21​ Springing the Trap

WHILE NISKY MELTED into the shadows beyond the columns, Tezcat and Taver stood on the cracked dais in full view as they’d planned.

Chunks of stone and iron-banded wood exploded. The fortress groaned as the Fetch entered the vast chamber through the shattered doorway amid a cloud of debris and dust. Its form had darkened, and it was much more solid than the wights had been. Seven foot tall, it had a twin row of horns from its head down along its shoulders and spine. A bald head, all angles, though its face was difficult to make out — until Taver realised it had none. Naked, strips of dead skin hung from its arms and legs. Swirls of black smoke enveloped it like a shredded cloak billowing behind it.

It spotted the bait and a wave of energy engulfed Taver and his friend. The blast smashed them against the wall above the dais suspending them in the air. A second wave hit and the stone began to crumble at their backs, while shards of glass showered them. Pinned, Taver found it impossible to move. His feet didn’t reach the floor. He struggled for breath.

A Nisky replica appeared from the shadows, but she looked much reduced. There was no third, not this time.

Both Niskys, the original stumbling behind, advanced. One stalked towards the Fetch, the other flanking as she went for the mirrors. A dark concussive wave of power bludgeoned the creature. The replica sought to distract it. For a heartbeat, Taver thought the attack itself would be enough. The Fetch cowered beneath the onslaught. It shielded itself with its ghostly black wings.

Both Nisky’s then began to scream. The pain of their exertion had become too much it seemed, the one nearest the mirrors doubled over. The attack faltered, and stopped. The Fetch recovered, appearing unharmed. It reached out with a clawed hand, and grasped the closest replica, before taking several strides to grab the other. All the while, Taver and Tezcat remained pinned.

We thought we could beat this thing, he thought, feeling miserable. Its strength was immense, the power of thousands of angel dead in one body. It was unstoppable.

He heard the snapping bones, as the creature crushed the skulls of both Niskys. It bashed the heads together, with a smack of dark magic for good measure, like a spoiled child destroying its dolls. Somehow, it forced the original and the replica back together. The lone mangled corpse fell to the floor; the damaged head rolled, separated from the body.

Nisky had failed.

***

THE SPECTRUM SAVE US, thought Taver. He’d wanted to save his friend, and like Nisky, she was going to die. Tezcat had known this was coming. Nisky had suggested they’d all known. She’d known how he would feel, and damn her, she was right. He needed to save her. It was selfish, he knew and didn’t bloody care. I can’t lose her. I won’t! I am her Aidari, and she is every bit the mage Beezer and Nisky were.

The ceiling fractured and the walls crumbled as the Fetch’s shadowy bulk engulfed them. It advanced. Not once did it look at Taver, likely dismissing him as unimportant. Its glowing red eyes settled upon Tezcat. Its power began to torture her, as the undead girl screeched, thrashing against unseen bonds. The Fetch came closer, ethereal wings fanning. It appeared to cock its faceless head as though perplexed. Tezcat defied it, although her screams rose in pitch. One clawed hand reached out to crush her skull, to end her resistance.

Taver yelled at it, the effort producing shocks of pain. He called it every horrible name he could imagine, anything to distract it. He knew it was pointless, but he would fight until the end. Rade didn’t want him harmed, at least, not unto death; he would survive while his friend died. No, it wasn’t right. Better if I die with her. Yes, that I can do.

His vision darkened as the pressure brought him near unconsciousness. It was then he saw a vision of Rade Wyn, leaning down towards him. His little hands reached up to her, as she picked him up. He was a baby. It was impossible he should possess such memories, he knew, but they were vivid, and they weren’t the first.

The scene playing out in his head began to blur and reverse. Another part of his brain remained aware despite his unconscious state, which in and of itself was disturbing. Before he had time to acknowledge the thought, he was in the womb. He felt safe, warm, his mother’s heart beating, her voice soothing and familiar.

The scene reversed further, and he was a full-grown man forging the imperium, and then, once more in the womb, before he was a boy of twelve. His father glowered down at him, before striking him in the face. His mother’s soothing hands wiped away his tears, but this mother was different from the last. ‘My dearest, Ralan,’ she said, and yes, that was his name. Ralan. He stared up into her eyes, and the powerful spectral mage, stared back. It was a stranger’s face, and yet he knew her.

Taver opened his eyes, the aware part of his mind realizing only a fraction of a second had passed. He smiled at the revelation, bemusement at this newfound inner reality growing inside him. It was a liberating, infectious feeling. In some way, he had slowed time. No, that wasn’t it — he had separated himself from time, stepping outside of it.

At last, he knew who he was; his life and death, his multiple rebirths. He saw it all, like some grand tapestry woven with time as the threads. No, Rade wasn’t his mother, and yet in a way that mattered to her, she was. He understood the ancient ritual that had killed him. He understood his real mother, knew her hatred for the undead. Most important, he remembered the power he had once possessed. It was a power his father had feared.

And rightly so.

The pressure from the Fetch relented as he began to fight back. Taver, once named Matrod Ral, and yet earlier, Ralan, wasn’t Aidari. Oh, no, he was something else entirely. He was a spectral mage, and the son of Rasnal Nalrost, he was the founder of the imperium.

More than that. He was the Son of Grim.

It was then he started to get angry.