Chapter 27: Guardian (Patreon)

Every second hurt. Elliot could feel the pressure of Breka’s presence washing over his core, only tolerable in contrast to the insidious energy rising from below. The sensation of numbness was fighting with nausea, cold with the flush of adrenaline, yet somehow he could still hear the river rushing and feel the sun gently warming his skin. His experience was split down the middle: the physical world still quiet and calm, and the world of energy behind it being torn to pieces.

He could barely think, barely even breath.

Breka reached out a hand toward the earth like she was grasping for something just out of reach, held that pose for an instant, then closed her fist. The calmness of the physical world disappeared. Beneath them, the soil began to fracture and churn. Fragments of what looked like obsidian, each a dozen feet long at least, erupted from below, cutting through the dirt like sharks through the sea. Elliot couldn’t imagine any living creature surviving the assault.

The thing below retreated, pulling back the tendrils of its attention Elliot had felt crawling around Breka’s sense of solidity. Only a few seconds passed before it struck again, this time with a single needle-like projection darting through the roiling morass below and striking at the base of the wagon, right under his seat. He could see it this time, a yellow-green hook of light like the claw of a great beast. The tip struck the wood of the wagonbed, and was repelled by a pulse of pressure from Breka.

The old woman brought her hands apart slowly, like she was fighting through thick fluid, then slammed them together in one sharp motion. Her eyes shone like verdant stars. A hundred feet or more above their heads, a massive chunk of white crystal shifted into existence, easily triple the size of the wagon. Then it fell.

At first it moved no faster than anything dropped from a height, but as it approached the ground it sped up like it had been hit by a hammer, and when it struck it fractured into innumerable shards. Each piece shot down into the mess of soil and stone, vanishing from sight, then there was a massive thump and the earth kicked up below them.

A small island of calm existed around the wagon, but everything else was subsumed in an explosion of light and flying shrapnel, taking almost twenty seconds to fully clear. Elliot jerked his head—fighting the numbness and the cold—to look over his shoulder. Grik was hanging to the back of the wagon like his life depended on it, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the wooden boards. His dresser was, miraculously, still strapped to his back. They existed on a pillar of earth, the remaining soil for fifty feet in every direction gone as if evaporated.

Breka still stood, her eyes shining, emanating ferocious waves of silver-green energy. She peered around, brows drawn together, and waited. Elliot couldn’t feel the noxious presence anymore, but he was well aware that meant exactly nothing. He could barely feel his own body. Finally, after minutes of ragged tension, she slowly sat back down and re-raised whatever veil she used to hide herself from the world.

Like the snuffing of a candle, she became a stooped old lady again. All that stood out were her eyes, still their normal green shot through with silver, but no longer shining. “We need to move. The local powers will be here soon.”

There was a sob from the back of the wagon. “Dear merciful Gods. What happened? Who are you people?” Grik was trembling, still latched to the wood.

The numbness and the cold in his torso and legs had stopped progressing, although they hadn’t really faded. Elliot felt weak, his eyes desperate to flutter shut and let him drift away. But he refused to allow that. “Breka,” he managed hoarsely, “Hadrian?”

“He’ll follow. I’m sorry for the strangeness of what’s about to happen, but we must be swift, and poor Marius isn’t up to it I fear.” The mule twitched his tail as if in agreement, still remarkably calm for all that had just transpired. Breka raised a hand in the air and made a clenching motion.

First, massive pillars of earth began to rise around them, slowly filling in the crater than had been left by her ability. Then, in a sudden reversal, their own isolated pillar of soil began to sink. Grik let out a low moan, clenching his eyes shut again. Elliot took a deep breath. Soon enough the ground closed over their heads, and they began to move.

It was less distressing than Elliot had imagined after Breka’s warning, more similar to a subway ride than anything. Their wagon existed in a pocket of air under the ground, the walls around them a mix of compacted soil and stone, like an earthen shell. It smelled deeply of loam, with a faint undertone of decomposing leaves. “Breka,” he whispered, his throat feeling raw despite having seen very little use.

“Yes?” She replied, looking over at him sharply.

“This is…” he paused, taking a long, slow breath, “your ground pocket. Where’s furniture?”

She snorted out a laugh. “Don’t talk, boy. Your core has been through a lot, and I’m going to need to find healing for you soon.”

