Coil of Worlds

Skye's willpower and endurance was at the breaking point. Something was wrong with his magic, but he was clueless to the cause. Lara never spoke of problems controlling her magic after she learned how to build a mental barrier, so he wasn’t certain what was wrong. Was his heritage making his Tal’Ai magic uncontrollable?

The constant use of his magical power was draining, exhausting his reservoir of strength. Over the last two weeks, the pain had increased to the point that he now felt as if sharpened, steel spearheads plunged into his head. Again and again. The force of the pain was enough to drive him to his knees. He could barely concentrate on the conversation around him. The pain taxed his ability to function. His training with the Kurite warriors began later and later each day. Once the others left for the library, Skye snuck back to bed, hiding away in the blessed silence and darkness.

At first, the dull headache subsided after he slept, but as the headaches strengthened in intensity, the relief he gained from sleep lessened. After two weeks of tapping into his power, Skye could no longer center himself to bring his Tal’Ai power to the fore. No amount of breathing techniques helped. This morning it had taken him the majority of breakfast to access his magic. His attention kept splintering before the magic could solidify inside him.

After Eiren’s initial response to a small infection, Skye dared not share his pain or concern with her. He’d hidden the problem from her, but his façade was cracking around the edges. Soon, she would sense something was wrong. He had difficulty connecting with her through their bond, his mind rebelling at even the lightest of contact. His head was too raw, too sensitive to assimilate new information.

In the tunnels, he was dependent on the other sight. Without it, Skye couldn’t train or travel through the underground hallways unassisted. After regaining control of his body with the second sight, he could not, would not, return to his previous vulnerable state.

His companions now relied on him. Lara counted on his expertise to advance her fighting skills. Eiren required his presence to learn how to fight as a Tal’Ai battlemate.

Skye had one more day. Perhaps another. Then the inevitable would happen, and his mind would shut down.

With such an important and potentially life-changing decision before him, Skye sat in the priest’s office, watching the sight flicker with each cutting sensation to his brain. It was too much to bear.

Skye winced, bringing his fingers up to his temples, only to drop them back to his side. The slightest pressure was excruciating. He blew out a slow, even breath and clenched his jaw in frustration. His companions would have to make the decision without him. He couldn’t provide an informed opinion given his state. He was…damaged.

When the white paka began speaking in his usual thoughtful manner, Skye shifted his Tal’Ai sight to him. His skull shredded invisible cuts into his brain, pulling an involuntary gasp from him. He weaved where he sat and crushed his hands into fists. God’s teeth, he had to stay upright.

Chion said, “This decision cannot be made by only one of us.”

Skye took another slow breath in, hoping to curb the pain. Instead, his concentration was crushed into oblivion and his power fizzled. He found himself disoriented in the sudden darkness. Realizing his fisted hands trembled with fatigue, he shoved them behind his back.

As if from a distance, Lara said, “I have a bad feeling about going into the burial chambers, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid of cemeteries or if it’s a feeling coming through my magic.” A repetitive scratching of cloth reached him, and it took Skye a moment to realize she rubbed her hands against either her upper arms or her legs.

Chion asked, What thoughts do you have, Skye?

Before he could pull his scattered thoughts together, Eiren spoke up. With the expectation that he’d repeat her words, she said, I don’t doubt the danger we face in the chamber. Yet, my faith in the Goddess’s plan is enough for me. We will survive the chambers if we go together.

The priest interrupted their discussion and said in a cracking voice, “If I may ask, whose tomb are you searching for?” Skye heard the priest’s feet slide across the rug on the floor. “I also apologize for giving you the wrong impression. The decision doesn’t have to be made tonight. Time is on your side. Once I have the name, I’ll search the scrolls for the right map. I assure you, my sect will not require you to complete the rituals unless we locate the tomb’s location on the map.”

Chion’s deep voice filled the room. We will take your warning to heart and discuss amongst ourselves our final decision, but I don’t believe it necessary. We’re locked onto our course. We must find their tomb. It is the only lead we have.

“Their tomb? I was told you petitioned for the location of a single tomb. If you’re petitioning for more than the one, I must revisit your request with my brothers and sisters.”

“We’re looking for more than one person, but we think they’re all buried together. Four to be precise,” Lara explained.

