Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) (10 page)

The longest arm snaps toward us and its claw gouges a hole in the road not fifty paces away. The shock of it — the metal-gray sheen, the
thwack
against stone — sends me stumbling forward, unfreezing my muscles.

I sprint down the road, putting all I have into running, my lungs burning. Behind me, the noise of the creature’s progress grows into a rumbling, grinding roar. The strange ripples in the pavers I noticed earlier seem not so inexplicable now.

It growls, a deafening sound that reverberates through my body, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It may be huge, but it’s fast and, I bet, hungry. The mage clutches his side, a step ahead of me now. Nor will I be able to continue this fast much farther. Neither of us can outrun this thing.

I do the one thing I can think of — I leap through the window of the building next to me, shouting for the mage to follow. He wheels around and clambers over the sill a moment later, his breath coming in short, pained gasps as he drops to the floor.

“This way.” I pull a glowstone from my pocket and raise it high enough to bring an exit into focus. We barrel through the room toward the hallway. I barely register the eerie emptiness of the place — no cloth, no furniture, no doors — only the shriveled remains of people scattered here and there like fallen autumn leaves.

The creature howls, an ear-splitting sound of fury. Its tentacles scrabble through the window behind us, stabbing into corners in search of its prey. Boots skidding over the gritty floor, I plunge into the central corridor and find salvation: stairs.

I don’t say anything, half hoping the mage will choose a different route, but he follows on my heels. I take the stairs two and three at a time, far more worried about the horrific creature behind us.

As we reach the landing, the beast finds the front entry and a mass of tentacles fly down the hall toward us, smashing against the walls and scrabbling up the stairs. I continue up the next flight, the mage panting out curses in a language I don’t know. At the end of the hall, I see a window, but it’s already filling with tentacles. What
is
this creature?

As I turn to ascend the final set of stairs to the roof, something flashes past the window, bright as the midday sun.
Magic.
I’m not sure what being could work magic in such a place as this, but the pureness of the light gives me hope. I scramble upwards as the tentacles whip down the hall, talons gouging the staircase.

The mage behind me falters, boots sliding. He’s barely three steps ahead of the creature. It’ll have him in a heartbeat, and he’ll die.

And he’s only here because of me.

I lunge to grab his arm and haul him to the landing. He fastens his fingers around my wrist, pulling himself out of reach of the claws behind him. They scrape blindly at the bottom of the stairs, ripping up chunks of stone, but they can’t get any closer.

“Up,” I say, releasing him and turning toward the next step.

He doesn’t let go of me.

My gaze snaps to his, fear prickling my fingers and making my legs feel strange. “No,” I whisper. “Don’t—”

“It needs a meal,” the mage says, voice rasping, “and it won’t be me.” He yanks me off balance. I cry out, jerking away from him and lashing out with my glowstone. I manage to smack him hard across the face, but then his boot comes between my feet. For a sickening moment I teeter on the edge of the stairs.

Get back!

I barely register the words ringing in my mind before the mage shoves me, hard. I swallow a scream, throwing my arms up to shield my head as I fall. I slam down the stairs, bouncing toward the mass of tentacles.

Feet first — get your feet first!

I follow the shouted advice mindlessly, twisting my body as I come to a stop amidst a tangle of three or four great tentacles.

Don’t move.

Someone is talking inside my head, and it’s not me. Somehow, that’s almost worse than lying surrounded by the talons of a nightmare monster. Almost.

I lie still, trying not to give in to panic, to flail my way back up to the landing. I’m desperately aware that my shoulder rests ever so gently against one of the tentacles. They aren’t moving either, though. They’ve gone strangely calm. In the sudden quiet, I can hear the mage’s boots thudding across the roof above me. I wonder if the beast can hear them, too, or if it can feel the pounding of my heart through its skin. Or perhaps hear the same voice that’s in my head.

Hysteria bubbles up within me. I clamp down on it ferociously, make myself breathe slowly.

The rippling limbs shift, the talons leaving huge gashes as the creature retreats back down the hall. I curl in on myself as a tentacle beside me lifts, but the thing apparently can’t see me here, and must not feel me, for the dry, scaly arm slides past and retracts through the window.

