Hubris: Vol. 1 - 41. A Hole in the Earth

Barghast’s eyes swung from Crowe to Maeve and back again. Their exchanges were quick and unpredictable, their tones impossible to read. Crowe was tense, his eyebrows drawn in confusion in one second and then flattening in the next with surprise. His heart quickened and steadied in time with his reactions. The woman’s…Barghast fought to restrain a growl; he didn’t like her…remained calm. Not for the first time, the Okanavian thought about striking her while she wasn’t looking. The fact that Crowe seemed to trust her even though he didn’t was enough to keep the barbarian from acting on the impulse.

Careful, my beloved. She is a slippery serpent. She might come to us in the guise of a friend, but never forget what she is. Do not let her pretty words pull the scales over your eyes.

He tried to remain calm. He reminded himself his twin o’rre, while young, was no fool. Crowe knew what she was. The fact that he could bear to stand so close to her reflected his courage. Gaia gave me the most courageous twin o’rre…

The herald said something, his voice sharp as a blade. Barghast took a step towards them, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. Crowe glared at the demoness. His hands were clenched into fists but he didn’t appear to be in physical distress.

The woman nodded. Her expression stated she didn’t like the subject of their conversation anymore than he did, but she was helpless to do anything about it.

Crowe sighed. He turned away. Barghast could hear his heart racing faster than ever. Whatever the woman was proposing, his twin o’rre didn’t like it. The Okanavian imagined charging forward and grabbing his paw. Pulling him along. Strolling right out of this place. We don’t need their help. We’re better off on our own. Let them deal with their own mess…

But then his twin o’rre turned back around. He looked at the table. Barghast followed his gaze. Whatever they were discussing it had to do with the table; it was also the source of Crowe’s distress. Barghast could all too easily remember the night he’d been taken to that awful place; the memory still grabbed a hold of his heart with guilt when he saw Crowe’s damaged hand. Now his beloved was climbing up onto the table while the fat man stood too close for Barghast’s liking…

He’d tried, but he could hold back no longer. What perilous thing was his twin o’rre about to do now? “Twin o’rre!”

Crowe held up his hand. Stay back. He spoke in a low, soothing tone. Though he did not look directly at the lycan, the Okanavian knew the voice was meant for him. He only uses it for me, he thought and the thought made his tail wag once. Crowe said something to the fox-eyed woman. The round-faced man was fitting a bulbous thing of steel over Crowe’s head.

Barghast howled. He couldn’t hold back any longer. What are you doing, my beloved?

He snarled, starting towards the table. The woman stepped in his way, fixing him with her demon eyes.

He unfurled his claws. “Step back, demon! I will only tell you once. The only reason why I haven’t parted your head from your shoulders this instant is the fact he seems to trust you.”

“Indeed,” the woman replied in the desert language. “As should you. We would not be taking this risk if we did not absolutely think it was necessary.”

“What are you doing to him?”

“Making him better.”

The fat man fit steel bracelets over Crowe’s slender wrists that bound his arms to the table. Barghast tried to keep a whine at bay and failed.

“I know it hurts,” the demoness told him in a voice that was meant to be soothing but made his skin crawl. “It always hurts when we must stand aside and watch our loved ones put their lives at risk. It is his burden to cast his soul into the darkness. It is yours to bear witness to it…and to pull it back into the light when he falters.”

“You know nothing of me, woman!” he snapped. “Or of him!”

The bitch smiled sweetly. “On the contrary, Barghast, I know you quite well. I know you will do anything to keep him safe. I know he is the thing that drives you. Your passion. The thing that has called to you from beyond the mountains since you were a young pup. From the first moment you can remember.”

“Stop,” he whined. He was powerless to stop her. Her words had a power over him that glued his paws to the floor.

“Do you remember the first time you saw him?” she asked him in the language of the desert. “Not on the night in the clearing when he saved you from the torchcoats. I speak of the night you won’t allow yourself to think about. The night you’ve hidden in shadow.”

“Stop,” he told her again, only this time he said it in his mind. His jaws were clenched shut. He wanted to go to his beloved, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away.

“The night you went into the seer’s cave and you spirit-walked. You saw him, didn’t you? Through a window of blue light. A window through time. He reached through to you and you touched him and smelled him for the first time and knew from that night he would be yours and that you would not stop until he was yours and there is nothing you would not do or kill to keep him…If I let you go to him, if I let you touch him, will you behave. Will you interfere with this procedure? If you do, you will surely kill him. Do you understand?”

He nodded. It wasn’t until the spell broke he realized he’d been crying. He to his knees by the side of the table, seizing Crowe’s clammy hand in his own. How wretched he looked strapped to that awful table. “What are you doing, my sweet?” he whined. “Why do you let them torture you in this way?”

His twin o’rre squeezed his paw, speaking to him in that same sweet voice. Comforting the lycan even as he shook and sweated with terror. It shredded Barghast’s insides, not being able to do anything but sit by his side and hold his hands. He wanted to kill the fox-eyed woman and the fat man. He wanted to free Crowe from his restraints and carry him out of here, away from this cold place.

Crowe gave his paw another squeeze. “Stay,” he said.

