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A STRAIGHT, BLACK ROAD between fields, endless fields. Giant rectangles of corn and soybeans sitting placidly in the mellow light of morning. From the passenger seat, Pellus kept vigilant watch for any sign of an adept. Zan was driving, having relieved Barakiel at the wheel a few hours before. They had driven all day and night and had almost reached the border between Illinois and Iowa on their way to Idaho. They had to head somewhere. Zan had suggested her home state.
Pellus rolled down the window to smell the soil, the dry, grassy tinge of a million leaves and stalks in the burgeoning heat of day, and the whiff of diesel fuel from the large trucks that passed every so often. They had chosen to remain in the RV instead of traveling through the rifts. The curtains of refracted light he’d used to change the appearance of the vehicle would shield them from law enforcement, and they wanted to mirror the conditions of the previous morning—when Abraxos’ adept had located them—as closely as possible. If they got through the morning with no incident, he thought they should stop for a while. The maintenance of the RV’s disguise had grown tedious, and Barakiel said he needed some privacy for a discussion with Remiel. At any rate, the warriors were weary of the cramped space and the Sylvan Three looked bored to tears. Pellus was bored himself until he saw it.
What is that? A distortion.
With keen focus, Pellus scanned the road directly in front of them where he’d sensed the displacement. Sure enough, the particles of the air and the substances found within it had been woven tightly to form a barrier.
An adept.
“Stop the vehicle, Zan. Immediately,” he said, his voice calm but so insistent it could have halted a riot.
Zan slowed the unwieldy RV. Pellus surmised she could not decelerate too quickly without losing control, but if they hit that barrier they would begin this fight at a disadvantage and she could be injured. He did not have time to collapse the well-made structure, so he thickened the air surrounding the RV to increase the aerodynamic drag.
“Barakiel, Remiel, another attack is imminent.”
The warriors grabbed their swords as the Sylvan Three wished them luck. The RV slowed enough that they hit the barrier with a harmless thump, enough to send items flying, but with no consequence of real concern. Barakiel had already charged out the door when Pellus realized his oversight. He shouted out the open window.
“Barakiel! The warriors are concealed!”
It was too late. One shrouded warrior’s sword whistled straight for Barakiel’s neck. Pellus swallowed a howl, incredulous that something so stupid could be what ended this mighty warrior after everything he’d been through, but Barakiel shifted his weight. The incoming weapon glanced off his shoulder armor and into his ear, slicing it nearly off, but he moved as if he hardly noticed.
He must have sensed a displacement in the air. Guardian bless the earthly atmosphere.
Even though he could not see his adversary, Barakiel brought his blade full circle in an irresistible stroke. A moment later the warrior could be seen on the ground, cut in half. Barakiel retreated a few steps, his back to the RV, a look of furious concentration on his face. Remiel joined him, sword in hand. In a blink, Pellus dispersed the curtains of light hiding the remaining seven enemy warriors and shot out of the RV, scanning the area for the adept’s energy signal. He saw that Barakiel had already killed three warriors and Zan had run out of the RV with her blaster.
“I need time!” he shouted.
Remiel must have caught his meaning. She began to fight defensively, but Barakiel appeared to be in the grip of a bloodlust so vicious that his energy and speed only increased. Zan understood, though. She ran to her mate and got close enough to stop his cyclone of blood. He guarded her instead. She spoke to him in a low voice, he nodded, and she ran behind him and Remiel as they adopted a defensive posture.
Thankfully the highway had been empty, but vehicles approached. The other adept—who Pellus suspected was Donoreth, the same adept he had tangled with during the rescue of the Sylvan Three—evidently did not care whether this attack was witnessed by humans because he created no concealment or sound dampening field.
It may be he wants to force me to do it, to gain an edge.
Pellus obliged and the truck and a few cars passed without incident as he scrutinized their surroundings for the adept’s energy signal, panic rising in his throat when he could not see it. But then Donoreth made a mistake. He tried to recreate the individual concealment for the three remaining warriors. As Pellus watched the light bend, he followed its curve to narrow his search grid, and he understood.
