God of Broken Things

Chapter 13

In the summer of six years past, I had entered that very same door to Kil Noth with hopes of salvation in my heart instead of blackest dread. I had been ragged in body and mind from four years of constant running, hiding, and futilely hoping that the daemons hunting me would eventually give up and leave me alone. I had faked my death and succeeded in throwing the Arcanum off my trail, but even that cunning victory had not offered as much respite as I had yearned for – the shadow cats had proven relentless and would never, ever, give up the hunt.

I had been so sick of travel, terrible food and bad drink in grimy rural taverns, dicing for coin with rigged dice and then moving on – always moving on after only a few short days. All the faces and names blurred into one, and it had got to the point I’d barely taken notice of tavernkeeps and serving girls as separate people: they were all just actors on a stage playing the same old roles.

If my survival in exile had not been all that ensured the safety of my old friends Lynas, Charra and Layla, then I might have ended my life long before then. Many a time I had stood atop a cliff and looked down at the white-topped waves crashing against jagged rocks while thinking of a home I would never see again. I had often pondered taking that single short step forward. A growing part of me had urged me to do it and find some rest and peace, but I never could – I loved my friends and I was too stubborn to let the enemy win. In any case, I’d always been good at putting things off until tomorrow, always the next tomorrow…

I had been filled with despair and thought that maybe, just maybe, the Gifted of the Clanholds might be able to offer me some sort of safety and rest – after all, was I not their kin on my mother’s side? I knew only a very little about my family history back then, some pieced together from the scraps my mother had let slip over the years, and the rest gathered from her ravings as madness and strange voices consumed her mind shortly before her death.

The farmers in the valley just up from Barrow Hill had eyed my tattered clothing and looked at me curiously when I asked where I might find the Gifted of the Clanholds. After a bit of word-wrangling they realised that I meant those of them born with magic. “Aye, that’ll be the druí of Kil Noth then, pal,” one said, offering directions.

As I gave my thanks, shouldered my pack and moved on, he had offered some parting words of wisdom that I should have taken to heart: “Be careful and make no deals, traveller. Those druí care more about their spirits than they do about the likes of us.”

I arrived in the village that sprawled around the foot of the holdfast with a powerful thirst and a rumbling belly. To my surprise, I found somebody waiting for me in the tavern, her hood up, sitting in my favoured seat in the corner, the one that offered my back against the wall and eyes on all windows and doors.

Her blind and cloth-bound head turned to me, and she smiled, dazzling me with warmth. “Well met, Edrin Walker. Come sit with me a’while. No need to run, I have been expecting ye. The spirits have told me o’ your troubles.”

She wore robes of exceptionally fine cut, woven with wild wardings more like Clansfolk tattoos than those of carefully studied Setharii craft, but no less magical for all that. She was strongly Gifted, and knew my instinctive reaction had been to leg it right back out of the door.

“You know me, but who are you?” I’d demanded. “My name is Angharad,” she replied, pulling back her hood to reveal long snow-white hair framing features so very like my mother’s. “And I am your granny. Sit here by the fire, grandchild, you must be exhausted after all your travels.”

I gaped at her, my heart pounding as I thumped down opposite. She smelled faintly of lavender and pine, my mother’s favourite scents bringing a tear to my eyes. Nowadays I suspected that had been a deliberate ploy, damn the vile creature, but back then I had been dumbfounded. My mother had never mentioned my grandmother was Gifted, or still alive come to that. In fact she had barely mentioned her life before Setharis at all. I was a magus, and most of us stopped ageing at some point, though usually later on in life, and as such my grandmother’s youth was surprising but not shocking.

“I did not know ye existed,” she said, sadly. “Otherwise I would have come for ye long ago. My daughter, is she…”

“Dead a long time,” I said gruffly.

The girl nodded, forehead wrinkling with sorrow – or so I’d thought at the time. “That blessed, tormented child should never have run from here. Your mother needed the help only I could give her. And I, hers. I searched up and down all Kaladon for years, but neither hide nor hair of her was ever found. In a place as big as Setharis I suppose you cannot find one who does not wish to be found.”

“Oh?” I said, my hope hardening with caution. “Why did she run in the first place?”