“Told you it was a ground pocket,” he said faintly, closing his eyes, feeling the vibration around him as their bubble started to accelerate. His last thought was that he hoped Breka knew what she was doing, and that Hadrian would be okay.

***

He woke up in bed, again. It was becoming an unfortunate habit.

This, though, was far from the well-stuffed and sunlit mattress of healer Arlen’s home. He was on some sort of cot, rough canvas against his back, and there was barely any light. The numbness had faded, but he still felt like absolute garbage.

Bracing himself on his elbows, he pushed up and tried to peer into the gloom. It wasn’t pure darkness, and he could make out squat stone walls with a thick black cloth covering what might have been a window across from his cot.

To his right the door cracked open and Breka shuffled through, stooped and leaning on her walking stick. She held a glowstone lantern that threw back the shadows and made him wince at the sudden brilliance. "Good morning, boy."

Elliot shielded his face with a hand. "Ow."

She jiggled her hand, and the light dimmed slightly. "I'm glad to see you’re feeling better. Don't think this means you get to skip out on training.”

He blinked, adjusting. "Is Hadrian okay? And Grik?"

Breka tilted her head. "Grik is...physically well. Hadrian is fine."

"What was that thing? What happened? What went wrong with the cavern?" His heart started to pound in his chest, memory returning in a visceral rush. "Was it after me? Is it going to come back? Where are we?”

"We’re in a safehouse close to Tular,” she said, “and you’re not in danger, for the moment. Don’t say that name again. Ever.”

The name. Elliot gulped, afraid to even think it. "I won't. Why did we get attacked?”

“Truth be told, I’m not sure. The name is a trigger, but the Guardian has never been so sensitive a single utterance would trigger an all-out assault. It has to be about the figurine, but I masked it the second I took it from you. There shouldn’t have been any leakage.”

“What about—" he paused, clenching his hand, "what about the mark I got?"

"Mark?" Breka said, frowning. "You didn't say anything about a mark. Show me."

Elliot held out his right hand, palm-side up, and slowly uncurled his fingers. The blemish was still there, purple and irregular. He shuddered.

Breka stared at the discoloration, silent, eyebrows climbing. She leaned in slightly, frowned, then reached out to squeeze the marking. "This," she said slowly, releasing his hand, "makes no sense at all. How in all the hells did you get that?"

"It happened when I was putting the statue in my pack. After I appraised it."

"You didnt—" Breka broke off in the middle of her sentence. "Well, I suppose you did appraise it.” She closed her eyes with a sigh, massing her forehead with the handle of her walking stick. "That is…something that shouldn’t exist. Not here, and certainly not connected to you.”

“What?” Elliot asked, alarmed. “Like it’s going to hurt me?”

“It won’t do anything to you.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “There are things I suppose I need to tell you. Secret things. I think I can trust you to keep your mouth shut. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” he replied, swallowing. “I won’t say anything.”

She reached out her staff and poked him lightly in the chest. “See that you don’t. You learned the name of the Titan That Sleeps. I will not say it again. How you did that I have no idea, but you did. A Titan is a being of the ninth circle; the peak of our world. There have been no Titans north of the Crowns for millenia, save for the one bound right here in the Gerrwood.”

“Bound?” Elliot asked softly.

“Bound. No one knows how, why, or precisely where, but somewhere within this particular stretch of wilds lies a beast of unimaginable power. It sleeps, and it must continue to sleep.”

“What attacked us? Was it the Titan?”

Breka let out a soft chuckle. “If the Titan had attacked us, we would be dead, and many others with us. I’m no weakling, but a being at that level would crush me like a dry twig, with barely more than a thought. What attacked us was the Guardian. It’s powerful, and somehow tied to the Titan’s prison. In this particular part of the world, close to where the beast rests, the Guardian is able to sense certain things related to the Sleeper. It doesn’t like its name being spoken, although not usually to the extent of an immediate reprisal on that scale. It’s somewhat mindless, as far as we can tell. A creature of instinct. I imagine your mark made the trigger worse, somehow."

Elliot looked down at his hand. An image of the figurine flashed through his mind, faceted purple crystal and glittering eyes. “It’s the Titan, isn’t it? The figurine. You said it was an idol. It depicts the Titan, and it somehow gave me this mark, which has some kind of connection to the Titan as well.”

“Yes,” she said, looking down as well. “I believe it’s an aborted Sigil.”

