Errol screamed. Maeda's signature in his sensor field winked out. She was gone. Just like that. If she couldn't stand up to the Storm, what chance did he have?
He threw himself sideways, dodging a blast that tore apart the stoney ground. With a start, Errol realized the mist had melted away, evaporating as the Bridge spirit joined the battle in earnest. She waded into the fray with her full and unfettered power, no longer vying with the Storm for supremacy.
Errol sprinted toward the Bridge, ducking under blasts and scattering storm warriors with his lightning-empowered fists. He skidded to a stop next to her. They turned to face the Bridge, fighting side by side. Focus your attacks against the Storm. Ignoring its minions for now.
The words echoed in Errol’s mind. He sent back a fleeting thought, acknowledging their strategy, and unleashed a shock lance at the Storm. It sheared through a cloud-like limb, but the Storm shook off the attack and instantly re-formed its body. If anything, it looked stronger where he’d struck it.
The Bridge spirit stomped the ground, flinging heavy stones into the sky. The massive chunks of rock hurtled through the air, crashing through the center of the Storm’s lightning and cloud battle form. It spun around with the force of the impact, limbs flailing to regain its balance, a grimace on its strangely-humanoid face.
Roaring, it leaped forward, thudding into the ground. A shockwave rippled through the rock, buckling the ground like a wave in the sea. The earth shook, knocking Errol over, his ears still ringing from the powerful creature’s voice.
You can’t hurt it with its own power, child.
Errol flinched at the Bridge’s sending. If she was right, then he’d need to win without the offensive firepower of an Eel. And if Maeda’s hints proved true, he’d have to divest himself of the Storm’s influence completely to conquer it in its own domain.
“Cage it!” Errol yelled to the Bridge, miming his suggestion by interlocking his fingers to create an enclosed ball.
Stone extruded from the ground, pushing up to create a grid pattern. The crudely-formed bars meshed together, closing over the top of the Storm, imprisoning him. I can’t hold back the Storm forever. Go, finish this.
Errol charged toward the prison, shooting lightning into the ground as he ran. The power flowed out behind him, igniting the air in brief, brilliant bursts of light. He drained his entire pool of energy, discharging until his shock lance wouldn’t form at his fingertips, then he switched over to his sensor field. He flung open his field, draining as much power as he could from the Storm as he could redirect into the ground without exploding.
Quickly! The Bridge sent, her voice wailing in his mind with naked terror.
The force of her demand fueled him. He reached deeper within, searching for the nexus of power gifted by the Storm. Each pass of his scan twisted his insides. He shuddered, fighting the rising tide of nausea, and quested internally with his sensor field, reducing its size to fit his body. Condensed down to this size, the field’s sensitivity increased. He zoomed in, narrowing his search to a tiny, pulsing ball within his chest.
Errol visualized a knife stabbing into the sphere, cutting it out from his body. Agony shot through every nerve, immolating his body with excruciating pain. He stumbled, collapsing to his knees. He grabbed hold of the lightning, preparing to rip it out, and froze. Could he really give it up?
He’d always dreamed of upgrading his voltage stream, of earning the right to join the Eel attack squads. Though small in numbers, the powerful shock troopers demanded respect in the Shark Clan. The Eels topped the ranks of prestige, other than the Great Ones, even if they had a low level like Errol. The designation was so rare, so powerful, that other rank was irrelevant.
He crawled forward toward the prison, too exhausted to stand back up. The adrenaline of the fight had worn off, and now he felt like an old, leaky rowboat—too many holes to plug up; easier to simply sink.
He groaned and lifted his head, staring at the quickly-growing web of cracks forming on the outside of the stone-crafted prison. How could they possibly hope to win? Even if he gave up his newfound power, what would it change?
The front pillars of the prison’s stone wall exploded, shattering in a spray of sharp-edged shards that cut Errol’s face and arms. He screamed, huddling into a ball. Low rumbling filled his ears, resonating and vibrating until even the ground shook. The rest of the prison disintegrated, bursting outward in a shower of dust and debris.