“The spirits,” she replied. “Your mother never came to respect them as I do. Their voices only served to frighten the flighty and nervous child she was. She had such rare talent, and they offer such wisdom and power to those chosen few who share our ancient blood.” She turned to look at me, her eyes blind behind the strip of cloth, yet still seeming to meet and hold my gaze. “And now in turn they offer ye safety and respite from those daemonic beasts that hunt ye. They are closing in, but there is a way to keep them from ye if we hurry. Then we will have many years to grow to know each other better. After all this time, my grandchild has come home.” She sniffed and wiped a tear from her pale, tattooed cheek.

Home. The word pierced my heavy heart. Setharis was forbidden to me, but I still had family, and another place to call home if I wished it. The years of running and solitude weighed on me like a lead coat, but finally here was somebody on my side willing and able to help. I could finally rest and be happy again. Hope swelled inside me, bubbling out into a muffled sob.

She embraced me warmly, arms wrapped tight around me as if she never wanted to let go. “Hush now, child. There’s no need for that. We are kin, ye and I. Blood binds us together stronger than steel.” She placed her hand on my then-smooth and unscarred cheek and her skin felt cool and comforting. “We are kin, and that means we face the perils o’ this world together – and those perils had best be afraid. I am so sorry, my child. Ye must have been so alone all these many years. Well no more will ye have to run and hide. Ye are home w’your old granny now and she’ll take care o’ everything, never ye fear.”

What could I have done but say yes? Such a trusting fool. I had wanted to believe in her so much that even my usual cynicism and paranoia gave way before the bond of family, treacherous though it turned out to be. Finally, I’d had hope for the future.

It took my grandmother three days to prepare the ritual, in between spending as much time with me as she was able, listening to my entire life story and cursing out the Arcanum and the Setharii gods for not helping me. I had been all alone for years, but now I had my grandmother looking out for me, and that was a glorious gift beyond all compare.

When the time came she took my arm and led me into the holdfast. Her scent and slender form were again so very like my mother’s that it threw my mind into turmoil. I think that was the whole point, to keep me from thinking too much. My memory of what followed is fragmented and fuzzy, partly from pain and fear, and partly thanks to whatever alchemic she was about to pour down my throat.

It was a sacred ritual, she said, handing me a drink, one brewed and infused with special magic to call her great spirit and bestow its protection upon me. I was so desperate to believe this would solve all my problems that I did as she wished without reservation. I drank the liquid from an engraved bowl and the next thing I remember are the nightmares: the running for my life as hideous snapping monsters with too many legs and eyes tried to eat my face, the screaming frantic flight through a world that was not my own, inhabiting a body that was not quite human flesh and blood.

My magic had roared through me as I frantically sought a way to escape, and in my panic I managed to latch on to a black thread of thought that lead my mind back to the realm it had come from. It led me home to my own human body, and I woke atop a stone slab screaming and clawing at the air, drenched in sweat that sparkled with ice crystals.

“No!” my grandmother shrieked. “Ye are ruining it. Ruining it!” Her blindfold was off and her eyes – her three amethyst eyes – boiled over with virulent magic.

I sat upright, groggy, breath heaving. “What was that?” As I regained my senses I attempted to slide off and get to my feet. “What’s happening? What are you doing to me?”

She placed a hand on my chest to stop me, firm as an iron bar. “Shut your mouth, ye disgusting piece o’ foreign filth. We try again immediately, until it succeeds or ye die trying.” I tried to move but she pushed me back down with remorseless inhuman strength.

Panic reared its ugly urgent head and I struggled. “Not a chance. I am done with this stupid ritual. Fuck this shite.” It was all wrong, and she was all wrong. There was no love to be found in her twisted expression. All my dreams of home and family went up in flames, a cunning lie told to a stupid gullible boy she knew had yearned to believe it. “I am leaving.”

“So be it,” my grandmother hissed. “We shall do this the hard way, ye ungrateful derelict.” She punched me full in the face and I slammed back, head rattling off stone. The metal tang of blood from a split lip filled my mouth. Another blow followed, then another. She leapt atop me, straddling my waist.

I tried to shove her off but my body felt heavy and clumsy, still affected by whatever alchemic she had given me. “Don’t make me use my magic on you.”

Her face twisted with cruel and heartless fury. “Ye are nothing, just street filth squeezed out o’ an ungrateful cunt o’ a daughter.