Lara’s words came as if from a well, echoing in his mind. Every sound pierced the ragged edges of his skull. Skye cursed his loss of sight. He cursed his head.

Skye’s words came out in a raspy timbre, the strain making his voice unrecognizable to his own ears. “Priest, we only have the one name.” Waving in her direction, he demanded, “Lara, tell him the man’s name and the year the letter was written.”

He heard the rustle of paper as she opened the folded parchment.

“I know for certain the letter was written in 5641, but… The man’s signature was barely legible.” In a softer voice, she said with another crinkle of paper, “Chion, could you read his name earlier?”

There was a brief silence while Chion tried to remember. The paka huffed out a sigh. The old language is difficult for me to read. My Lady, I only made out a couple letters.

Rapid scribbling came from the table. The priest mumbled under his breath, “If the letter was written in 5641, then the one who wrote this letter didn’t die at that time. It will cause considerable problems.”

The young priest sounded intrigued. Despite the throbbing in his head, Skye forced himself to push past the pain. “His mate. His wife died a few days to a couple of weeks prior to the letter being written. The Dark War ended the year before. We believe there would have been a large burial ceremony for the woman.”

“If this is the case, the tomb is one of the ancients, one of the first that were buried in the tunnels. I must say I’ve never come across a tomb as old as this. The oldest tomb I’ve seen was approximately six hundred years old, and it was crumbling into ruin. I’ll require more time to determine whether the map is still within our cache of scrolls.” A rapid drumming reached Skye’s ears. “The few letters of the name that are legible will help, even if it doesn’t give us a name. Looking for a tomb that holds four Kurites together will assist in the search. But first, I must find the maps from this time period.”

Skye could almost hear the thoughts racing through the young priest’s mind as he talked, trying to strategize the most efficient and quickest route to the answers they sought.

Skye jumped when a heavy weight pressed against his leg. Eiren. Frustration simmered. He hadn’t realized how much he had come to rely on the other sight until that instant. What was he going to do? He should have cared whether the priest found the map, yet he was more worried about what was wrong with his head.

The priest pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and said, “It is late, and you are weary. I’ll begin the search while you rest. I hope I have better news for you when you wake. I will show you to your beds. I’ll have food brought to you after you are settled for the night.”

Knowing what was coming, Skye hoped his magic would give him a respite from the pain just this once. Then he could rest. The priest’s footsteps crossed the room behind him to the doorway. Sheer willpower brought the magic back, and Skye grunted with the shock of the assault on his mind. He jerked to his feet. Lara’s short physique walked over to him. His power whispered to him that she stiffened for a brief moment before taking the last step to his side. He was surprised when she turned him away from the others.

In a low voice, she said, “Skye, your nose is bleeding.”

Only then did he feel the warm liquid running down the lower half of his face. His tongue tasted copper. He pressed his right sleeve to his face, swiping at the blood. Skye held the cloth to his nose, but he’d forgotten his skin’s sensitivity. The stinging pain was almost intolerable.

Lara didn’t comment on the injury besides saying, “Here.” She curled her hand around his other arm, tugging on it. “I’ll guide you while you stop the bleeding.”

Together, they walked out of the priest’s office and joined the others. He knew when Eiren saw his bloody face. Her concern trickled through their bond.

My Lord, are you all right?

Though Skye hated himself a little for being untruthful, he said around his hand, “I am. My nose will stop bleeding in a moment.”

Eiren sent an inarticulate noise through their bond. She didn’t believe him, but like Lara, she didn’t push. Skye was relieved.

Somehow, Skye made it to their room without losing his stranglehold on the sight. Once he had a mental picture of everything that was in the room, he shed the magic with a soft moan of relief. The pain was there, but the skull-crushing battering dissipated. Without a word, he stumbled over to the bed, hitting it with his knees. He dropped down onto the bed as exhaustion beat at him.

Sleep. He needed sleep. He forgot about the blood. He forgot about the others in the room. He closed his eyes and shifted around on the small bed. Before he was fully comfortable, his mind shut down, and sleep rolled him down into a black void.