The Storm roared forth in fury. Lightning fulminated across its body, chaining slowly to create a powerful attack. The violet energy swirled, growing into a huge sphere that expanded out from the Storm. The energy from the Storm fed the ritual, its body shrinking as it poured power into an artillery-level attack.
A menacing tug at his chest demanded Errol’s power, pulling him toward the Storm. He wrestled against the compulsion, clinging to his shock lance. He’d always dreamed of the day he would become an Eel. He refused to give it up now. Even if the Storm gifted him this power in the first place, it was his now.
Telyim cried out and was suddenly silenced.
Errol spun to see her borne down by storm warriors. One stabbed a spear through her leg, pinning her to the ground. The others misted away, joining the maelstrom above the Storm’s physical manifestation, adding their power to its ritual.
Errol focused his sensor field on the storm warrior, reversing its function and drawing in its energy. It struck out before it disappeared, a wild, off-target blow that cut deep into Telyim's shoulder instead of her neck. She would live, even if they couldn't save the arm.
The energy shot into Errol's chest, filling him with the potency of the storm. He breathed in, savoring the surge of lightning one last time. He made his choice then; he couldn't stand by and risk any further carnage. If divesting himself of Eel power and prestige saved his team, then the way forward was clear. No sacrifice was too great—that's what it meant to lead.
With a shout of defiance, Errol ripped out the nexus of power from his heart. He flung the gift of lightning back at the Storm creature, tears coursing down his cheeks. The fiery sensation in his veins flared and winked out, taking away the pain—and his power.
Again the artillery ritual swelled in size, consuming his offering and folding it into its own power. It launched forward, toward the Bridge spirit's black granite form
Errol grimaced. He reached out a feeble hand toward the Storm, a sinking feeling in his gut. Have I made the wrong choice?
The Bridge spirit sank into solid rock just before impact, phasing through earth and stone to avoid the destructive maelstrom. The whorl of purple and black exploded, flinging apart the colossal rampart on which they stood in a flash of blinding heat.
Errol tumbled through the void in sudden silence. Up and down lost their meaning. Time itself dilated, slowing as he spun. Through his sensor field, he picked up Jarkoda and Telyim, likewise tossed about like dry leaves on the autumn wind. He hoped they would survive.
Flight ended abruptly. He crashed into a stone buttress, cracking ribs. His body slammed down into the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust. He groaned, not daring to check his vital ring. He didn't want to know how close to death he'd come this time.
Ringing in his ears announced the slow return of his hearing. Along with the assault on his ears came an ocean of pain, drowning him in sensory overload. Fractured bones cried out. Melted skin exposed his tender flesh to agony as jagged shards of stone and debris from the explosion pelted down on him. His shredded muscles quit on the job.
He collapsed in a heap, limbs askance, watching helplessly as the Storm advanced. It had stolen his dreams; now it came for his life. The ritual has taken most of its power, but even diminished, it was stronger by far than anyone on his team.
“This is how it ends,” Errol muttered to himself. He barked out a short, bitter laugh. “I tried, but it wasn't enough.”
He coughed, spraying bloody spittle all over his body. “Why did they send me? I never really had a chance. I know that now.”
Hold fast, child. Vengeance comes!
The Bridge spirit's granite manifestation shot up, rising through the broken landscape like lava erupting from beneath the Storm. She struck it from below, wrapping powerful arms around the Storm and tackling it to the ground. Her massive fists—square boulders the size of Errol's body—pummeled the Storm, breaking off chunks of ice and tearing away swirling lengths of darkstorm cloud.
An icy fragment of the Storm’s corporeal form smacked against Errol's leg. He squinted, trying to place the object. The mental strain brought on a wave of nausea. He threw up, then took another look. Not just any ice—a chunk of hail.
Elements of the Storm clattered down all around him as the Bridge continued to batter the Storm with savage strikes. Her entire shape seemed to swell and grow, gaining strength as the Storm's influence fell away. She rammed into the Storm and its chest exploded.