Ye will obey me!” She looked down on me with those sinister, glowing purple eyes that saw nothing but a tool of her making. “Ye would be foolish to try your Gift. I am warded against all magic. I created your faithless wretch of a mother, boy, and in the stupid cow’s absence her vulgar whelp must take her place in the ritual. For ye the future holds nothing save a life sacrificed to serve a greater purpose. I have dreamed o’ ye wading through rivers of blood as thousands die around ye. It is better that your life ends now to usher in a better future directed by my hands. At least your pathetic life will have a point to it.”

She waved to a wall where thirty-six yellowed skulls sat in niches. “There sit your aunts and uncles, who proved unGifted and their bodies unable to withstand the Queen o’ Winter’s power. Useless wretches the lot o’ them – Gifted children are so very rare. But ah, your ungrateful mother… such promise wasted! How glad I am ye are here to take that ugly cow’s place.”

“Go fuck a goat, you syphilitic whore,” I spat into her face, along with a goodly blob of phlegm and blood. “You are insane – you murdered your own children!”

She snarled and her nails extended into claws. “Not children. Flawed spawn carried in my belly like sacks o’ gold that turned to shite when they dropped. Useless creatures. But your body will serve me well – that harlot o’ a daughter did something right after all. I shall force the pact upon ye by carving the Queen o’ Winter’s name directly into your heart as painfully as possible.” She smirked as her claws raked down my cheek and neck, ripping deep through flesh and muscle before plunging into my chest, digging through muscle towards my heart.

My face burned like the wounds had been doused with salt and acid. Blood poured out of me. Agony chased away my grogginess. Warded against all magic was she? I thought not – when was the last time a proper mind-fucker like me was around? Far beyond her lifetime. I opened my Gift and slammed into her mind, squeezing hard. I didn’t give a crap if the shadow cats found my scent here and killed her because of it.

One of her wardings had some small effect on my power but it was probably a half-remembered ancient structure passed down through the centuries, one nowhere near strong enough to defy me. It wasn’t like they could have tested it.

Angharad was tough, many centuries old from the stray thoughts flashing through her mind, and she resisted mightily.

She gasped and drew her dripping claws back, shaking her head. It gave me enough time to reach up and grab the front of her robes. I pulled her down as I sat up, my forehead ramming into her nose.

We both screamed in pain, mine from the gaping wounds in my face and neck, and her from a broken nose and my blood in her crystal eyes.

She tumbled to the floor and I rolled off the slab to fall atop her, elbow crunching deep into her stomach. I went mad, punching her in the face, over and over until she shoved me off with one hand. I flew backwards into a wall with bone-jarring impact.

I had been too enraged by pain and panic to notice this lesser pain and surged back to kick her in the side. As I went for a second blow she grabbed my foot and twisted, taking me down.

She came at me claws bared, then slowed as I found a crack in her mind, forced myself into the oozing darkness inside and ordered her to stop. Her mind was like sticking my hand up an angry badger’s arse – she fought me every step with feral rage like I had never felt before.

The door to the chamber ground back and two angry druí in robes stormed in, shouting about their spirits sensing blood spilled across their holy signs.

At my command, Angharad dropped in a daze while I faced the other two. One flung razor shards of ice at me. I dodged, then kicked him in the balls hard enough to kill his unborn children. I smashed the other’s face into the wall and sprinted past, clutching my ruined cheek in one hand as she fell back spitting blood and teeth. I would have killed Angharad if I’d had the time but I could hear others stirring in the tunnels and rooms nearby. I only knew that I had to get out of that subterranean pit of daemons and take my chances under an honest sky.

The rest of that week was all a blur of blood and panic and pain, of frantic, vicious fights for survival and scrabbling down slopes of scrubby scree by moonlight as I fled on foot through the slumbering valleys.

I had vowed to never again venture anywhere near Kil Noth unless it was to kill my grandmother.

Perhaps when all of this Scarrabus nonsense was over and done with I would see about fulfilling that old promise. For now, I was here and being marched into the depths of Kil North all over again on my grandmother’s orders, except this time I was the angry badger with sharpened claws and wicked teeth bared that they were letting into their home. I was sure they would end up regretting it.