I did not know you were skilled enough to obscure your energy signal in the Earthly Realm, Donoreth. I will not underestimate you again.
By this time, Barakiel was toying with the three remaining warriors while Remiel and Zan watched. Pellus heard his laughter and found it disconcerting, a hearty boom that rose toward the pale, blue sky. He turned his attention to the adept, scattering his cloak in a spectacular explosion of sparkling green motes. It did not have to be loud, but Pellus made it so, seeking to rattle the brains of his adversary.
For a pulse, Donoreth was exposed. He quickly compensated with a new configuration which led Pellus to believe he had been practicing in the Earthly Realm, but it didn’t matter. Pellus had gone low tech. He listened for vibrations from the great expanse of corn. The stalks would tell him Donereth’s location.
When he’d identified the spot, Pellus prepared to scatter the cloak once again, but Donoreth went on the offensive, drawing on the robust wind that seldom ceased scouring these plains. A fist of air came down on Pellus’ head with pneumatic force. If he had not managed to make a shield for himself at the last moment, alerted by the deafening whoosh, he would surely have wound up unconscious. As it was, his vision grayed and he needed a moment to regain his focus.
It didn’t matter. The corn still trembled along the path of his foe. Pellus gathered an electromagnetic wave and pushed it toward the huge towers of steel in the distance that held high-voltage power lines. At the same time, he struggled to keep his feet, buffeted with more attacks of wind from each side in succession. When he brought his wave from the power lines back to where Donoreth crouched, it held enough power to stun a chukka beast. Pellus allowed the adept to reconstruct his cloak and barrier. It hardly mattered. With concentration so intense it made his limbs tingle, Pellus honed his barrage of electrical energy to a fine point, sending it spiraling, spiraling, until it was as narrow as a laser. He held it, savoring its sizzle, as he disposed of Donoreth’s cover once again. Then he let the electric knife fly, marking his adversary’s side and thigh with a vicious burn. The adept, who had probably never suffered such a wound in his life, shrieked and fell beneath the corn. As expected, he lost his abilities in the white-hot blast of pain. Pellus dropped a cube barrier, made of the same electrical power that he’d just used to scorch his opponent. It made the corn smolder as if he was conducting some kind of religious rite. Donoreth could see the cube, obviously, because he did not move.
“I have him,” Pellus shouted. With that, he heard the phfft, phfft, phfft of sudden sword strokes and the three remaining warriors were dead. Barakiel ran to Pellus, a gruesome sight with his ear half gone and his side painted red.
“Are you all right, Barakiel?”
“I am fine. Where is the adept? We need to question him.”
“He is there. I have placed him inside a cube barrier.” Pellus pointed and they walked over, soon joined by Zan, Remiel, and the Sylvan Three. They all stared at the caged adept, who dropped his efforts to dismantle the barrier the moment he knew their eyes were upon him.
“Did you really think you could you could best me here, Donoreth, after I already got the better of you outside the Sylvan Three’s chambers?”
“I did not think I could best you. I was simply doing my duty. The guild master gave me this task, so I attempted it.”
“Thanis sent you here?”
“Thanis is no longer guild master. Borosen is our leader now.”
“No doubt because Abraxos has imprisoned Thanis in the Wasteland Dungeons,” Barakiel said. He growled, walked right through the barrier in a din of pops and crackles, and grabbed the adept by the throat. Pellus watched in astonishment as the entire burning cube was sucked into Barakiel’s body like air rushing into a vacuum.
“How did you find us?” he shouted. Donoreth fairly drooled in fear, his eyes wide open. He stared desperately at Pellus, who realized he was far more terrorized by the ease with which Barakiel had absorbed the barrier than by the giant hand on his throat.
“Please, please, do not kill me. I was only doing as I was told!”
“Tell us,” Barakiel said, his tone so menacing Pellus swore even the corn shrank away.