Errol cheered her on with ragged voice, not caring about the damage to his throat and lungs. The Storm evaporated bit by bit with each blow, struggling to maintain its physical form. With a deafening clap like thunder directly overhead, the creature burst apart, leaving only tendrils of mist behind.
A burnished metal sphere, just over a foot in diameter, dropped from the empty space where the corrupted Storm Sovereign had been a heartbeat earlier. The orb clattered onto the stones, rolling toward Errol. It thrummed with an all too familiar arcane power, calling out a siren song of seduction.
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Errol shuddered, tearing his eyes away from the tainted artifact, barely resisting its pull. The Bridge spirit kicked it, knocking the orb behind a pillar and out of view. The imminent danger has passed, but you must stay on guard. Do not usher in a new era of oppression!
Errol tried to reply, tried to reassure the Bridge that he wanted nothing to do with the forbidden power, but his teeth chattered from the cold spreading through his body. His life bled out. He clawed at life, not ready to die.
Through their link, now strengthened by proximity and no longer blocked by the Storm's interference, the Bridge's panic and affection inundated Errol. She lumbered over to his side, dwarfing him with her sheer bulk. Tenderly, she knelt down beside him.
I will do what I can. My power wanes. Too many cracks, too many breakdowns . . .
The twitching tendrils fulminated behind her. Energy gathered as the incorporeal echos of the Storm coalesced. They sucked in all the light, drinking the wan sunshine. Writhing with the furious aftermath of the Storm, the wisps of darkstorm formed a ball shot through with purple streaks.
Errol pointed in warning, unable to form words in his dying stupor.
The Bridge spirit trampled the remnant of the darkstorm's body, tearing it asunder. Her destructive power ripped open the dark, swirling sphere of residual darkstorm. It fragmented, shattering into an arcane shockwave. The rapidly-expanding, gaseous ring of static and pressure—the ghost of the Storm—detonated, rocking Errol back in a final blast of discharging lightning.
The untamed energy rushed through his body, crackling with malice. His eyes burst from the sudden surge. He screamed into the void as torment wracked his body. His life threads came undone, unraveling in his mind, fragmenting in his soul. Ripping, tearing, burning out—
Errol blazed with sudden white-hot light, visible even without eyes. A glowing nimbus of fire and glory he perceived through his spiritual senses covered him in rejuvenating power. His eyes re-formed in their sockets. The healing light cascaded throughout his newly-leveled, reborn body. Bones reknit. Skin regrew. He breathed in, savoring the sweetness of air, and laughed. His voice rang out, fresh and clean, like a child's peal of innocent joy.
The Bridge chuckled along with him, a deep sound like rushing waters filling his mind. We are free, my child. For too many years, I've been neglected, ravaged, dominated—but never broken. You share that indomitable spirit.
He smiled up at the Bridge. “Flattery? I'll take it after a day like this! Thank you for saving me. Again. I'm indebted thrice.”
Nonsense! the Bridge rumbled. This is your victory, child.
“But I didn't do anything!” he protested weakly. “You destroyed that monstrosity.”
Your sacrifice tipped the scales. Without your help to overload and destabilize the ritual, the Storm would have killed me and escaped into the world, no longer constrained by our bond of mutual imprisonment. You have repaid your debts ten thousand times over.
Errol sank down to the ground, sick to his stomach as he processed her words. “You’re saying we almost destroyed the world, tampering with power we didn't understand? We thought we'd free you and return with the Stormorb. Instead, you've been preserving us all this time.”
They couldn't give the Stormorb over to Indara. She wouldn't heed their warnings. If he claimed it now, however, he could bind to it, like the Bridge, and keep it under control. He licked his lips, suddenly panting with desire for power. He may not be an Eel anymore—an emotional wound he wasn’t ready to deal with yet—but he could still be preeminent in the clan.
He shook his head, clearing away the twisted logic; already it had its hooks in his mind. Errol pushed away the temptation to take the artifact for himself. He knew the Stormorb tainted everything it touched. He would start with the best intentions, but if he took a single step down that path, a new darkstorm was all but guaranteed.
