Once the last of the beggars had faded away, I turned to Horralain. His head was in his hands, tears squeezing out between fingers. "They're gone, Horralain," I said. "Listen? Do you hear the silence?"
Fingers shifted and Horralain peered out between his hands with a single eye that darted this way and that. Then he lowered his hands and raised his head. "They're gone," he said in that slow voice of his, as though he needed to consider each word carefully before it left his lips.
I nodded. "All of them. I dealt with all of them." I took a step towards the pretend king and my back twanged in pain. When had pain started to seep into the construct? "Can we go now? There's nothing left to fear here."
"Thank you." Horralain's voice cracked on those words.
"You're welcome. Now stand up and let's go. Ssserakis, how do we get out."
Simple. Just make that first step of progress.
I let out a groan. "Horralain. Stand up and step away from the throne."
The big man levered himself to his feet, took one step forward, and faded away. I remained.
"Ssserakis? Why am I still here?"
I could actually feel the horror's confusion. You appear to have made his construct your own. Do you really desire torture so?
I glanced at my shadow to find green light spilling around its grinning mouth. It's an unnerving thing seeing your shadow move independently of you, even when you know how it is happening.
"Progress, huh?" I took two steps forward, turned, and lowered myself onto the throne.
And then I was back in the frozen amphitheatre. My friends gathered around me. Hardt had draped a cloak over my shoulders and Tamura was laughing and drawing something in the sand with a stick. Worst of all though, was the awestruck eyes of Horralain, staring at me.
Chapter 6
I have long since discovered that I have a strange ability, something unique and both wondrous and mortifying. I think it is a facet of my innate Necromancy, that magic the Iron Legion forced upon me. I can absorb the memories of the dead. Not all of them, only fragments, rarely enough to form anything but a brief glimpse into another's life. But sometimes a brief glimpse is all you need.
These are not my memories. They are Josef's.
Josef skids to a halt on the floor, but it's too late. Already too late. The portal snaps shut, and with it goes the light. He lays there in the dark, heart pounding, breath coming in short sharp gasps. He wants to move, tries to move. Can't. The darkness is everywhere, everything. It blankets him, smothers him, reduces the world to nothing but monsters stalking through the black. Stalking. Stalking him. He hates the dark. He's always hated the dark. Down in the Pit, there was never anything but darkness. He would have done anything to get out. He did do everything to get out. He did the one thing he had never wanted to do.
He curls up into a ball. Makes himself small, quiet. Hiding from the creatures in the dark. Hiding from fear. Hiding from his own thoughts. It doesn't work. It can't. His heartbeat is thunder in his ears. His thoughts echo in his mind. So loud. So unwelcome.
How was he still alive? Again. How was he still alive? Eska! She knew. She'd seen him. She knew! The Iron Legion, Loran Orran. What had he done? It was him. It was all him. It was always him.
Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. A new noise. Not one of his. One of the monsters come to get him. He curls tighter, blind in the dark, heartbeat booming inside, outside, everywhere.
A mumble of words, something sharp sounding like a curse. He doesn't recognise the language, but words have a weight to them, a sound that is unmistakably language. There is no magic to them, but words possess a magic all of their own. The right words can cast a spell, manipulate emotions as surely as any Empamancy. And words can break spells. His fear recedes. There is no monster in this darkness, but there is something. Someone.
"Hello?" His voice is croaky. The words scratch his throat. How long has it been since he used his voice? How long has it been since Yorin slid the knife across his skin, blade biting into flesh, cutting through his life, leaving him to bleed out in the dark that he fears so much.
More mumbled words. The tapping draws closer. A grunt, so close Josef can feel the air move against his skin. "And they call me blind." The voice is harsh, chewing on words rather than speaking them.
A sudden snapping noise and flames sprang to life nearby. Josef startles. Scampers back as the flames reveal a small, furry, eyeless face with a manic grin and sharp, serrated teeth. A tahren! He's never seen one before, but it could be nothing else. The little creature is grey with age and some of its fur has worn thin. It wears a belt covering its loins, trinkets hanging from leather loops. A bandoleer crosses above and below each arm, festooned with little pockets.
The creature scratches at its bulbous belly with clawed hands and points at the lantern. "You take it," it says in that thick voice. "I don't need it."
Josef stands and reaches out slowly. The little creature looks harmless, but the most dangerous things often do. He snatches the lantern and backs away quickly. Shining the light around him. He's in some sort of laboratory. There's a large desk, full of books and ruffled papers, a huge Source being used as a paperweight. Along the nearest wall are lines of bookshelves, each one packed with tomes.
"I'm guessing you're the chosen one?" the tahren says as it waddles away.
Josef shakes his head. "No! I don't think so. I'm just… My name is Josef Yenhelm."
"Inran of Rock Helm," the tahren says. "And if his mastership has brought you here without escort, you must be someone more special than just."
"Where is here?" Josef asks.
"His mastership's personal study. Where were you before?"
"Do'shan."
Inran lets out a whistling breath. "Half the world away. He's pushing his Portamancy to the limits."
The tahren walks over to a nearby table and shoos away a rat that was nibbling at the leftovers on a plate. He scoops up the plate and a nearby mug, sniffs at the contents, and shakes his head. "That's gone off. Do you see a bottle around anywhere? I'll need to replace it before his mastership tries to drink from it."
Josef crouches and scoops up a mostly empty bottle from the floor. It smells of vinegar and reminds him of home. His first home. His father always smelled of vinegar; used it to clean the saddles and tacks. Vinegar and old leather. Such comforting smells. "Your master is Prince Loran?"
Inran shakes his head and laughs. "His mastership isn't a prince. Can't be a prince without a kingdom… or princedom."
Josef follows the tahren as he continues moving about the room, picking up discarded plates and pushing papers into orderly piles. He keeps his distance. He doesn't trust the little creature. "But he is Loran Orran?"
Inran snorts. "Of course. Where do you think you are?"
"I don't know," Josef says. His throat closes and he coughs, coughs, coughs. He can't stop coughing. He feels so weak and weary, his limbs leaden, weighing him down. Is that what innate Sourcery does to a person? Without a Source to draw the magic from, the power must come from the person. Of course! The magic is his. It is him. The healing, it must have drained him. Josef pats at his chest where the sword had pierced him, run him through. No trace of a wound, not even a scar.