Barghast kissed his hand. “I…stay.” He kissed his hand again. It wasn’t enough to kiss his hand. He wanted to kiss his face. He wanted to smother him in kisses. He wanted to smother him in love. He wouldn’t. I will stay and hold your hand until you tell me I can kiss you again.

The fat man said something in a nervous voice that made Barghast look up. He stood directly over Crowe, his forehead sheened with sweat. The smell of spirits on the man was unpleasant. Outside of the building everything was disconcertingly quiet.

Crowe nodded reluctantly at the fat man’s question. Barghast knew by the way he clenched his jaw and his hand trembled in his that he was afraid. That’s what makes you such a strong and capable warrior, my beloved, the lycan wished he could tell him. Not because you’re fierce, but because you keep facing down fear even when you feel like backing away. I learn so much from you.

The fat man reached over, touching two bolts on the side of the helmet. Wires snaked from the top of the helmet, trailing up through the hole in the ceiling. The fat man asked another question in that same tense voice to which the practitioner nodded. He said something in that short snappy voice he used with Barghast when he wanted the lycan to stop doing something he didn’t want him to do, or when he wanted him to hurry.

The fat man began to turn the bolts on the side of the helmet. He licked his lips. His sweat smelled of spicy oil and fear. Not a pleasant smell. The shrieking of the bolts hurt Barghast’s head as they turned, but he did not dare let go of Crowe’s hand.

Crowe let out a piercing shriek then. Tears sprang to his eyes before they closed down to crinkled slits. His fingers clenched around Barghast’s as much as they could. The sweet smell of his blood bloomed in the air like perfumed flowers. Blood trickled down the side of his face from where the lycan could see twin needles - one on each side of the helmet - stabbing through the soft flesh of his temple. The practitioner’s face paled from the color of milk to a sickly gray color the barbarian had seen before and didn’t like; it reminded him of those all too long days when his twin o’rre had been sick with fever.

He wanted to round on the fat man. He wanted to snap at him. He wanted to bite his hands off so he could no longer turn the screws and make his twin o’rre bleed and cry out. Stop that! You’re hurting him! But the fat man didn’t stop. He kept turning the screws until blood flowed freely like an open channel. At last the fat man stopped turning the screws.

The fat man asked something.

Crowe lifted the hand not holding Barghast’s in a lazy wave of confirmation.

Maeve stepped up to the table. Barghast had been so completely focused on his twin o’rre he’d completely forgotten about the fox-eyed demoness. She reached for the practitioner’s arm as if to touch it consolingly. Barghast growled at her, showing her his teeth. Only I get to touch him - no one else. Certainly not you, demon bitch! The woman drew her hand back with a knowing look. The echo of her words passed through his head:

…I know you will do anything to keep him safe. I know he is the thing that drives you.

How could she know about such things? How could she know that he’d seen Crowe in the window of blue light? Only the seer knew about that. He hadn’t told anyone else, not even Crowe. One day I will when we can speak to one another and understand each other.

It doesn’t matter how she knows. She is a demon who will use trickery and half-truths to get what she wants. As soon as she is done with Crowe, as soon as you know he is safe, you two must leave this place. Let these people face their own fate.

“It is time,” the bitch said to Crowe.

The lycan’s ears swiveled in the direction of the table.

“What must I do?” his twin o’rre asked in a small voice dulled with pain.

“You know what you must do.”

Crowe nodded. He closed his eyes and Barghast knew he was spirit-walking. All he could do was sit beside the table and hold his hand and wait. I will always wait for you. I will never leave you. When you come back I will be here and we will leave this place.

                                                                …

“What do I do now?”

“You know what you must do.”

He swallowed. Or tried to. It was impossible. He could feel blood trickling down the side of his face. Waves of nausea passed through him. At any moment he feared he would vomit - if he had anything in his stomach to vomit up. Nothing was worse than the pain in his hand. Right now you have two needles stabbing directly into your brain - of course it hurts. It was hard to talk. Hard to think. Only Barghast’s touch - the warmth of his presence kneeling at the side of the table like a faultless guardian - kept him anchored to the room. Kept him from drifting into unconsciousness where the pain would not be able to find him. He wished he could look at him again, but he could not move his head except to nod a little.

He nodded in acceptance. After all, what was this if not another leap of faith? He thought of all the practitioners somewhere down below him, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting to die. For him. He would not pay their sacrifice with cowardice.

He had to summon the Eternal City. But how? He’d never been able to call for it on his own. It always came when he was in trouble. When he needed guidance. When I don’t know where to go next.

He had to do it. I don’t have a choice. Have I ever had a choice?

He forced all out of his mind: The waves of black nausea that rolled through him; the cold steel pressing through his temples into his brain; the chill in the room; the cold press of Maeve’s intent gaze; the warmth of Barghast’s paw which he wished he could sink into until Vaylin, the Mirror Expanse, and the Black King were all gone. He forced the tension to leave his body one exhale at a time.

Once he felt calm, he closed his eyes.

He recalled then all the moments he felt Monad’s fire burn through him. The way it erased all fear, such as when the hands of the damned had erupted from the ground to pull Barghast, Mammoth, and he down into the depths of Inferno. He’d felt it again in Fort Erikson, when he’d been sure that Barghast and he would die at the hands of Inquisitor Charoum. It had felt different then. A living thing with a mind of its own that was both a part of him and separate from him. It saved us. Had it not intervened the torchcoats would have killed us.