He broke off. Maybe Stefano was right. The power to summon Storms wasn't meant for human hands—or Qeren hands, either. Indara shouldn’t possess this power, even if she’d paid for their services to recover the device.
Errol clenched his fists. They would fail their mission after all, but this time for all the right reasons. So be it.
At the thought of their quest, Errol shot to his feet. He sprinted to the last place he'd seen Jarkoda, moving faster than he’d ever run in his life, each stride powered by upgraded muscles and enhanced lungpower. He prayed they were still alive. His strength and agility had leaped forward, but his triumph over the darkstorm would turn into ashes if his friends hadn't survived the blast.
Jarkoda came into view at last. The big monk hovered in the air, wreathed in the same golden light that had surrounded Errol moments earlier. His scales brightened in shade from rust red to almost golden. He shone like a temple statue.
Behind Jarkoda, Telyim also grew in power. Her light faded as Errol watched. The Seer touched back to the ground, a soft smile on her previously-harsh face. “Hail, deliverer. You have taught me the gift of the gods!”
“Your first level?” Errol asked cautiously, unsure how the newfound system worked on the Bridge without Imperial oversight. They’d invented the distribution of magic, after all. Hadn’t they? Errol clicked his tongue. Maybe they’d simply uncovered some universal law.
Telyim shook her head. “My second. But I thought I'd only reach another through a ritual. If I had known that overcoming a challenge with teammates was sufficient, I would have fought the Dhambro Shade alongside Rashana!”
“That hideous beast below the tower?” Errol guessed.
“I didn’t even know it could die. We’ve always avoided the tower. This is our most sacred space—and our most deadly.”
Warm, amber light flared around them, followed by a bellow of triumph. Errol whirled and ran to Jarkoda, clasping his shoulders. “We did it! We won!”
“I thought I was going to die,” Jarkoda replied gravely.
“So did I. I’m glad you made it out.”
Jarkoda clapped his shoulder. “Have you checked your ring? My vital stats show that I probably should have died. If you’d taken any longer to destroy the Storm sovereign, then we wouldn’t have been credited with contribution toward the kill and leveled up in time to survive. I didn’t even know that was possible; I guess we simply haven’t challenged ourselves enough to find out.”
Errol chuckled. “I’ve been a poor leader, but l’m good at escaping certain death.”
Jarkoda shared his laugh. He clenched his fists together in front of his chest and bowed. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”
“Thank the Bridge. She did most of the work.” Errol turned to gesture toward the massive granite form, but she’d disappeared.
“I saw her battle form,” Jarkoda said. “It was a rare honor.”
“The mother has blessed you,” Telyim agreed.
A warm cluster in Errol’s chest still connected him to the Bridge spirit. The bond pulsed as she sent a burst of approval. Then she seemed to turn inward, focusing on . Portions of the Bridge shifted, straightening slightly, but she couldn’t repair all the damage. Perhaps Mikhail would welcome a reunion—a chance at redemption.
Telyim gasped, pointing up at the sun, her eyes squinted against its brilliance. “So bright! So beautiful! Is this what the sky is like, outside?”
“When it’s not raining,” Errol said, eliciting a snort from Jarkoda.
They all lifted their eyes up to the heavens, enraptured by the light and warmth. Sunlight burst through a suddenly clear sky, dissolving the last stubborn vestiges of the darkstorm into thin air. The heavenly beams bathed them in golden radiance. Summer heat washed over Errol, thawing his frigid body.
He laughed, drinking in the warmth greedily, not wanting to turn away even though the dazzling white seared his vision. He blinked, eyes watering, overwhelmed by the intensity of the light. Little by little, he opened his eyes, re-acclimating to life apart from the storm. After days of relentless grayscale grinding down his morale, the vast freedom of bright, azure skies nourished his soul.
“Thank the mother,” Telyim whispered. “I’ve always wished to see the sun, but I’ve never dreamed it was so bright! Even a campfire reflecting off burnished bronze pales in comparison. And the sky! Is it all right to admire it and not be afraid of wind and hail, lightning and frost?”
