls were even more human-like than zombies – they might’ve been feral, but they had actual emotion in their eyes. He’d fought a few demons during Incursions that could’ve almost passed for Mundians – but he always had the comfort of knowing they really came from the Twelve Hells. The fact that these ghouls were people until recently…
“We can kill these things, right?” he asked aloud.
They looked alive, even if all his senses screamed the opposite.
“I certainly mean to,” Fangmoon replied, moving in front of him.
“What about their, hm, bites?”
“They’re no vampires.”
“I’m gonna try puppeteerin’ one.” Spiritwhisper spoke telepathically from the shadows of the doorway. “I never managed it with a demon, but, you know – got to try.”
Shrugging his shoulders to loosen himself up, Nighteye followed Fangmoon into the fray. He saw the druidess lunge through the invisible line of protection, gripping one of the ghouls with both hands at the throat and pulling back. The ghoul couldn’t enter the barrier until it was dead – the head popped off, tumbling to the cobbles outside the shield, and Fangmoon was left holding the limp remainder of the body.
Nighteye glanced across to the other side, viewing the snarling creatures on the opposite edge of the protective ring. Seven at the front of the crowd caught his eye.
Two children, street urchins, one of them younger than ten, both troubling to look upon in this state.
Three old women, long grey hair hanging from the parts of their scalps that were still intact, wearing similar rags to each other.
Two young men, tall, strong, shoulders thick with the muscles of blacksmiths, crashing into the shielding more heavily than the others.
All of them had the same long arms, dirty claws. The same distended jaw, determined gaze.
The druid grew and reached through the shield, taking the two men’s skulls, one in either hand.
He took no pleasure in his task – it was gruesome. It was horrible.
That was what he told himself.
Yet he couldn’t deny the physical release that came over him as he just let go. Now that the limits were removed.
Theor crunched his hands down on Aladros and Fentor’s heads. Felt them burst.
The very instant he did it, he tossed the ghouls aside and waded out into the others. He struck them with his fists and forearms, shattering their puny bodies. He stomped down, ground them into the cobbles with his heels. He shook off the ones that leapt upon him and bit him, smiling as he felt his wounds heal, then turned to pursue and pulp the ones that had got their teeth into him, squishing them to paste against the walls into which he’d tossed them…
“Nighteye!” Spiritwhisper shouted psychically.
“No,” Theor said, the word booming from his magnified throat as he kicked a ghoul in its face, flinging it through the air, watching its neck snap as its head caved in –
Then he heard Fangmoon’s scream of defiance.
Turning, letting the rage simmer for a moment, he realised he was twenty feet tall. He dwarfed his fellow druid, who’d been pulled out of the other side of the shield –
Two vampires stood over her, lashing at her with their claws.
More were on the way, darting up the street in staggering bursts of speed.
“Fangmoon!” he roared, stepping across the shield in a single stride, drawing back a foot to kick out –
He was too tall. His upper body must’ve been extending through the barrier of force, leaving his shoulders, neck and head vulnerable.
One of the vampires leapt for his face, flickering through the air far more quickly than he’d anticipated.
He could run faster than a hound, swim faster than a fish, but he couldn’t move like a diviner, and this was like that.
Nothing he could match.
It landed forcefully with its legs spread, feet on his shoulders, teeth and nails buried into the exposed skin of his forehead, bearing forward, pushing him with incredible strength –
“Killstop!” he heard Stormsword – Emrelet – screaming in his mind. “Killstop! Vhere are you!”
And then Feychilde, sounding close to death, the psychic voice drained of almost all its energy: “Killstop… be ready…”
Theor was thrown off-balance by the vampire’s crashing impact, toppled – and by the way the creature stayed fixed to him as he fell within what should’ve been the shield’s boundaries, sitting on him and tearing into him instead of being thrown off him by the invisible impact, the druid knew that the sorcerer’s protection was now gone.