“They will kill me!”
Barakiel threw his head back and laughed, the same vicious, disturbing sound he’d made as he toyed with the hapless warriors. “And what do you think I am going to do if you do not tell me?”
Donoreth flailed his arms about, desperately trying to get a breath. Pellus put his hand on Barakiel’s arm and gave a pointed look to Zan. “Please, Barakiel, release him. I will create another cube. He can barely speak this way.”
With a resigned sigh, Barakiel did as Pellus asked. He stepped back as the adept peered at his colleague through the newly constructed cube. “As you can see, the warrior here lacks patience,” Pellus said. “Tell him what he wants to know or I cannot vouch for your safety.”
The prisoner choked then vomited against the base of the corn stalks as a truck rumbled by on the road behind them. Pellus was surprised by the compassion he felt, given this Covalent served the usurper who had imprisoned Jeduthan. But he knew Donoreth. He was not a bad sort, just too accustomed to comfort. Pellus looked up at the wispy clouds as his fellow adept wiped his mouth on his black robes and tried to reassemble his dignity.
What will we do with you, Donoreth?
“More than one warrior lacks patience,” Remiel growled, stepping toward the cube.
“All right, all right!” Donoreth said, waving his hand as if to fend them off. “It is you, Barakiel. We do not know what has happened to you, but your energy signature has become even more distinct than it was before, an astounding mystery, a beacon easily found. I chose this moon as a vantage point and needed only to wait until the planet’s rotation brought you into view.”
“I should have known,” muttered Pellus. “The moon is in its waxing crescent phase and rises in the morning. How did you first realize this, Donoreth?”
“An accident. I came to the Earthly Realm to learn, and to search for you. I examined the moon out of curiosity, and the warrior’s blaze called to me. I had never seen anything like it.”
“Have you reported this to Abraxos, you piece of shit?” Zan said. Her blend of Covalent and English left Donoreth bewildered.
“Um, ah, yes, uh, he knows, uh, I mean Borosen. I reported to Borosen.”
“Then I am sure Abraxos knows,” Pellus said. “I am not surprised Borosen has thrown his lot in with the usurper. Was the position of guild master all it took?”
“Borosen now regards you as his enemy, though he has not said why. I assume it is because you will never accept him at the top of the traveler hierarchy.”
“And you do? Have you no loyalty?” Pellus said, his voice tense, his eyes slits. “What about Thanis? Do you not care about what they have done to him?”
“Of course I do, Pellus!” Donoreth yelled, close to tears.
“Where are they holding him?” Pellus took an aggressive step toward Donereth. How many adepts does Abraxos have under his thumb? What kind of trap have they set in the Wasteland Dungeons?”
“I do not know!” Donoreth’s tears came full-blown. “They do not tell me anything. They give me a task and I perform it to safeguard my mate and my progeny. I am not permitted inside the dungeons. Nor am I admitted to the Keep.”
“Has Borosen told you nothing? You two have been close for an age,” Pellus said.
“Borosen is my friend, but I find his alliance with Abraxos distressing. I did not bring warriors to attack Barakiel out of loyalty. It was fear. We do not even know if Thanis is still alive. The warriors who fought in the Destructive Realm are far too depleted to mount a challenge. Abraxos executes anyone who dares question him. He executes their families. The loss of his mate has driven him mad.”
“I will challenge him,” Barakiel said. “I will send him back to Creation, though that elemental force may spit such poison into the Void.” He took a few steps, absorbed the new cube even more quickly than he had sucked up the other one, and once again grabbed the adept by the throat. “Say goodnight, Donny.”
“Barakiel, you cannot kill him. He is helpless!” Pellus said
“Helpless? He is an adept.”
“Warriors of the Rising are not to slaughter the weak!” Pellus looked to each of his companions, entreating their support. Remiel nodded. Zan rested her hand on her mate’s back. The Sylvan Three moved closer.