¤¤¤

Lukar was nibbling on the last of his meal when distant cries rose up, their echoes volleying between the mountains that surrounded the small valley. He jerked his head toward the front of his tent. It was too late in the night for his men to argue amongst themselves. Unlike him and his war council who required little sleep, his men depended on rest to function.

When the commotion was picked up by more voices, he tossed the unfinished rib bone into the fire and stood up. Lukar collected his sword, pulling it out of its scabbard as he walked to the tent entrance.

He stepped out into studied chaos. As soon as he exited the tent, his personal guards swept in and surrounded him. Used to their presence, he put them from his mind, knowing they’d follow his lead. He was more intent on finding the cause of the commotion. Men were running every which way, many in various states of undress, though every one of them carried their weapons.

Duxon’s runner ran up, panting from his dash through the large, spread out camp. Hacking a cough, the young man gave him a low, swaying bow, “My King, attackers are firing at us from opposite sides of the camp.”

The cries weren’t echoing off the mountains. Lukar growled. The Pyrannis dared to attack him. Lukar strode toward the perimeter of the camp where the fire burned the brightest. The runner scrambled to keep up. “How many are we fighting?”

“My King, they appeared out of thin air. No one has been able to count.”

He glanced sharply at his commander’s man. “Pyranni warriors?”

“That is his guess.”

He nodded. The King of Pyran had sent his troops to defend against the Malirran invasion. Lukar raised his voice to be heard as they neared the place where the fighting was heaviest. “Attack.”

The runner lowered his head in a quick bow and sprinted away to relay the order. Lukar entered the foray and saw Ferer, another commander, already had men providing a line of defense while others saved the tents and supplies. The front line braced their shields before them, creating a solid wall of protection against the arrows raining down on them. The wounded littered the ground, groaning around him.

For a moment, he eyed the blood pouring from the wounded. He waged a quick, internal battle, but his conscience pushed the surging craving away. These were his men. They were never to be touched by the Goddess of Flesh.

As much as the sight fascinated him, he and his council had sworn an oath before taking their first bite of flesh. Even as he repeated the oath in his head, his cravings almost overcame his honor. With a fierce grunt, Lukar wrenched his gaze away from the blood and focused on the other wounds. Some were badly burned, while others were injured from the constant slew of arrows.

Disregarding the cloud of smoke rising around him, his mind centered back on the attack, and his eyes glittered with retribution. Shadowing his eyes from the firelight, he peered into the surrounding forest. Lukar saw the slightest tremor of leaves to his right and called out, pointing his sword in the same direction.

An answering rain of arrows descended upon the area from his archers, but he didn’t know whether his men hit their target. The mountainous terrain was to his enemy’s advantage. It provided cover for his foes while Lukar’s camped in the small clearing. His men were forced to travel on the main road; his army was too large to do otherwise. The supplies they carried also slowed his army to a crawl.

His men had never met this type of resistance in their prior invasions, their reputation having spread before them in a wave of fear. Other kingdoms had only given token resistance before opening their doors wide in the hopes for mercy. None was ever given.

Lukar heard the pounding of running footsteps as more men joined the ranks of the front line. The front line became three deep, swelling their ranks and increasing the men’s confidence, though his men’s frustration rose.

The Pyrannis were clever. They never provided a target for his archers. The rain of arrows constantly changed position, making it impossible for his more stationary troops to aim their bows with accuracy. It was as if the warriors ran as they shot their weapons at his men, using the forest to shield them.

Semnac should flay the skin off his bones. The answer was so simple.

They weren’t fighting an army; they fought a handful of men.

“Infantry, advance,” his imperious voice carried along the lines snaking in both directions. The men carrying swords or axes charged ahead, screaming his name in defiance of their foe.

Waving his sword like a flag, Ferer shouted further down the line, “Archers.”

Well trained, his archers shot their arrows into the forest, providing cover for the advancing warriors. A few of the Malirran infantrymen fell to the enemy’s whistling arrows, but the majority reached the trees, disappearing from view in the thick underbrush. Lukar clenched his weapon in satisfaction.

A strange, bellowing call filled the valley, and the mountains around their camp swelled the call to new levels. It overpowered the clamor of Malirran commands and the cries of the wounded. Lukar twisted his head around, but the acoustics of the valley made it impossible to pinpoint its origin.