At first all he could see was the darkness behind his eyes. The material universe was gone. He reached out with his mind. He forced himself to push beyond the physical limitations of his aching skull. He felt his heart grow steady. He felt the tension in his body start to unravel. Yes, you’ve done this before, the hoarse voice of Petras whispered in his mind. You’ve been in this spot before. It’s like muscle memory to you. Monad’s flame burns within us all, but for you it’s closest to the surface than most.

Down and down he drifted. Falling. Falling had never felt this good. This peaceful. Somewhere outside of him he felt the edges of the material universe. It shook around him as chaos rocked it. His body was still somewhere back there with his arms strapped down by steel and two needles sticking in his brain and Barghast holding his hand. A pulse of eagerness at the thought of returning to his lycan - not the lycan, he noted, his lycan - threatened to unravel the state of hypnosis he’d put himself under. Already he could feel his mind begin to rise back towards his body.

No, he told himself firmly. He burrowed deeper into the darkness. I need to do this.

He swam through the murk like a deep diver pulling himself lower and lower beneath mysterious waters. Searching. Searching for that inner flame. Seeking its warmth. Seeking its strength. Seeking its favor. He found it in the deepest part of him. The flame loomed larger and larger, its warmth growing as he drew closer. There you are. Will you help me?

He drew it into himself. The flames rose, crawling up his insides. If he were a forest every tree would be ablaze, spirals of smoke twisting into the sky until it blocked out the sun. He opened his eyes and when he opened them, they unleashed rays of white light that made Barghast, Maeve, and Matthias all draw back with a collective gasp. He wanted to say something to comfort them but he couldn’t bring himself to speak…he could barely think. Monad’s flame burned so brightly within him, it eclipsed all. His teeth rattled inside his skull. The foundation of his body groaned. He feared Monad’s flame would consume him until he combusted. Until there was nothing left of him. Not even dust.

Through the hole in the ceiling he had a perfect view of the sky. The ray of light struck the sky with an audible shattering sound that made him think of breaking glass; if the sky was a window he’d punched right through it. The clouds parted as if a cosmic blade had sliced through them. Light exploded across the surface of the sky with such force the entire world seemed to shake. If he could have, he would have glared at the fox-eyed demoness. It’s not just me who will come apart…the whole fucking world will.

But it was too late. There was no stopping the process now that it had begun. He was in the grip of a power too great to pull back, though he tried with all his strength. And even then he didn’t want to. He felt the need to release it, like a clenched fist unfurling. And yet he feared what would happen if he did. The destruction he could wreak.

Too late. The sky growled as dark thunderclouds amassed over the dead city of Vaylin. Crowe felt as though he’d fallen through a crack in time. He was back in a body of the past, standing before a burning house while a vortex opened in the sky. That same vortex opened before now. Like the head of a baby poking out from the cave of his mother, the Eternal City appeared in a dome of celestial light.

A beam of Monad’s light shot down from the bottom of the city. It hit Crowe. It spread throughout the room like a shockwave. The world shook, rumbling in his ears. A thousand angels sang around him…sang praise to him, the second herald of Monad; they sang to Monad the Prime, the creator of the holy city. He wept from the sheer beauty of their voices. He couldn’t see him but he could hear them and he knew if he could turn his head and look he would find them staring down at him with love. With reverence.

The creator’s holy light engulfed him from the inside out. A thrumming sound built around him, blocking out even the sound of the angels. Strong gusts of wind battered him like hammering fists. He wanted it to scream but he couldn’t. He wanted it to stop but it wouldn’t. What had felt liberating before overwhelmed him. At any second his body would no longer be able to contain the light that flowed through him. Something wet seeped out of him. It trickled down his face, into his mouth. The taste of blood. This experiment was costing him in more ways than one; more proof that his body would not be able to contain the ember. I’m not ready yet. I’m premature just as Maeve said.

“Stop!” the raspy voice of the demoness screamed through the cacophony. “You must stop before you explode and you take all of us with you!”

Only through will and desperation alone did the herald manage to part his jaw to scream, “I can’t! I don’t know how!” A sob escaped him. Why did I allow them to put me in this fucking chair?

A second later warm paws closed over his face. “Twin o’rre!” a deep voice whined.

I’m here, he wanted to say. I can hear you.

“Nog back l' ya, ya beloved. Ahlloigehye nog back l' ya…”

He didn’t know what the words meant, but the misery he heard in that voice pierced his heart. Hold onto me and don’t let go. You are my anchor.

Anchor. Yes. That was the right word for the purpose Barghast served in his life. You keep my feet planted on the ground when everything else wants to blow me away.

He drifted towards that voice. Clawed his way towards it. How could it be that the same voice that had created him...created everything…be the same force that destroyed him? It could not be so. Everything that has happened in my life has happened for a reason and this is no different.

Bit by bit the fire began to recede. The voices softened. The Eternal City in all its blinding glory receded. He watched the vortex shrink, feeling…conflicted. Part of him was relieved to see it go. Relieved to return to his body. Relieved to return to the only man worth returning to.