“No adept is weak,” Barakiel said. “I grant you, to kill him is not honorable, but it is pragmatic. He has no information to offer us and you know very well how difficult it is to keep an adept prisoner, especially such an accomplished Covalent as this. Any chain we use to bind him he will break. He will pass through the walls of any cell in which we place him. You will have to devote much of your energy to guarding him. If he manages to escape, our quest to rescue Jeduthan will be that much harder. I know you think this is cold-blooded murder, but he is a collaborator, a member of the Travelers Guild leadership so spineless he acquiesced to the treachery of Abraxos because he had the stronger swords.” Barakiel paced the corn, dragging a whimpering Donoreth like a rag doll beside him. “Think on it! Swords only stronger because Abraxos and his pet Galizur chose to watch from safety while warriors of integrity fought a bitter war of attrition to vanquish the greatest enemy the Realm had ever known. You do not think this collaborator deserves to die for his weakness?”
“But Rainer,” Zan said in Covalent. “You will lose Balance. It will undermine your strength.”
“No, Zan, an adept could never be considered so helpless. At any rate, I could slaughter a hundred humans and not lose Balance. Not as I am now. Creation is irrepressible within me and Destruction has freed me. I will never lose Balance again.”
“Please do not even speak of killing humans,” Zan said. “You have changed since our Union.”
Pellus watched it dawn on Barakiel that he had disturbed her.
And me. All of us.
“My love, do not worry. I will not hurt any humans. And if you wish, I will relent and not harm this piece of collaborating scum. I see I have upset you. If I seem erratic, it is because I am still learning to wear my new power.” He looked at Pellus, who nodded when another cube barrier was in place. He released Donoreth, who fell to the ground. Barakiel flashed and sparked, easily passing through the barrier to wrap Zan in his arms. “I want you to know me, Zan. I tried to explain what I am now, but I see I have failed. How I wish Union could be bestowed a second time.”
Zan kissed him, perhaps wishing to ease the frustration in his voice, which for some reason Pellus found comforting. But Pellus also knew the warrior was not wrong. Keeping an adept as a prisoner was no easy matter.
Dire essence. I will return to Covalent City under cloak and acquire some. If drugged, Donoreth will be easily controlled. Though if I am not careful, he will wind up as dead as Barakiel intended.
The same chiseled jaw. The same sensual lips, brilliant eyes, golden hair. The same sharp mind and exuberant emotions. Maybe more exuberant. Is this my bonded mate? I feel the same when he touches me, suffused with love and power and peace. But he’s changed. His weakness is gone, but mine isn’t. Will I still be enough for him? I don’t love him any less, but I don’t know if I understand him.
They sat at the top of a pass in Glacier National Park in northern Montana, a barren cleft of red dirt that afforded a view of sun-kissed peaks layered into the distance. Zan could get used to this, hanging out on the tops of mountains, even if they did so simply because people are scarce at those elevations. A few bighorn sheep grazed some way below them and the breeze carried birdsong and the pleasant scent of hot rocks and pine. Zan was overjoyed to get out of the cabin they’d rented, although they were lucky to get it in peak season. They’d been cooped up for so long, first driving, then in the cabin for the hours Rainer had spent in the healing sleep, that she needed that big sky to soothe her nerves. Pellus thought they would get a brief respite from Abraxos’ attacks, considering they’d captured the adept who’d been transporting the warriors, but they had no way of knowing how long that respite would be. At least they were done with the driving. They’d sold the RV for cash at a cut rate. Now, they would travel by rift.
Rainer sat with his big hand clamped onto Donoreth’s arm as they discussed their plans. Donoreth couldn’t hear them, Pellus had made sure of that. Zan thought from the looks of him he’d lost any will for treachery anyway. They should try to convince him to join their effort, convince him he should back Rainer in this fight, the safer bet to stay alive.
“I believe the time has come for Remiel, the Sylvan Three, and me to go the base in the Wasteland to make our preparations for the attack on the dungeons,” Pellus said. “You and Zan can remain here, Barakiel,” Pellus said. “I will come to fetch you just as the offensive begins. Then it will hardly matter if they can locate you.”
