Captured Sky

The smell was the first thing Havoc noticed. It wafted from the entrance of the lizard’s lair and wrestled with his nostrils. The battle was intense. Against the pungent stench of what he assumed was excrement and rotting flesh, he had no meaningful defence. He lifted an arm to cover his nose, but the reek passed through the fabric of The Cloak of Mirrors as though it were not there at all. It struggled down his throat choking him, threatening to displace the content of his stomach onto the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes, he retched. Hunched over, he fought to hold on to his latest meal. It was an uphill battle but wiping his mouth, he stood to full height, breathed deeply, and allowed his stomach to settle.

It could not be helped. Though electric dread surged at the notion of enduring a stronger dose of the noxious fumes, he stepped into the lair.

His nose had acted as a seer. The lair was exactly as he had expected. Mounds of black clay-like faeces littered the space. Large bones protruded from the piles. Some stripped bare, others had patches of rotted meat clinging to them. Though foul odours saturated every inch of the space, it was especially concentrated by the piles holding the most bones.

Like the rest of the cave, the lair was lit by luminous moss. Though it was not as abundant as in the larger chambers, there was light enough to see. As for whether this was a good thing, Havoc was of two minds. The hazards of the lair were many. Had he possessed all the soap in Stone Garden, he was not convinced it would be sufficient to cleanse the befoulment of accidentally falling into a mound. However, as his eyes glanced the maggot-ridden, half-mauled carcasses scattered about, he could not summon the gratitude usually warranted of the gift of sight.

The buzz of insects circling the waste was the only sound within. Atop the backdrop of utter silence, it was a piercing noise. Distinct and unpleasant, it conspired with his other means of perception in confirmation of what each individual sense needed no alibi for which to testify. The lair was wholly disgusting. Yet…

It was faint, but he could feel its presence. Deeper within, a remnant hid. Following the directions within the letter Anne’s peculiar owl had left with him, he had located the great reptile’s lair. Annalise assured he would find a replacement to The Thirsty Edge.

The scarlet blade had carried him far. Its cutting edge and restorative abilities had saved his life countless times since his Inheritance. But it was falling apart. It would not survive its next use. Examining his mangled hand, he knew his time with the falchion was short. Unwilling to be defenceless for even a moment within the cave, he had restrained himself from undoing the wounds of his latest battles. However, once the new remnant was in sight, he was resolved in destroying the sword to restore his grip.

No point in overthinking things, he thought, hesitant to open his mouth lest the stench further overwhelm his senses. No step taken was sanitary, but doing his best to avoid the most defiling obstructions, he treaded deeper into the lair.

He almost missed it. Laying unassumingly on its side, tucked beneath an overhanging protrusion of the side wall, his eyes had glanced the spear without registering its presence. It was only after he had walked passed that he could perceive it. He did not have much knowledge of remnants. His time within the Chamber of Inheritance provided some first hand experience and Annalise had expanded on his education. Nevertheless, there was much he still did not understand about the strange relics. However, one thing he knew for certain, remnants spoke to their chosen Inheritors. When he walked past the weapon hidden beneath rock and camouflaged in dirt, instantly he paused when it whispered its name.

“The Buried Strike.”

Searching through sound for the source of the uttering was futile for the spear spoke into his mind. Still, knowing it was nearby, Havoc interrogated his surroundings and it was not long before he set his eyes on the filth covered spear.

“I shall pierce the ground to skewer who would oppose our will.”

With his right hand, he gently squeezed his damaged left. Wincing, he quickly retracted his right before summoning The Thirsty Edge into his grip. He lifted the scarlet sword to the light. Deep fractures lined the blade. Each scar marring the mystic steel substituted from his own. Without the healing power of the blade, he would not have survived. Knowing the remnant had taken him as far as it would go did nothing to sweeten the bitter pill of having to swallow its loss.

‘You’ve been faithful,’ he said. Though the foul miasma of the lair rushed down his throat, The Thirsty Edge had earned a spoken tribute.

Tightening his grip, he channelled harmony into his link to the blade. The Thirsty Edge flared bright and a warmth flooded his hand. The misaligned joints of his fingers snapped back into place and the seeping gashes closed before his eyes. He flexed his left; it was as good as new, but the scarlet blade dulled, cracked, and disintegrated into nothing.

***

It would not be much further. The Marshland Cavern was The White Temptress’ domain. He had long intruded her lands and was not far from her dwelling place. On his first excursion deep into the Marshland, she had come as a surprise. Passing through a tunnel, he had crept the narrow space on his hands and knees. When he had emerged, she was there to greet him. Her unnatural charm paralysed him; her ferocious speed overwhelmed him. He had barely escaped.

If she followed me back…

Pushing the thought from his mind, he refocused on the task at hand.

Possessing The Thirsty Edge no more, he knew he could no longer recklessly charge into battle. Rarely had he secured victory without injury. Often, he had landed critical strikes simply because he knew he could reverse the damage of the countering blows. That tactic would no longer serve him.