But there was another part, childlike and impulsive, that felt as if something vital was being taken from him. A cosmic finger that wagged its finger at him and told him, No more for you. Hot tears wetted his cheeks. Whether they were tears of happiness or tears of grief he could not say; they could have been both.

He searched for the Okanavian but he couldn’t find him. He wasn’t blind. His senses were overwhelmed. Noises banged and started all around him. Colors danced and jumped out at him. He felt nauseous. Before he could stop it, bile shot up his throat, soaking the front of his robes with a foul stench. He sobbed, embarrassed, bereft, only to feel a rag wipe gently at his face. He tried to ward the rag away but the hand that held was too big, too heavy and he couldn’t turn his head away even though he didn’t want to be seen. Not like this.

A familiar deep voice spoke to him insistently, pushing his hand back down. The rag resumed its ministrations. Over and over again the owner of the voice proved him wrong when he doubted the Okanavian would stay by his side. Even now in this compromised state, covered in sick, he remained.

Other voices in the room spoke but he didn’t have the energy to focus on them. Only the one. He held onto the Okanavian’s paw, afraid to let go of the anchor lest he be whisked away.

Another familiar voice sounded above his head. He sensed movement around him. He heard another voice. This one belonged to a female, slightly raspy. She spoke urgently. She sounded frightened.

“I’m trying!” cried the other voice. A man’s. “He’s not out of the outhouse yet. I still have to pull the needles that are lodged directly in his brain. I could kill him taking them out of him. Do you understand? This isn’t going to be pleasant…”

Another sharp piercing pain. Crowe cried out. He shrank back in his seat as far as the restraints would allow. Just when he thought the pain was over, it started again. Then it was over as quickly as it began.

“Taking off the helmet now…”

The helmet came off his head with a wet pop. His head fell back against the headrest. A rag wiped fresh trickles of blood from the side of his face.

“Twin o’rre!” a deep voice whined. “My beloved! Are you okay?”

Crowe froze as two large paws closed over both sides of his face. Two large slobbery lips closed over his, marking him with heated kisses.

“Don’t worry, Crowe,” the Okanavian said. “Once I get you out of this damned machine, you and I will leave this place.”

I can understand him. How is that possible? ¨Barghast,¨ he croaked. He tried to stand on legs made of jelly. The world started to tilt beneath his feet. Barghast supported his arm while the other was wrapped around his waist. He started to lift him up but the practitioner shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I need to stand.¨ He gasped for air. Why was it such a struggle to speak? Barghast stop for a second. I can understand you.”

Barghast drew back but did not release him. He blinked in unmistakable confusion. He wasn’t the only one. The practitioner didn’t know if he should be afraid or rejoice. What if the surgery had caused damage to his brain? “Can you understand me?” Crowe asked. His voice sounded like the whisper of the wind against dust. But the words Can you understand me were not what came out of his mouth. What came out was broken Okanavian. Ahor ymg' kadishtu ya? Oftentimes the lycan’s speech was interceded with growls, whines, and yips. In the places where Crowe might have done those things he hummed instead. It was an unconscious effort. Perhaps I’m simply incapable of making those sounds. Human beings were not meant to speak the desert tongue.

He watched the barbarians expression turn from concern to confusion to excitement, back to concern. “Crowe are you hurt? What did they do to you? If they’ve damaged your beautiful head in anyway, I will rip that bitch’s throat out!”

“I’m okay, I’m okay. I just feel a bit weak.” Somehow he managed to laugh. “Barghast, I can understand you? Do you understand me?” He stroked at his fur. Though it hurt to laugh, even a little if the guffawing sound he made could truly be called a laugh, he couldn’t stop. “Keep talking. Say something else.”

The lycan’s tail made tentative sweeps back and forth. Flattening his ears, he leaned forward to sniff at the herald. “You are safe? You are not hurt? What has happened?”

Hot tears stung Crowe’s cheeks; it seemed for the first time in his life they were tears of joy. “I’m safe. I’m with you. I can understand every word you say.” He blinked. I’m mgepnnn. I’m llll ymg'. Y' ahor kadishtu nilgh'ri aimgr'luh ymg' ai. Though he still spoke in half fluent Okanavian, he understood his own speech perfectly, as if he was using the tongue common to the North. The effect was disorienting to say the least.

“You…can speak Okanavian?” Barghast’s arms closed around him in a suffocating hug. Crowe’s feet left the ground. “You can understand me? At last Gaia has blessed us.”

Crowe opened his mouth to respond. Before he could breathe a word, the lycan’s tongue filled his mouth, hot lips enveloping his own. The practitioner was smashed against his chest, his boots dangling off the floor.

“There’s no time to rejoice. You’ll have to celebrate later. They’re coming,” the demoness said. She stood at the front of the room, facing the door. “They’ve breached through the barrier.”

Barghast plopped him down on his feet. The urgency in her voice pulled Crowe from the blink of oblivion. Even now there was no time to rest. There’s never time to rest.

“It would probably be good if you didn’t,” Matthias squeaked from the other side of the table. He cast a wary glance in the herald’s direction. “You’re very lucky to be alive. We all are at this point.” He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Another ten seconds, maybe less, and all of this would have been gone.” He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand to illustrate an explosion. He grinned wickedly. “It would have been an excellent way to send Hamon back to Inferno. But then we’d all have a ride with him.”

