Dusk Falling (Book 1) (55 page)

They had taken Serrtin’s sword so she politely borrowed someone else’s. A giant green fist planted in the center of the guards face dropped him to the floor. She parried an attack, using her greater strength and weight to
shove the Verca back. Serrtin kept Aya and Avarice in the corner of her eye at all times, the mage pulling the boy in close to her. “Did… did I stop them in time?”

Serrtin grunted a response, unable to give the matter any further thought. Pulling her borrowed blade from the gut of one, she backhanded another, carving a bloody path with the spike on her elbow. She spotted her flamberge discarded in a corner, dove for it and came up swinging.

“Enough of this! You fools, are you incapable of even this?!” Serethar snarled. The High Priest then spoke low, in a language unknown by any but the three men who stood behind the altar. Holding out his hand, the fallen guards spasmed then lay still. Those that were uninjured, scurried back in fear of their leader’s anger. “Must I do everything?”

“High Priest.” Came one of the narrasu behind him. When he turned to put them in their place, he saw what made the man speak. The Yashvre’s eyes were open.

No longer amber in color, they were solid black. He lay there for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, slowly blinking and slowly breathing. When all had gone silent around him, he sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the altar. The black eyes did not focus on anyone yet instead they fell on his gloved hands. Frowning he yanked the material off.

The skin beneath was pale, puckered and crisscrossed with countless scars from countless wounds. It was obvious, now, why the tretehen had chose to never take the gloves off. The Verca healed all his other disfiguring wounds but they let him keep the ones most visible as a reminder. The hand that Xiethes had broken was purple and swollen.

With nary a thought, the avatar banished the unpleasantness and turned dark eyes to Serethar.

“My Lord Vasul?”

The Yashvre smiled.

And it was wrong. Wrong! Aya gave a half sob, half gasp. She had hoped destroying the High Priest’s power stores would keep him from performing the ceremony but it was too late. But she wouldn’t give up, there was one more thing and she was going to either halt this travesty in its tracks or die trying. She vowed it.

Vasul gained his feet, enjoying the very natural sensations of weight and gravity, of the air around him. He stepped around the altar, running a hand over the black cloth. There were three men standing behind the altar. Ah yes, these were the ones in charge of making sure his host body would suit him. One of them bowed low, offering
over to him a glorious cloak but he didn’t take it. Not yet. Something shiny hung from the man’s belt and Vasul reached for that instead, delighting when the narras tensed up.

It was a good knife, sharp and long. Bringing it up behind his neck, Vasul sliced through his long white hair, letting it slip to the ground at his feet. Taking up the cloak, the avatar swung it on to his shoulders. It was thick and dark, the shoulders woven in small intricate patterns lit underneath with a deep crimson silk. Vasul then turned back to the High Priest.

“Serethar…” Vasul said, trying out his new voice. He spoke with an odd inflection.

“My Lord Vasul. It is so good to finally be able to welcome you to this world. I trust your… accommodations… are adequate?”

Vasul walked around the altar to stand before the Larren, who bowed over an arm. “It will do. However…”

“Yes my Lord?”

“However,” The avatar smiled, pricking his finger on the knife and marveling at the sense. “This does mean your usefulness to me has expired. I will start the destruction of this miserable realm with you.” He drove the knife into the High Priest’s chest, through flesh and bone and tissue. The energies Serethar had siphoned from the fallen guardsmen availed him not. Vasul left the knife in him, watching curiously as the cognizance fled from the man’s eyes and he fell gracelessly. Perhaps it was just left-over feeling from his host, but the avatar felt rather pleased with that particular death.

The narrasu fled; Vasul let them. He did not care. Eventually they would all die. It did not matter when. That left just three left in the room with him- a large saurian, an unremarkable boy and a dark haired girl. He felt nothing special from the warrior or the boy but residual memory from his host made him pause at sight of the mage- yes, mage, he could feel that now. His senses were slow to recognize mage talent, they were still aligning with his new form.

Thoughts and memories of these three surfaced with a bit of searching. These would be… his friends, the ones who attempted to ‘save him’ and delayed Vasul’s own arrival. “He’s still here…” The avatar purred silkily. “I’m afraid he’s in a lot of pain at the moment though. Unmaking a soul like this is not too pleasant of an experience. But for yours and his sakes, I will bear witness to it. After all, such deliciousness shouldn’t be wasted.”

“Fiend.” Serrtin spat, gripping her sword before her.

Vasul chuckled, a sound so unlike Genlo’s that if she had had hair it would have been standing on end. “Are you going to attack me with that sword of yours… Serrtin? Yes, that is the name I am gleaning from your friends losing battle. Would you be able to cut down his body?” He laughed again.