More silence, so overwhelming it fills my ears and laps at the edges of my mind. Where’s the mage? The beast?

Wait here,
counsels my invisible helper. Am I losing my mind? Have I somehow cobbled together a guardian from the people of a past I no longer remember, a conglomerate of voices to scare me witless when I most need to keep my thoughts clear? Or maybe it’s someone who knows how to survive murderous mages and impossible monsters. I press my palms to my ears, because even though the speaker makes the silence easier to bear, I don’t want to hear him again. I’d rather listen to the over-loud sound of my breathing, the rush of blood in my ears.

Think. Which way should I go? Which way will be safer — up or down? I’d better move, because dealing with two enemies at the same time is much worse than just one. I sit up, taking stock of my body. Everything hurts, but nothing feels broken or sprained. I release my ears to run my hands over myself, checking for cuts I haven’t noticed, some terrible damage my brain might have failed to report to me. My ribs ache, and so does my left hip, but beyond that I seem surprisingly unscathed. My pack appears to have protected my back. I reach for the dull oval of my glowstone.

The building shudders. The mage shrieks, the sound of his terror cutting through the air. Three great talons curl through the open doorway above me, slamming into the high ceiling and tearing through it. I dive off the stairs as shattered stones tumble down the steps, a scream lodged in my throat. Tentacles swing overhead, curling around the edge of the floor and digging into the walls.

The mage cries out again, words that have the sound of old magic, though there’s nothing here to fuel them. But there should be — sunlight filters through the dust and debris. At least it should have some power left.

Run,
the voice in my head orders.

Wait,
I respond, and reach a trembling hand out to the sun. I strain with all my senses, reaching out past the tips of my fingers, but there’s nothing. So impossible. There has to be
something
. I of all people should be able to touch the fiery potential of sunlight. With my face tilted up and eyes closed, I search for the force that must be there.

And then I find it — a huge spidery web of magic drawn together at a central mass, pulsing with power, spreading tendrils over the roof of the building, moving and stretching. The beast.

I step forward, concentrating on my vision of the creature. In my mind, it glows in the sea of darkness above me, the innumerable tentacles coalescing in a central body. I see its eyes, round and disc-like, its great beak-like maw nestled at the center of its tentacles, edges sharp as blades. Strands of magic outline each joint, each scale, as if the creature were made solely of energy before being given physical form. The filaments pulse with magic that flows freely along the beast’s limbs, the whole in perfect balance.

Except for a single thinner strand where one of the tentacles meets the creature’s body.

I hear a faint
whoosh
and the bright burst of light I saw before passes above me once more. With my mage sight, I perceive it as a small ball of brilliance hurtling through the air, side-swiping the monster. I have an ally of some sort, though I have no idea who it is. As the orb’s illumination passes, I hear a strange, gurgling cry that may or may not be the monster.

Run now or it’ll be too late.

I shake my head. I doubt I’ll get more than a half block away from this thing before it hunts me down. Better to fight than run. I have only this moment, this heartbeat.

Focusing on the strands of the creature’s illusory web, I reach straight for the thinning thread using all the power left in my body: the river air I can still feel deep in my lungs, the dark blood in my veins, the sunlight stored within my bones. My magic crosses the distance to the beast. With a single, deft twist, I catch the strand and snap it.

A surge of magic rebounds against me. I cry out, staggering back against the stone steps, holding up my hands as if by their simple physical reality, I can push back the power of the beast. Gasping, I fight to find my focus. The monster is not yet undone. There’s a scraping sound again, somewhere both far and near, my hearing suddenly unreliable.

Already the beast’s magic has begun to weave itself back together.
No
. I catch the loose end of the spell thread and yank with all my might. The beast roars, and the next moment a writhing mass slams through the hole in the roof, talons slicing down to embed themselves in the stairs two paces above me.

I edge away, half-mesmerized by claws as long as my calf. It should have worked. Pull the strand and the spell should have come apart at the seams.

At the seams.