Crowe scoffed. “And I thought I was a pessimist. We don’t have time for me to rest. I went through your bloody surgery and I’m still alive. Now what?”

Matthias shrugged with a humorless grin. “Your guess is as good as mine. All I did was test the machine. We never used it for the purpose we did tonight. I suppose you could consider this a freak accident.”

An explosion surrounded somewhere outside the room. The entire building shook from the shockwave; dust rang down from the ceiling. The floor vibrated beneath their feet. Crowe looked to his necklace. The medallion was covered in half-dried blood. His blood. He’d risked his life for this surgery. This couldn’t be where it ended. He pulled out his rod. He reached inside himself for the flame. The attempt sent a spike of pain through his skull worse than the needles pushing into his brain. Had Barghast not been there to support him, he surely would have lost his footing. Through will alone he pushed through the field of black dots that danced before his vision.

Through Monad I can do anything.

As the first words of prayer touched his lips, the double bolted doors flew off their hinges with the shriek of steel. The door slammed into the opposite wall hard enough to crack the ancient stone that had remained uncompromised for over a thousand years. Black vapors slithered into the room like seeking tendrils, bringing the smell of rot with them. The practitioner knew that smell. He knew what was coming. The whisper of bare feet on dusty stone confirmed his suspicions.

Hamon’s skeletal face leered out of the twisted wreaths of smoke. His naked, sexless body was covered in splattered blood from head to toe. His skin smoked from where it had been charred by mana-fire. The curve of a rib bone poked awkwardly through a bloody hole in his chest. And still he move, oblivious or uncaring of his body’s lurching, broken movements that made Crowe think of a crippled animal. Only if one had any kind of heart, they would at least feel pity for the beast. The very sight of the Black King caught in Crowe’s mind with barbed hooks. The only thing that kept him from giving into his fear was the terrible knowledge that it was up to him to end this nightmare.

“I’ve found you at last,” Hamon said to Crowe. “I told you there is nowhere you can go where I will not find you.” He spread his misshapen hands in a mocking gesture of humility. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

The sight of the Black King seemed to be the fuel the herald needed. Monad knew he had plenty of it. It was Hamon who had set the necromancers on his trail. They’d hounded him and his lycan companion over hundreds of miles. They’d cursed him, driven him mad. All under the orders of the demonic tyrant who stood before him. A tyrant whose body was made from their mangled flesh like a poorly made doll. Crowe’s mounting fury was directed at himself as much as Hamon. It was he, in an act of pig-headed anger, who had kicked the parts that would give Hamon his body through the rent. At the time he had felt so self righteous, his blood pumping hotly in his veins…he felt that same anger now - the kind of rage that could tear through rock and make the earth split open. Through the red haze he felt green shots of guilt that made his heart feel heavy. How many brave souls had paid with their lives to fix his foolish mistake?

Sometimes when bad things happen it has nothing to do with the turning of the Iteration. It has nothing to do with fate. Sometimes bad things happen due to one’s own hubris. Monad, give me the chance to make up for my mistakes if I live beyond this horrible night.

This time when he drew on his mana, the door inside him didn't fly open - it crashed open. The runes on the side of his wand burst into life. The air thrummed around him like a charge building up. White light filled the room. Instinctively Barghast, Maeve, and Matthias drew away from him. Everything around him went still, as if the world was holding its breath. And still Hamon stalked towards him, fearless of the wrath he'd incurred.

With a wave of his wand, a violent explosion rocked the room. An invisible train slammed into Hamon. The undead creature flew through the empty space where the double doors had been until he crashed into the wall at the other end of the corridor. Someone nearby was making a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scream. It wasn't until he turned his head to see who it was that he realized it was himself. Power like this is dangerous, he thought. He would use to it to crush his enemies and break the chains that bound Monad’s people to their oppressors. He prayed good intentions were enough. He prayed he could break the cycle his predecessor had failed to bring to a halt.

Already Hamon was rising to his feet. Crowe didn’t let him reach the top. His fury tore stone from the wall and turned every window in the corridor to dust. Again and again he drove into Hamon with invisible blades. The Black King would start to step forward only for his back to slam into stone until it started to buckle. One of the arms fell off. Black ichor sprayed the debris-strewn floor. The severed arm jumped up like an insect and scuttled along the wall towards Crowe, dragging severed tendons after it.

Crowe blasted it.

Smoke filled the hallway. Sweat matted his hair to his skull. Now that he stopped he could feel the aches in his skull he hadn’t allowed himself to take notice of. He bled from his nose and his ears. Even with this newfound power you still have limitations.

His heart tap danced. His nostrils flared. Barghast drew up beside him, his rifle drawn. Maeve stood at his other side. Several long seconds passed before the smoke cleared. Hamon's crudely made body twitched and danced where it half rested on the floor. Back arcing in the air, remaining arm legs bending and twitching with boneless crackles that made Crowe want to scream if only to block the sound out.

When the rest of Hamon’s limbs broke away from his body, Crowe did scream. It was a scream of utter fear. Mindless, childlike fear. His rod sliced the air. The wall fell away under the force of his fear. Ancient stone that had stood since the first days of the Third Iteration tumbled darkness, and Hamon’s writhing body with it.

