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.There could be no regrets, no sorrow of the Magewarden, no guilt or hesitation.The thing he sought to touch understood few things about mortals and emotion, but it knew weakness and pain—and it knew hunger; it knew revenge.It would devour any indecision, any soft thought, and destroy Shandaular anew.Arcs of bright energy sped beneath him, Nar runes glowing an angry green while the more dominant Ilythiiri symbols radiated an aura of blackness.The light burned his eyes even as another swath of the pattern writhed and fell away, revealing a window on the dying city outside.Throngs of people ran through the streets, trying to escape the swords of the Nentyarch's soldiers.Ash and flame showered the crowded masses, cut down in splashes of violence as a massive plume of curling smoke rose from where the portal had been.Arkaius had saved as many as he could and many had escaped the fate of Shandaular, but he could not save them all and his sacrifice was not suffered by him alone."That is the history that will become Rashemen's future."Anilya stood a few paces away as the window faded back to stone.Bastun pushed himself up to sit on his knees.His head swam as he looked toward the durthan, his arms limp at his sides, though the bright edge of a simple pommel lay shimmering but an arm's span away.Through half-lidded eyes he watched Anilya pace, the first signs of frustration on her face as she examined more of the patterns.The room's vortex surrounded them at the center of the chamber."Overrun by its enemies," Anilya continued, "left to rot.Spent and useless.Created by cowardice to stand only as piles of stone, ash, and ruin."She turned, waving her hands over another stretch of the floor, each step leading her closer to the center of the pattern.Bastun leaned forward, stretching to reach the handle of the sword.His fingertips brushed the pommel, and his breath was stolen as Athumrani's spirit grasped at his hand.He fought the Magewarden's spirit, forcing the ghost's will to obey his own.The leather-wrapped handle was cold to the touch, a respite from the fever of the cursed ring.As he pulled on the Breath, its blade scraped against the floor, a hollow screech of steel that disrupted the vortex of the chamber.He heard the durthan pause her low chanting and turn to face him.Fear gave him the energy he needed to lift the weapon and cradle it in his arms.Anilya smiled, though a cruel amusement played through her eyes at what she saw."A sword, is it? Shall you run me through? Is this what you came for?" Incredulous laughter hid behind each syllable."You should have killed me when you had the chance—and the strength—to do so."He could not defeat her.He knew as much long before entering the Word, had contemplated the moment she would be successful in reaching it.A part of him always knew it would come to this, and that part frightened him more than the Word itself.The spell he needed drifted and slid through a haze of pain in his mind.The words, the gestures came slowly, bit by bit.He struggled to ignore the screaming sorrow of Athumrani, the dull ache of his bleeding wound, and the pain of each rattling breath he forced into his lungs.The strength he needed was there—scattered and hiding throughout his body, but there.Forcing his eyes to remain open, he watched as if in a dream as shadows gathered behind the durthan.They separated and settled, forming blobs of shifting and blurry darkness, though one appeared as she had in life.The Magewarden's daughter—her name unspoken in Athumrani's ravings, lost to time—did not truly look upon him, but he imagined that she saw him through the image of her father.Her lip trembled, her eyes begged him to stop, and he felt his strength wane."Forgive me," he said, and the words were his own, not the father lost to sorrow and unreason.The children faded as he focused on Anilya, saw in her the last fragment of strength he desired.He gathered it to him—all the anger and guilt, to be done with it and court freedom, to spend it all on one choice.On the edge of his own abyss, to stop his enemy, he must grant her desire."Forgive?" Anilya said, confused, and her eyes widened as he reversed his grip on the Breath, the blade angling down, point-first toward the floor.She raised her hands, her voice chanting the first syllables of a killing spell, but Bastun was more prepared.The magic leaped from his hand, a simple incantation, but effective.An airy orb surged forward, thrumming loudly and striking Anilya in the chest.She fell backward, her own spell lost in the discordant sound as she slammed to the floor.Bastun did not look down, the exact placement of the blade unimportant.Instead he kept his gaze fully on the durthan, his master's murderer [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.There could be no regrets, no sorrow of the Magewarden, no guilt or hesitation.The thing he sought to touch understood few things about mortals and emotion, but it knew weakness and pain—and it knew hunger; it knew revenge.It would devour any indecision, any soft thought, and destroy Shandaular anew.Arcs of bright energy sped beneath him, Nar runes glowing an angry green while the more dominant Ilythiiri symbols radiated an aura of blackness.The light burned his eyes even as another swath of the pattern writhed and fell away, revealing a window on the dying city outside.Throngs of people ran through the streets, trying to escape the swords of the Nentyarch's soldiers.Ash and flame showered the crowded masses, cut down in splashes of violence as a massive plume of curling smoke rose from where the portal had been.Arkaius had saved as many as he could and many had escaped the fate of Shandaular, but he could not save them all and his sacrifice was not suffered by him alone."That is the history that will become Rashemen's future."Anilya stood a few paces away as the window faded back to stone.Bastun pushed himself up to sit on his knees.His head swam as he looked toward the durthan, his arms limp at his sides, though the bright edge of a simple pommel lay shimmering but an arm's span away.Through half-lidded eyes he watched Anilya pace, the first signs of frustration on her face as she examined more of the patterns.The room's vortex surrounded them at the center of the chamber."Overrun by its enemies," Anilya continued, "left to rot.Spent and useless.Created by cowardice to stand only as piles of stone, ash, and ruin."She turned, waving her hands over another stretch of the floor, each step leading her closer to the center of the pattern.Bastun leaned forward, stretching to reach the handle of the sword.His fingertips brushed the pommel, and his breath was stolen as Athumrani's spirit grasped at his hand.He fought the Magewarden's spirit, forcing the ghost's will to obey his own.The leather-wrapped handle was cold to the touch, a respite from the fever of the cursed ring.As he pulled on the Breath, its blade scraped against the floor, a hollow screech of steel that disrupted the vortex of the chamber.He heard the durthan pause her low chanting and turn to face him.Fear gave him the energy he needed to lift the weapon and cradle it in his arms.Anilya smiled, though a cruel amusement played through her eyes at what she saw."A sword, is it? Shall you run me through? Is this what you came for?" Incredulous laughter hid behind each syllable."You should have killed me when you had the chance—and the strength—to do so."He could not defeat her.He knew as much long before entering the Word, had contemplated the moment she would be successful in reaching it.A part of him always knew it would come to this, and that part frightened him more than the Word itself.The spell he needed drifted and slid through a haze of pain in his mind.The words, the gestures came slowly, bit by bit.He struggled to ignore the screaming sorrow of Athumrani, the dull ache of his bleeding wound, and the pain of each rattling breath he forced into his lungs.The strength he needed was there—scattered and hiding throughout his body, but there.Forcing his eyes to remain open, he watched as if in a dream as shadows gathered behind the durthan.They separated and settled, forming blobs of shifting and blurry darkness, though one appeared as she had in life.The Magewarden's daughter—her name unspoken in Athumrani's ravings, lost to time—did not truly look upon him, but he imagined that she saw him through the image of her father.Her lip trembled, her eyes begged him to stop, and he felt his strength wane."Forgive me," he said, and the words were his own, not the father lost to sorrow and unreason.The children faded as he focused on Anilya, saw in her the last fragment of strength he desired.He gathered it to him—all the anger and guilt, to be done with it and court freedom, to spend it all on one choice.On the edge of his own abyss, to stop his enemy, he must grant her desire."Forgive?" Anilya said, confused, and her eyes widened as he reversed his grip on the Breath, the blade angling down, point-first toward the floor.She raised her hands, her voice chanting the first syllables of a killing spell, but Bastun was more prepared.The magic leaped from his hand, a simple incantation, but effective.An airy orb surged forward, thrumming loudly and striking Anilya in the chest.She fell backward, her own spell lost in the discordant sound as she slammed to the floor.Bastun did not look down, the exact placement of the blade unimportant.Instead he kept his gaze fully on the durthan, his master's murderer [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]