Telyim stopped to wipe away the tears forming in her eyes.
“Indeed!” Jarkoda laughed, patting her shoulder. “Storms still arise, but they simply clean the air and replenish the ground. But come, let’s not keep the others in the dark down below. We should bring them up here to experience the sun for themselves.”
Errol motioned for the others to follow. He jogged back to where he thought they’d come through the portal, but everything looked so different now that he couldn’t be sure if they had the right spot. Had they battled the Storm in the same dimension as the Bridge proper? Just as he made up his mind to ask for help, Telyim called them over to the opening.
A landslide of rocks covered the door.
Errol hefted a rock and staggered a few feet away, dropping it with a thud. The others joined him a moment later, clearing the blockage. Even with their upgraded strength, it took the three of them almost half an hour to haul the boulders away, clearing a dusty, ragged hole into the command center. Inside, the rest of the team waited with their hands and weapons raised, grim determination written in their stances.
Errol waved, smiling. “The battle’s over, friends! Come, see the sky!”
He leaned against a wall, running his fingers over its pitted surface while he watched the survivors emerge into pure sunlight, some for the first time in their lives. Thenxi stepped out of the ruined doorway, glanced up at the sky, and burst into tears of joy. Aravind followed, hugging her and dancing. Their tears transformed into laughter.
The smell of blood and ozone still lingered in Errol’s nostrils. He wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Every muscle trembled after clearing the boulders. Looking around at the carnage, Errol slumped against the wall, unable to join the others in laughter. They’d won, but the cost was too great in Errol’s opinion: the strewn, mangled bodies of eight dead scouts, whose names he didn’t even know; the charred remains of Maeda, a Shark Clan Great One; countless gouges and craters in the Bridge itself; the shattered trust of his teammates.
He slipped inside while the others celebrated, walking back through the tower. Gone was the slick black sheen of the Storm’s tower overlay. The violet veins of pulsing power had burst, revealing the original, natural stone. Now he stood in the control center for the Bridge, a strange stillness hanging in the air.
He finally twisted his vital ring, morbid curiosity driving him. A pulsing light announced a notification. He selected the message with his mind. A new display filled his consciousness, offering details of his contribution to the fight. He swallowed nervously as he pulled up the screen to read through the combat log. Without the triumph of his team over a sovereign, no healer could have reversed the extensive damage to his body.
As expected, Eel no longer displayed. Tentatively, he tried to channel a shock lance, or even his old voltage stream, but nothing happened. He’d really done it. His lifelong companion, his secret trick, was gone. A part of him had hoped its potency was simply diminished, that he’d managed to hang on to the power of lightning.
“It’s better this way,” Errol said aloud, steadying himself with the sound of his own voice. “A clean break.”
“Looking to run off again?” Taras demanded from behind him.
Errol flinched, whirling around to face his unasked-for nemesis. He tried to reply, but his mouth had gone bone dry. He knelt down on the ground, hands clasped, and bowed his head to Taras. Trembling, he licked his lips and found the courage to speak. “You should have led this team. All I did was cause death and misery. I wanted to be just like you. I tried so hard to copy you as much as possible—to be strong, respected, full of nobility. But I simply don’t have what it takes. If you need to pursue justice, so be it.”
Errol rested his forehead against the cool stone. He’d freed the Bridge. The others could complete the mission. If he accomplished nothing else in life, he could be proud of his last act to fight off the Storm. Maeda had started the fight, and the Bridge itself had done the hardest part, but he was satisfied with his contribution. Taras would do what had to be done. They could take Meri back and heal him in Laurentum. Maybe the rest would think of him kindly for his role in the fight, despite what he’d done.
Footsteps echoed through the chamber. Errol raised his head, just in time to watch Taras walk away, his robes swirling around his old, gaunt frame.
What is this? Mercy from the Justicar of Flames? Errol cradled his head in his hands and cried. He didn’t deserve to live, but maybe this was the dawn of a new day for all of them.