No one moved. No one sighed in relief. They waited for one of Hamon’s limbs to come wriggling back over the side of the broken wall like a caterpillar.

When something fell softly on the herald’s shoulder, his insides jumped. It was only Maeve's hand. She gave him a heavy look that felt both very familiar and very final. “Your time in Vaylin is done here, herald. For now, anyway. You will return one day. Almost a thousand years from now near the end of your journey.

“A thousand?” the practitioner uttered with a strangled croak.

“We used to have a name for Petras back in the day.” Maeve grinned. Her fox eyes lit up with a fond memory.

“The Perennial,” Matthias said with a nod. A nod that also somehow felt final.

“Because the herald’s journey is long and eternal.” The demoness’ smile. The look she gave Crowe made him feel as if he were made of glass. “And for all that you will sacrifice in your war for peace, you will find little. So I beg you to hold onto your faith. Hold onto your strength. The previous herald did not fail due to a flaw in his character. He failed because the Second Iteration was doomed long before he arrived; there was no course correcting its destruction.”

“And you think this Iteration will be any different?” Crowe’s voice echoed with a hollow ring.

This earned him another cryptic look that gave away nothing. “It already is. You are flesh-and-blood proof of Petras’ accomplishments.” Before Crowe could spit out another acidic comment, the demoness raised a hand the way a tutor might a rowdy student. The practitioner’s jaw snapped shut. It didn’t stop him from glaring at her with resentment. “From the moment Petras realized there was nothing he could do to save the Second Iteration he began to make preparations to change the events of the Third. We helped him. This is the result. Now we’ve wasted more than enough time. You must go.”

“And leave you here?” Crowe swallowed. An iceberg had lodged itself in this throat.

“I’m afraid my time in this Iteration is over. But do not fear for me, herald, for Monad already spins another for me. We will meet again. Though it will not be the me you met this evening.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t. One day you will but it is a long way from now. When you find me, be merciful. In the days before I became Maeve I was trapped in a hell of my own making and I couldn’t see my way out as I’ve told you before. At the start of his tenure as herald, Petras could be quite merciful. He gave me a chance when many would have disposed of me given the chance. Only you can decide what her fate will be in this Iteration. And one last thing. You and Barghast…”

Crowe looked at the Okanavian. Before he knew he meant to do it he offered a clammy hand to the lycan. Barghast’s leathery pad closed around it as if he were afraid of breaking glass.

When Maeve spoke continued, she spoke in the language of the desert. “The relationship you have, like everything else that happens in the Cycle, goes deeper than you think. From the moment you were both born your lives became entangled. Never doubt your love for each other.” A rustling sound reached them from outside. There was only thing it could be. Meave’s voice shook with strain; she switched back to the common tongue of the North. “Now Matthias, you must take them, and you must leave us. You know what you must do. You know where you must take them.”

For the third time in one evening, Crowe watched the blood drain from the fat man’s face. “The fail safe.”

Maeve nodded, turning away from them. She’d already said her goodbyes. Crowe sensed she was not a sentimental woman.

Matthias gestured impatiently for Crowe and Barghast to follow. At any moment the Black King would pop over the side of the wall. The herald couldn’t move. His feet were still glue to the floor. Only when Barghast pulled at his arm and said, “Come, my beloved; there is nothing you can do we must leave this place” did the spell of paralysis break. And still her words echoed in his mind. Echoed with the inevitability of prophecy.

They flew down the steps at a dizzying speed. Had Barghast not been there to grab the back of his cowl, Crowe would have rolled head over heels on more than one occasion. The embittered half drunk Matthias moved with a speed that had the practitioner reassessing the inventor's physical capabilities.

By the time they reached the bottom of the staircase the practitioner felt as if his lungs would rupture. And still the man did not stop. Did he sense his death close by, snapping at his heels like a hungry dog?

A heartbeat later the sorcerer found himself stumbling through a nightmare field of corpses. For every dead sorcerer he counted two dead reavers. Red and black sprayed the walls and floor alike. Not even their combined power and wisdom had been enough to withstand the cruel might of Hamon. How would Maeve fare on her own? How much time could she buy them?

They veered into what had once been a large library. Shelves carved into the wall rose up to the shattered glass dome ceiling. The spines of thousands and thousands of leather-bound volumes, glittered, preserved in ice. Icicles clung to the steel frame of the shattered dome. Living shadows danced and twisted beneath ghostly beams of silver moonlight. The echoes of their screams, shouts, and manic laughter reminded Crowe this was a place of madness. A place of death. All at once he couldn’t get away from the Vaylin Ruins fast enough.

“You'll see more of them on your way out,” Matthias told the pale-faced sorcerer. “In some fashion they probably sense what's about to happen.”

Barghast pointed his head at the ceiling and let loose a howl. The eight foot tall barbarian with claws as long as Crowe’s fingers - who had gnawed on a torchcoat a time or two; who had been beaten and tortured within an inch of his life; who had faced down demons and reavers - was afraid of the shadows who only seemed to take notice of Crowe. They would circle around him, their speech if the echoing pitches they made could be called speech stirring within him a great melancholy; more proof of all that Petras for all his supposed great wisdom had failed to prevent. Meanwhile Barghast clawed at his way as if he meant to break through. “The spirits are angry,” he whimpered. “We never should have come to this place.”