“Can you not cloak me? I may be able to help with the preparations.”
“I do not think so. In the Wasteland, I must protect myself from the elements and I will need to conceal the warriors while they prepare for battle. We cannot allow Abraxos’ patrols to find us, so I need to be wary of this, uh, manifestation,” Pellus waved his hand around Rainer. “Your energy signature is not something I have cloaked before. It has changed. Profoundly. If I failed to obscure you the moment you emerged from the rift, you might be detected. I do not want to risk it.”
“I understand. When do you expect to come back?”
“In two earthly days. Healers, is that enough time for you to assess the readiness of the warriors for battle?”
“Yes, Pellus. We helped many warriors the last time we visited the Wasteland, and they have now had time to rest. Commander Remiel believes those who remain unhealed need only light attention,” the Three said. “We think they will be ready.”
“You should leave this traitor here,” Rainer said, pulling a bit on Donoreth’s arm. ‘I can guard him.”
“I would feel better if he came with us. You are unlikely to anticipate all his tricks.”
“He is too terrified of Rainer to try anything,” Zan said in Covalent. She enjoyed speaking their language, but she couldn’t get used to calling her mate what she thought of as his last name. “I think it is risky to take him to the hidden base.”
“I will deprive him of sight and sound,” Pellus said. “I intend to acquire dire essence to keep him drugged.”
“We can place him in the healing sleep, adept,” the Sylvan Three said. “His burns are severe and he is suffering from mental trauma, we dare say. We can keep him under as long as we choose.”
“All right, healers. If it becomes too difficult for you with your other duties, we can fall back on the drug.”
The Three nodded their lovely heads, rose abruptly then glided down the steep incline toward the bighorn sheep. Zan watched as the animals nuzzled the healers like one of their own. She had grown up seeing the bighorns, but she’d never been that close to one unless it was dead.
Would they run if I went down there?
Commander Remiel joined Zan in smiling fondly at the scene before she turned the conversation back to the offensive.
“We must prepare for the possibility that Abraxos will send reinforcements as soon as we attack. Do you think he will be able to transport his warriors through a rift, Pellus?”
“Perhaps a few, but my eavesdropping in Covalent City has led me to believe that he has not secured the cooperation of enough navigen travelers to move them quickly in dangerous numbers, at least not the kind of cooperation he can trust. A single adept can move large numbers of Covalent at once, but I do not think Abraxos will be able to spare one, especially with Donereth in our custody. Not if he hopes to maintain the barriers around the dungeons.”
“And not if he hopes to maintain an effective trap for you, Pellus,” Rainer added, a hand on his friend’s back. “Without more than one powerful adept to confront you, you could rescue Jeduthan with ease.”
“This is good news, but, of course, we cannot be certain,” Remiel said. “During the raid, I will post sentries to watch for fighters suddenly emerging from rifts. We must also address the most likely scenario, that the usurper will simply march his reinforcements to the dungeons from Covalent City. Do we know how long such a march would take?”
“Not precisely,” Pellus said. “The dungeons were purposefully placed far from the city, so a march would not be quick by any means. I would guess a twelfth-turn.”
Zan shuffled her feet then realized she’d unconsciously moved closer to Rainer. A twelfth-turn was a little more than two hours. She wanted to ask if that would be enough time to accomplish their mission and get out, but these conversations often made her feel useless. As usual, she had an attack of shyness.
One thing is for sure. Remiel’s cobbled-together force won’t be able to handle fresh forces from the city.
“We will need to know precisely,” Remiel said. “Pellus, you should take a few of my healthy warriors through the rift almost to the edge of the city. They will return as quickly as possible to our base near the dungeons so we will know how long such a march requires. We need to liberate the imprisoned before any reinforcements get near us.”
“Are you not worried they will be detected?” Pellus asked.