…shiny…blue… yet green… wild and dangerous but not hateful…

The energy stream that ran below the land was beautiful to Aya’s minds eye. It was so powerful, it hurt just to behold it. The stream stretched as far as she could see, forming pools in spots just as Genlo had described. She knew just by looking at it, she was not meant to touch such power. Ever. It was not meant for mages of this world to harness. Aya knew any contact with such immensity could have horrible abiding effects. She knew and she did not care.

“Avarice?”

“I am ready.” The Godling replied.

Aya could not manipulate such energy, it would never take direction, but she could channel it. The energies burned like fire through her veins, bright and hot. She reached beyond herself, coming up against Vasul and blowing past him. She reached and reached further still. Vasul could not stop her, not with the river of power on which the mage was riding. Down deep she flew, the avatar’s attempts to halt her search failing almost instantly. Down further, she shouted his name, praying to every God she knew that she would find him.

And there, at the very center of what the avatar had become, the small spark of life that was Genlo languished. Vasul had lied, the spark was in no pain. In reality, he felt nothing at all- but it was just that that frightened Aya. Pain and fear would cause revolt, but nothing would only draw the soul into acceptance. “No! I will not let you accept this! You will come back- with me!”

Fiercely, the Bren grabbed onto that lifeforce, reaching through lethargy and apathy to collar it with fists of molten energy. And she pulled.

Snapping back into her body, she released what was left of Genlo before clamping down hard on the Seal spell the Asrai Kcrienalpralopar had instilled in her grandmother’s necklace. The avatar gave a strangled gasping yell, crumpling into a mess on the floor. Tired and shaken, her limbs moving only on adrenaline, Aya stumbled over to him.

She pulled him onto his back, straightening his askew limbs and brushed his shortened hair from his face. His eyes fluttered open, focusing on hers and as he blank, the blackness retreated and they were once again the
amber color she knew so well. She could have wept right then in joy had the call of her name not brought her around. The mage looked back and Serrtin, then followed her worry stare.

Avarice writhed on the ground, under attack that none of them could see. His small body contorted and twisted in his cloak. Aya got to her shaky feet, leaving Genlo to rest and went to the Godling. “Avarice? Avarice, what’s afflicting you?”

Through gritted teeth, he spoke but she could not understand him. When he gasped and droplets of blood splashed upon the floor, the mage ran to him. She gathered his head on her lap, trying to soothe him. His gray eyes opened, pupils dilated and with a trembling hand took a small onyx dagger from beneath his cloak. “Take it…” Avarice said shakily.

She took it, not comprehending, clutching his small hand around it. He then placed it over his heart.

Aya gasped, attempted to take the dagger away but the Godling still had some of his strength left. “Do it. Hurry! I cannot hold him much longer.”

“Avarice, I can’t… I can’t!”

“You will do it!” He shouted, flecks of blood and spit on his chin. His eyes were lit with a feverish gleam. Seeing the girls eyes widen, he tamped down on his annoyance. “It is okay. Aya. It will only hurt for a moment then it will all be done. All will be over with. This is how it must end. You have to do this.”

She wiped his chin, his face blurred in her eyes. This wasn’t a God, this was her friend. This was just a young boy. She couldn’t possibly…

“This body is only a construct, a vessel. You cannot kill me. But you can kill
him
.” Avarice said softly. “You will only be sending me home…”

The mage shook her head, warm tears dropped to his forehead and slid off. “When I first came here, I had never planned on… having… companions… traveling down the same path as I.” He swallowed. “It has been… enlightening. I can see now why this realm is such a sparkling jewel to the others. Now, I want to go home. And rest.” His own eyes betrayed his vision by making it swirl and dance but he made out the form of Serrtin and then even the tiresome Genlo. “Please, my friend. End this.”

Aya’s grip on the onyx dagger tightened with resolve. When the Godling’s eyes shut, she plunged it deep into his heart. The hand within hers suddenly tightened painfully then relaxed. The small body grew limp and the last breath escaped him in a sigh.

The Godling’s construct body was dead. Avarice was gone.

But so was Vasul. Forever. The Verca cas Nemun Ulrask was no more.

Gently, she laid the body down and rose to her feet. Her dearest friend beamed down at her. Serrtin stepped beyond her to gather up the body of the departed and to give the other two some privacy. Aya turned to face Genlo. She couldn’t sense him anymore, as he had predicted using the energy stream had completely burned out her mage talent. It was simply gone. Her fingertips tingled, her lips felt slightly numb. Her head would ache terribly later. But it could have been worse.

It wasn’t what they had just gone through, the hellish events, the battles and the deaths that caused the Jrahda-trethen to scowl like mad. He had just learned of Vasul’s heavy-handedness with his hair. Aya shook her head with a smile. When he looked at her, she could not resist. She ran to him, throwing her arms around him as if to say she would never let go. At first he did not respond but then slowly his arms wrapped around her in return.

And then he laughed. It was a pure and honest laugh, untouched by arrogance or sarcasm. And Aya realized she would come to love hearing that laugh from then on…