No, the practitioner thought sadly. We shouldn't have.

Matthias made a shooing motion at the Okanavian with his fat hands. “If you will just step out of the way, I can get the secret passage open. Move, you mangy beast. Even as a pup you are intolerable…”

Barghast moved only when Crowe pulled at his arm. The practitioner ran his hands along the fur at his shoulderblades. The lycan shook so hard the vibrations traveled up the herald’s arm.

The switch to the desert language was effortless. The words were there in his mind as if carved in stone though he had never uttered a word of it in his life. Once more there were sounds he could not make - the whines and growls and yips that Barghast used as a way to express his emotions - but his heart danced with excitement at the fact he could now understand his traveling companion.

“Barghast,” he said with a voice that was both gentle and firm. He repeated his name until the barbarian whipped his broad head to gape at him with wide eyes. “They won't hurt us. These are the spirits of my people.”

“I know.” The barbarian yipped. “I know I'm being a foolish pup, but I just want away from this place.”

Crowe could not begrudge him this.

Matthias blew dust off the top a shelf of books. He pulled at one as if he meant to take it off the shelf. Even in his growing exhaustion Crowe did not miss the internal clock behind the wall. Numerous gears turned out of view. There came a great rumble as steel that had not been active for centuries parted from the stone, releasing white clouds. Through the doorway the practitioner could make out another large room.

This room was not as large or grand as the previous caverns he'd surveyed thus far, but it was sizable enough to remind him how small his life on the farm had truly been. The room was empty except for a single statue of the herald; whether it was a cast of Petras or the Prime was unclear at first glance but the resemblance to his own face was enough to give him a seconds’ pause. The statue held out a hand as if beckoning for the herald to take it.

“What in the Void is this?” Crowe demanded. “Is this where you tell me I have to chop off a limb in the name of the Iteration? Because if that's the case you can forget it.” He held up his crippled hand for the inventor to see; Matthias looked away. “I've lost enough appendages as it is.”

“No, but you will have to bleed a bit.” Matthias eyed the statue as if he wanted nothing more than to get away from it. Apparently he didn't like it anymore than Crowe did. “When it came to coming up with contingencies there was no one more careful. If the failsafe was going to be used he wanted to make damned sure only a herald like himself could activate it.”

“I get the feeling you didn't like my predecessor anymore than I did.” Crowe tried to hide a bitter grin and failed. “Which is why you've been so welcoming of Barghast and myself.”

Matthias shrugged. “Petras had his moments. In the beginning he was nothing like who he turned out to be before he finally gave up and backed out on us to clean up our mess. Maeve didn't mention any of that within her appraisal of him, did she? In the beginning he was quiet and introspective…much like the way you are now. He had a core of steel but he only let it show when he had to. We were both young men the first time we met. I suppose you could say, like Maeve, he helped me out of my own personal hell. More than once. While I could never say we were friends I would never turn my back on him. Thanks to him I've seen more than I could ever bargain for. After so long the responsibilities of being herald weighed on him and he turned into something a little less pleasant as you’ve discovered. None of us end up being who we were in the beginning or who we thought we would be.”

The scientist grinned. “Luckily you can blow it all to the Void. All you have to do is take the statue's hand. Once you do you two better start running and you better not stop until you're through the tunnels. Me…” He made a show of sitting down with his back against the wall. “I'm going to sit and watch it all go.”

The relief in his voice chilled Crowe’s blood; his voice cracked with an age beyond what his appearance suggested. He turned to the lycan. The Okanavian stood a foot away, his rifle trained on the corridor. So gar nothing else had stirred outside the room, but past experience had taught the traveling duo silence could be misleading. “Tunnels,” he said in Okanavian. “Can you lead us back?”

Barghast's golden eyes flicked in his direction. “I can find our way out of this place. My nose will guide the way.”

Crowe approached the statue. Though its face did not move he could feel it watching him. Could the spirit of Petras and Monad see him through its impassive eyes. He had to stand on the tips of his toes to reach its hand. He felt a small depression in the center of its palm. Something clicked when he pressed it.

No sooner had the practitioner’s heels settled back on the ground, the stone beneath his feet shifted. Instinctively he stepped back. A massive force pushed up underneath the statue, casting its imperial gaze skyward. Then it was gone, swallowed down into a hole that went as far down into the earth as Crowe could see; and all Crowe could see was endless black.

“I would run if I were you!” Matthias shouted over the deep roar. The spire shuddered all around them. Dust rained down on their heads. “The hole's only going to get bigger.”

Crowe stopped in the doorway of the chamber. “Surely you don't mean to throw away your life after all you've given up for this night. On your feet!”

The red faced man shook his head. He took a long pull from a silver flask. “Leave me here. Like Maeve my time in this Iteration is done.”

Had he the time the herald might have tried to convince the man not to throw his life away so carelessly. But a draft had picked up in the chamber, pulling at him like a greedy hand. The gap in the ground spread with the hungry intent of a living beast. Had Barghast, clinging to the doorway with one paw, not grabbed him with the other, the herald would have been swallowed by the eye of the black. The same could not be said for Matthias. The draft scooped him up as if he weighed little more than a feather. In the blink of an eye the hole in the earth devoured him whole.

