Desperation.
Strength
Exultation.
Fear.
He walked in desperation along a path to save Furin. Knew there would be a price paid but he would not let her die. He gave himself to the power so that she may live.
In his desperation he gave completely, aware of the vast amount of power needed to fight the strength of the Slowlands. It was old and constant and part of this place, and compared to it he was young and transitory and small.
But what he tapped was also old, and constant, but not of this place in the same way the Slowlands was. At the same time, more of this place than he was. There was a communion between him and this power, it was not simply a web, it was alive. Something in it was alive.
It saw him.
It wanted him.
Strength
He could not think clearly because of the power flowing into him. A flood of it. More than he could bear, more than his body was made for, rending his flesh, racking his bones. This was not like taking life, or the slow seep of the land or even tapping the huge power of the trees. This was the gush of cut arteries, an unstoppable flow that he could not shut off. He screamed but he did not know he screamed. He knew nothing but the power. Nothing but overwhelming strength.
Such exultation. Surely he could control the world? Split and reform the parts that made it. Bend it to his will. He pushed on the Slowlands. Beneath his feet lay the essence of it, the creation of it. Further in, where it wanted him to go, where it would push him to go. Or suck him in; it was far stronger, harder. But here, on the edge, he could affect it. He found the essence of the place, found what made it real, its heaviness, and held it. He could describe it no other way. The strain upon him was immense. Every muscle and sinew stretched, every bone aching, every pore leaking sweat and the power flowing into him was flowing out as quickly as it came.
Little by little, he was forgetting who he was. There was only power.
Furin.
That mattered.
Something was screaming at him.
Furin.
His mind cleared.
A spear reaching for her. He flung it away and his consciousness followed its path. Saw the gathered Rai. Felt their power. They were little more than a stain on the canvas of Crua compared to him. But a threat to her. He willed the being of the spear to become more. Willed the air behind the spears to harden and push them on faster. Turned away as the stand became a mess of breakage; wood and bodies.
Fear.
This power was not a gift.
It was taking over, binding with him. Whatever was left of his cowl atrophied – it did not die, it was still there, only stripped back to a framework on which a new thing was built and unlike his cowl this thing was not willing to share his body, it wanted him. There was a roaring, a hunger. A desire and a purpose and he was part of that purpose. Images flashed through his mind. A key. A door long ago closed. A huge and shining city flickering into darkness. Vast towers falling to the ground. The pure terror that was the Boughry. He did not know what this meant. What they meant. With every heartbeat he became less.
Furin.
His hand closed on her. She was real.
He pulled her out of the Slowlands. Too hard, far too hard. Had he killed her? The thought ripped him apart but at the same time he hardly cared. He was a whirlwind. He was crushed by something far beyond his understanding. It wanted him out of the Slowlands before it overwhelmed him.
Even this power had limits.
He moved, his body uncomfortable and unfamiliar. The tentacles of his armour dragging him along. He was the wrong shape, his mind twisted in ways it was not meant to. He should be bigger, more pliable. As he left the Slowlands his strength grew but Cahan shrank. Every step a battle. Someone had Furin. Two someones. They were taking her. He wanted to help them or to stop them, to save them or to kill them.
The taffistone.
Get to the taffistone.
Save Furin.
The taffistone.
A way in.
A way through.
Two sets of thoughts, no longer sure what was his and what was imposed on him. He was going after Furin. He was going after the taffistone.
Somewhere, deep within he was screaming but he could no longer give voice to it. The stone, he feared it. Not the stone itself, but the consequences of reaching it. The smaller he became, the more control of his body was taken from him. His mind was being sorted through. Every memory examined and thrown away. Scattered around like so much rubbish and then one image held, examined in detail.
Venn.
The trion.
A surge of feeling. A surge of memories, from the day he first saw Venn in the forest to him leaving Woodhome without saying goodbye.
Venn.
Venn.
In the sounding of that name he knew the trion was doomed. The corruption within would seek Venn. It needed Venn the way it needed Cahan.
He felt nothing.
He was becoming nothing. His memories hidden away. The next image was one of Udinny
Ud—
Gone. Power ebbing, he stood before the bridge. Every part of him hurt but he did not care. He was flowing back into himself like water from a wetvine filling a trough. He was Cahan again. The thing, whatever it had been, was gone.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Sorha stood before him. Blade in one hand, shield in the other. She had stopped the thing taking him over. She was a barrier. He was not weak, not like he had been when she blocked access to his cowl, but the thing was pushed away. Cut off.
She came at him. He was forced to defend. He was still strong, fast. She looked surprised but it did not stop her. She was fast too but he knew he could kill her. He could finish her. With what was in him he was stronger, faster, better.
Blocking her attacks. Pushing her back onto the bridge while the Forestals and the soldiers ran to the taffistone, the last of the smoke dissipating. He watched Ania and Ont run for the stone, a great explosion of flame and a shout of agony followed them.
Cahan fought, but as he did he found himself in an impossible position. If he killed Sorha the barrier she made against the power would be gone. He would be lost once more and knew it, he had passed some threshold, what was within was no longer under his control. When he was lost, Venn would be next.
He made a decision. The only decision.
Let his axes fall to his side.
“Do it,” he said.
She paused. Shocked. Surprised.
The world shook.
She raised her sword.
Fire, the heat of it on his back.
“No!” shouted Sorha.
And then he was falling, falling, falling.