The Buried Strike…

He called the spear to his hand. Cleansed of the filth that had covered it, the pole was ebony black. So deep was the shade that it reflected no light. From base to tip, the pole-arm dwarfed him. The pole alone stood two feet or so taller than his five-foot-seven and the ivory winged blade added an additional two feet to its length.

With the pole in both hands, he repositioned the spear horizontally and thrust forward. He repeated the movement, increasing the speed of his powerful propulsion as he continued. Acclimating to its reach, he began weaving slashes into his motions. He shuffled backward and charged forward. With one hand near the base of the spear, he struck out, sliding his positioning hand down the weapon until both hands met.

He was no expert in the pole-arm, but its use was intuitive and its advantage apparent. What he had lost in being able to recover from crippling blows, he had gain in the ability to avoid them altogether.

‘It’s not a bad trade,’ he mumbled, positioning the blade of the spear diagonally to the ground. Channelling Harmony into his spirit chain, he thrust the spear into the rock of the cave floor. The blade melted into the ground as if plunged into a lake. With no resistance, the poll followed until it was less than half its length in his grip. As if it were an additional limb, he could feel the spear beneath the surface. He urged it forward and felt it tunnel below. Settling his eyes a distance away, he compelled the spear to follow. Akin to a compressed spring pushing to expand, The Buried Strike yearned to be released. The weapon slurped Harmony as Havoc held it in place.

‘Let’s see what you can do,’ he said as he released the tension suppressing the spear. In an instant, the ivory blade propelled from the ground. Resembling the fang of a colossal predator, the blade protruded from the rocky surface of the cave floor. Had a man stood in its path, he would have been bisected from groin to head.

‘Impressive...’ He said. Unintentional as it was, the word refused to be withheld.

He retracted the spear from the ground, observing as the distant blade retreated simultaneously. When he thrust it down again, a sharp ring of metal striking stone echoed through the cavern. The sound pierced his ears, yet The Buried Strike did not pierce the floor.

It can’t be used in quick succession, he concluded silently. He began to count in his mind. Every second spent, he prodded the ground with the tip of his spear. When half of a minute had passed, the blade slipped into the ground once more.

‘Thirty seconds… That’s not bad, ’ he muttered as the blade cut up from the stone a distance away.

The consumption of Harmony was at its height while the blade lurked below, but it could not be compared to the drain of The Thirsty Edge. However, Havoc’s Harmony was dualistic. Formed of two distinct forces, It battled within him. Neither power able to gain pre-eminence, they circled his core having formed a tentative armistice. While The Cloak Of Mirrors and The Thirsty Edge paid no heed to the distinction between the energies, The Buried Strike received only of one. The imbalance was uncomfortable, but more so, it was limiting. Though his Harmony had grown significantly throughout his trials, The Buried Strike could only draw from half of his reserves.

He would need to be decisive with his ranged attacks. While the spear was summoned, its passive drain on his Harmony was negligible, but positioning the blade for a distant strike increased the spend tremendously. Releasing the attack, once in place, ceased the expenditure. Provided he was resolute in his offence, the limited pool of Harmony The Buried Strike would accept could be mitigated.

His lips fell into a frown. While confident that the drawbacks of his new remnant would not be too burdensome in isolation, the wider implications of the instability within his core posed deeper concerns.

In all of her lecturing, Annalise had never mentioned a duel nature of Harmony. Havoc felt the competing energies so distinctly. They were like fire and ice. Equal and opposite; neither one able to devour the other. The incongruence was so unambiguous as to be defining. If it was a standard experience for Inheritors, Anne would have mentioned it. The fact that she had not, led Havoc to believe that his was a unique constitution. If not unique then certainly uncommon. So rare, in fact, that his all-seeing, all-knowing puppet mistress was seemingly ignorant to the state.

Though he was curious at the time, he chose not to alert the prophetess as to the solitary mystery he was able to keep from her foresight. Resolutely shaking his head, he would not regret his secrecy. Nevertheless, his own ignorance was troubling. So much more so now that it was consequential.

He could not guess at the result of one force overcoming the other. He did not know why The Buried Strike was so partial in the energy it would consume. He inspected the pole-arm in one hand and pondered further.

Is the Strike unique or are there others like it? Would other remnants favour the darker half of my Harmony? Searching his thoughts for answers only led to deeper questions. Though, he believed he had stumbled upon one conclusion.

The entity…

Within the Chamber of Inheritance, whether in body or spirit, he could not say, but he had been taken. Chained before a being of great and terrible power, he had bargained for his life. The memory was disjointed. But he remembered some. Enough… Enough to know it was no dream. The visceral terror of the event had imprinted on his soul.

He did not know what he had exchanged, but he was ever-certain his mix of powers had been his portion…

Shaking his head once again, he dislodged the thought. He was convinced a time would come when all would be made clear, but for now he would focus on his immediate challenge.

The White Temptress...