“I know you will not have much time to spare during our preparations, but perhaps you can conceal them until they get some distance from the city. After that, they will have to use their wits. I have two clever and careful warriors in mind already.”
“It is a good idea, Remiel,” Pellus said.
“All right then. For now, we will operate on the assumption that we will have a twelfth turn for the offensive.” She paced for a bit, her hands clasped behind her. “I will bring three-quarters of my warriors in a frontal assault, but I want a quarter to come down from the mountain above. Pellus, would you be able to get them up there?”
“A brilliant tactic, Remiel, but it is doubtful a rift would deliver to them to correct spot without a climb.”
“Understood, adept,” Remiel said. “Barakiel, you will attack from above as well. That way, you can penetrate the dungeons before Abraxos concentrates his warriors against you.”
“No, I will be part of the frontal assault. Let me draw forces. It will increase the chances of success for the other warriors, and no one, no gang or troop, will be able to stop me.”
“I am in command of this mission, warrior.”
“That is true, Remiel, but with great love and respect, I must tell you that you are not in command of me.”
Remiel stared at him, a flatness to her eyes. Zan wondered what she was hiding.
Is she angry or hurt?
“I had hoped to have this conversation privately,” Rainer said, “but here we are. I think you knew I would say this.”
“It does not surprise me.”
“Would you like to take a walk?”
“Why bother with privacy now, warrior?”
“You are angry. You keep calling me warrior.”
Zan understood her mate enough to see that he didn’t care that Remiel was angry. Maybe didn’t care that she was hurt. Rainer, who had always cared to a fault about such things.
He may be right about this, but he’s completely lost his tact.
“Of course, I am angry, Barakiel,” Remiel hissed. “Osmadiel is dead, Jeduthan is imprisoned, my warriors are suffering, and a usurper has seized control of the Realm. I have always supported you, often at great risk to myself, yet you unceremoniously announce that I am no longer your commander. I deserve more.” She gazed over the mountains. “Yes, I have thought you should have your own command for a thousand phases, but we are Covalent. We do things a certain way. As your mate has taught me to say, ‘Don’t be an asshole.’”
Rainer’s laugh boomed across the peaks. To Zan’s surprise, Remiel couldn’t suppress her smile.
“Yeah, Rainer,” Zan said. “Don’t be an asshole. Why are you such as asshole?”
Her mate abruptly stopped laughing to regard her with furrowed brow. He looked from Zan to Pellus to Remiel, down at the Three still cavorting with the sheep, and back to Zan. “Thank Balance for you, my love,” he said. He handed Donoreth to Pellus, drew his sword from its scabbard, and slowly walked to Remiel with his head bowed. He held the sword before her, its blue-steel blade gleaming in the sun. “I ask for forgiveness, commander. My sword is yours to bestow. I ask that you release it to me.”
Remiel took the sword. “That is more like it,” she said. “As I have no Stream to acknowledge, let me acknowledge the Sun and the earthly mountains that you love so much.” She held the blade aloft, towards the blinding star and then toward the mountain vista. “Perhaps it is appropriate, given your long exile and your human mate.” She smiled, the hardness in her eyes easing as she handed Rainer back his sword. “I am glad you can handle him, Zan. I fear no one else can.”
“I deserved that,” Rainer said. He took Remiel’s hand. “I am grateful to you, commander, for your most devoted friendship. For your skill and your courage. I have no excuse for my behavior.” He went to Zan, lifted her in his arms, gazed up at her for a few moments, put her down, then turned to speak to them all. “I have a rage inside me like you cannot conceive. For Zan’s trauma, Pellus’ sorrow, the betrayal of our warriors. But also for the way I have been served by the Covalent Council, for the loss of my family. Yes, even for my abomination of a father. Patricide will leave its mark, no matter how vile its victim. I need to consider my behavior, but you should be encouraged by my present state. The rage does not cloud my thinking. I am its embodiment. I am calm. I will prevail.”
“I believe you, Barakiel,” Remiel said. “Now let us continue our planning.”