Wellspring of Chaos

LXXXVII

When Kharl tried to wake up, he could not, and white chaos swirled around him, then blackness, followed by fiery redness, shot with ugly whiteness. Arrows of pain pierced his body, one after the other, endlessly. He felt as though he walked through fire, then through the coldest of winters, and yet, somewhere in the darkness that clouded his thoughts, he knew he had walked not a step.

“Drink this…you must drink this…” Even the words burned through his ears, like flame-tipped arrows, and whatever he drank tasted like liquid fire.

Worst of all, he could not see, as if he were locked behind his own sight and light shields.

At other times, the words spoken to him, as gently phrased as they were, meant nothing. Every word was strange, as if spoken in the language of Hamor or of ancient Westwind, or even of antique and vanished Cyador.

At some point, a cooling blackness descended upon him, and his sleep was deeper, and dreamless.

Days later, he thought, he woke, without the fire, but he still could not see.

He could sense he was in a large room, with a light and cool breeze blowing across his face, a face that felt cracked and dry, and someone sat on a chair beside the wide bed. There was a darkness to that presence. A black mage?

“Lyras?”

“Yes. I could feel the battle from the north, but it took an eightday to get here. Few coasters were willing to chance the voyage with all the reports of Hamorian warships off the shores.”

“Lord Ghrant?”

“He will recover, although he is yet weak.”

“The rebels…the highlanders?” Even a few words seemed to exhaust Kharl.

“All is well…you need to know that, but you also need to rest.”

“You…should…have…been…here.”

A light laugh answered Kharl’s halting words. “Me? I would have been burned at the first firebolt. I don’t know how you did it. There were close to a hundred armsmen that you flamed. Yet you radiate darkness like the strongest of order-mages.”

“Did what…had to…” Kharl was too tired to explain. He could do that later.

“I said you were stronger than I,” offered Lyras.

“Don’t feel…strong.”

“Don’t complain. Most people who took on two white wizards and companies of armsmen and lancers would be three cubits down-if anyone could find enough to bury. That includes mages.”

“…not a real mage…”

“If you’re not a mage, then water isn’t wet, and ice isn’t cold.” Lyras snorted. “Maybe no kind of mage I’ve heard about, but that doesn’t matter. A mage is a mage, and you’re a mage. No question about that.”

“Mages…not that…stupid…. Ghrant still lord?”

“Oh, yes, and matters will be much better now.”

“The Hamorians…their fleet?”

“Oh…that. When they discovered Ilteron was dead, they sailed off. They weren’t interested in shedding their own blood. Just ours. Enough of the questions. You need to rest.”

Kharl wanted to protest, but the cool darkness flowed from Lyras over him, and he could not say a word as he dropped into another deep and dreamless sleep.