No sooner had the lycan pulled Crowe to him, a powerful arm closed around his waist, swinging him around to his back. “Hold onto me, my beloved! Don't let go!”

Crowe didn’t need to be told twice. He clung to the lycan’s back like a monkey clinging to a tree. Barghast secured him by hooking his paws beneath his thighs. They were off, racing through the entrance into the cold. The first pale rays of morning poked through whisky gray clouds. Crowe risked a glance over his shoulder, wanting to watch the spire where so much death had occurred shrink in the distance. He wished he hadn’t. Like a lingering omen, Hamon appeared, stepping out of the shadow of the building. Still he wore that horrible Inferno-made grin. A second later the spire fell away like a tower of sand that had been kicked over. Chunks of mortar the size of wagons were launched into the air before spiraling down into the widening mouth.

Gone, Crowe thought with a numb sense of dread that was too deep to be called grief. They’re all gone. In a single evening Monad had wiped out a dozen of the most powerful practitioners he’d yet to see. Men and women who had lived for centuries; who had seen entire lives pass by them in the blink of an eye when theirs had dragged on day after day. The horrors - and the wonders - they’d seen over the years. All gone with no one to remember them. No one but me.

And still Hamon stalked after them like a lingering bad omen that would never completely go away. Crowe prayed. Prayed that the draft would sweep the Black King off his feet and swallow him whole. “Come on you son of a bitch,” he hissed under his breath. “Just die already. There has to be something that can kill you.”

“Twin o’rre,” Barghast whined. “Hold onto me tighter.”

The edge of panic in the lycan’s voice twisted the sorcerer’s head back to the front. Cobblestones were ripped from underneath the lycan’s paws a second after he cleared them. The draft tried to impede his progress, but the barbarian fought against the wind, determined to reach the tunnel. Crowe thought he could see the entrance in the distance - no bigger than a black pinprick. And all he could do was hang on like a tick. The source of the lycan’s panic presented itself as a dark shadow that blotted out the sky. Instinctively Crowe ducked his head just in time to witness a spire soar his head.

Another frantic glance over his shoulder. “Please,” he whispered to himself. “Please, please, please…”

He caught a final glimpse of Hamon before the spire slammed into him - one second there and then gone the next, dropping into oblivion along with the tower.

Crowe howled at the sky. He pumped his fist into the air, allowing himself to feel a moment’s triumph. If only for a moment.

The liberation of triumph died when they shot into the darkness of the tunnel; Barghast did not stop or slow down. If anything the darkness seemed to fuel his stamina. The practitioner closed his eyes. He pressed his cheek against the lycan’s back. When I open my eyes this nightmare will be over.

It seemed like the nightmare did not end for a long time. The earth continued to growl at his back. He could picture the gap getting bigger in his mind. He didn’t dare open his eyes. When he sensed they’d stopped moving, close to an hour could have passed - it was impossible to say.

The world pitched over. It was all the warning he had before Barghast fell to his knees. Crowe’s fall was cushioned by freshly fallen snow. He rested on his back. Stacks of smoke and emissions of dust twisted above his head. He allowed himself to suck in a breath. Sweet air. One could forget about the simple pleasures of breathing - of living - when they’d spent the last several hours, the last several days, the last several weeks running from one false sense of security to the next. With another breath he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. Not more than a foot away the ground stopped before plummeting into a bottomless pitch.

No matter how hard he looked, the herald could not see its bottom. “It looks like we’ve reached the end of the earth,” he muttered to himself.

He staggered to his feet. The lycan sat where he’d fallen, breathing heavily. His head hung low towards his chest. Other than the slash marks from where he’d been grabbed by reavers, Crowe could see no new obvious injuries, but that did not stop the sorcerer’s belly from twisting with worry. “Barghast.” He crawled to the Okanavian on his hands and knees. He didn’t have the strength to stand. His head still pounded. He ached in a thousand places.

The lycan raised his head. When he saw Crowe crawling towards him, he let out a small whine. He pulled the practitioner to him until their bodies were entangled together as one. Barghast brushed Crowe’s hair back from his face. “Hello,” he said in Okanavian.

“Hlle’o,” Crowe said. He frowned. This being able to switch from one language to the next was going to take some getting used to. Still, his heart fluttered with excitement. He offered a hand. “It’s nice to truly meet you.”

The barbarian laughed, a deep sound that had the practitioner looking down under his feet to make sure the ice wouldn’t crumble from beneath them. “Crowe, you say the oddest things sometimes. We’ve known each other for many days.” His eyes brightened from pale amber to molten gold. He drew closer, watching the practitioner intently. “And we will know each other for many, many more days.”

The practitioner’s cheeks reddened. He looked away with a shaky chuckle. “I know. It’s just this is the first time you and I have truly been able to understand each other instead of me wiggling my fingers and stamping around like an idiot. I thought we would make our introductions official. Guess it was silly…”

Before he could raise a hand to rub at the back of his flaming neck, Barghast seized it. “It is…” Growl. “...nice to…” Whine. “...truly meet you.”

They shook hands.

Barghast beckoned Crowe away from the hole in the earth with an arm around his shoulders. “Come. Let us leave this accursed place.”