Sewing is something I’ve learned quite well this past year. Stormwind made me pick out my stitches whenever they weren’t straight enough. To open a seam quickly, you need to snip the thread in two places,
then
pull.

I dart forward, shying away from the nearest talon and throwing my arms around the tentacle itself. It’s smooth and cool, snakelike. Still holding tight to the loose strand far above me with my magical senses, I dig into the web of enchantments within the tentacle, tearing at it
.
My fingers slide over the scales, but under my hands, the magic itself ripples, jerks. I clench my teeth and pull harder.

The strand snaps. I pull at it with all my strength. It tightens, then suddenly glides free, a long spider-silk thread glowing blue-white in my mage sight. I pull it close so that it can’t retract and it loops around me, filling the hollows within me with stone and dust. My skin hums with it, my ears buzzing.

The spell-beast howls, a sound of rage — and pain. The other limbs jerk away, but the one I hold remains still.

All I’ve done is break off one piece of the central body. Hunkered down beside the now-motionless tentacle, I wrap my arms around myself and use my senses to reach out to the next one as it writhes away from me.
Reach, twist, snap, and pull.

Wave after wave of magic released from the beast slams against me. Agony hammers at me from inside my skull. The beast roars again, but the sound is muted, distant. My breath wheezes, shaky and uncertain. I’ve done too much, absorbed too much of the harsh power that made this creature.

Can you move?

If I had the energy, I’d laugh. Moving seems like an utterly bizarre suggestion right now. I close my eyes and listen for the beast. I can hear the sound of stone scraping, a great echoing thud, and then fainter noises, until all that’s left is my own breath rustling in my lungs.

Are you wounded?

What an aggravating voice. It’ll probably keep talking until I tell it something.

’M all right,
I think in reply. And then,
Too much magic.

The severed tentacle remains beside me, talon buried deep in the stairs. The long scaly appendage of it, dull gray and lifeless, curves up the staircase and disappears over its edge. A second tentacle, its claw dug into the landing, arcs above me and ends in a jagged line against the too-bright sunlit sky.

I lay my palm on the scales. The surface is rough, gritty, the magic gone from it. I stagger to my feet. When I pull my hand away, bits of rock crumble to the floor, leaving the tentacle’s surface pitted and uneven. I’ve heard of magic that manipulated stone, but I’ve never imagined it on such a massive level.

Stooping, I retrieve my glowstone, then resettle my pack on my shoulders, wincing at the new bruises I’ve accumulated. I need to leave before anything else that lives in this cursed place comes hunting me.

Above me, the demolished stairwell brightens. My mage sight tells me it’s the friendly ball of magic I sensed earlier. A moment later, a flame curves around the monster’s stone tentacle rising high above the stairs and swoops down to the landing. I close my eyes against the onslaught of light.

“Mageling,” a voice says, the light dimming.

Through slitted eyes I see a bird standing on the landing. It’s at least as large as a peacock, and that’s where its likeness to a mere bird ends. Its body flickers with a flame that knows no heat, gold and ruby and sapphire. It’s warmth and comfort, beauty and radiance. For a heartbeat I simply stare in awe.

“You did well,” the phoenix says. “From what you accomplished, I expected to find a master mage.”

I shake my head. “Is he … is the mage dead?” I ask, my voice hoarse. Even as I form the words, I know the answer.

“The beast caught him. There was no helping him.”

I rub my arms. I’m glad the mage is dead, deeply grateful I no longer have to fear him, and yet it sickens me. As far as I can remember, in perhaps a year of living, I have caused the death of three people: the fang I left behind in Blackflame’s cages; the fang lord Kol upon whom I unleashed my sunbolt; and now this mage, who threw me to my death and so, no doubt, saved me.

Three people. Not knowing the names of two of them makes it a hundred times worse. But I tried to help the mage — it was his choice to push me down the stairs, to race up to his destruction. It wasn’t my fault. Except that I snuck through the portal knowing he might follow. I led him here.

“Come,” the phoenix says, voice soft. “There are other creatures that wander this place. You must leave now or risk facing them.”