He frowned. “A what?”

“A Sigil,” she said, sighing. “A connection between a Titan and a trusted follower. There are supposedly still examples to the far south, where some Titans yet reign, although I don’t claim to know much about that.”

“Trusted follower? That can’t be right.”

“It’s not a real Sigil,” she said, still looking at his hand. “A real Sigil would have a clear pattern, different for every Titan. This carries an energy signature of some kind, but it’s deformed. The figurine was clearly an attempt by someone to create a link to the Titan That Sleeps. A concerningly skillful one. I’ve tried to examine it further, but it’s proving difficult.”

"What could it possibly have been doing in some random part of the Gerrwood if it's so important?”

"That, my boy, is an excellent question." Breka looked back up at his face, and Elliot took the chance to squeeze his hand closed over the mark. “I assume you don't know anything about warrens?"

"Grik said a bit, but I don’t really get it.”

"A warren is a place in the physical world that corresponds to a spike in local ethereal density. Some are young and transient, and some are older than recorded history. When one emerges, it can take almost any form. A cave, an island, even a walled city. The only constant is that it will be, in some way, separated from the world at large.” She paused. "You understand so far?"

"Yes," he replied. It seemed like a very strange thing to happen as a natural phenomenon, but then again what wasn’t strange about this world.

"The ethera soaks into the space, and over time there are items that develop with significant ethereal density themselves. Enchantments, grimoires, spiritbound weapons, unique reagents. Warrens will continue to output these pieces as long as they exist. In this case the warren was barely born, and as weak as they come. Something I was surprised to find in the Gerrwood, but it was a boon for your training, so I moved with perhaps excessive haste.” She paused for a moment, eyes flicking back to his hand. “Someone changed the rules. They picked a weak warren, no doubt the weakest they could find in the hopes that no one of any power would come near, and then they routed artificial ethereal channels to draw and concentrate power. The control required to flood only the developing item and keep the overall warren so weak would be incredible.”

Elliot frowned. "So they're what, farming? Irrigating the warren with energy and planning to harvest the reward that develops."

Breka's lip twitched. "Yes, I suppose so. It's a technique I've never seen put into practice before, requiring immense skill and power, and only possible because of its proximity to the Titan That Sleeps, but why not. Let's call it farming."

“Was it the Talessi?”

Breka’s face gave nothing away. “Perhaps. The Talessi would love to wake the Titan, but this would be a strange technique for them to employ. They’re surprisingly traditional, for all their passion for results. I suspect the involvement of a different faction, although whether they’re directly aligned with the Talessi or not I can’t say.”

Elliot felt a mounting frustration. He’d been overwhelmed by change ever since the end of Earth. Breka was even more powerful than he’d suspected, he was marked by something dangerous he didn’t really understand, and he knew a name that would trigger his immediate murder if he ever spoke it out loud again. And he kept needing to be rescued. “So what do I do about this? What are the actual consequences?”

“For you? Hopefully nothing, although I can’t say for sure because as far as I know this forced attempt at creating a Sigil-bond with a sleeping Titan is a process that has never been attempted before. It doesn’t seem to have worked, so unless something changes, just ignore it.”

“What about not just for me?”

“That’s more complicated, and not something I can discuss freely.” Her eyebrows drew together, and her lips pursed. “But someone is far closer to reaching the Titan than we had thought possible. Our mission was supposed to be simple, some basic reconnaissance and counter-espionage to block whatever nuisance the Talessi were intent on, but this is a completely different kettle of fish. I’ll need to gather more information while you and Hadrian go ahead to Tular.”

“I want to help,” Elliot said, feeling his eyelids start to droop and forcing them back up. “Can’t you use the mark somehow, even if it didn’t make it to a full Sigil? Use some kind of tracing magic or something?”

Breka snorted. “Stick to what you know, boy. If I need your help with experimental scrying I’ll ask. Otherwise, you’re tired. Don’t think you can hide it. Get some rest, keep training, and get stronger. You’ll be able to help plenty when you’re farther along.”

She rose, ignoring Elliot’s frown, and headed for the door.

“What’s the plan in Tular?” he called after her.

“You’ll see,” she replied, not even turning around. “Enjoy the lifts tomorrow. They’re not Tular, but it’s still quite the sight for the uninitiated.” And with that she crossed the threshold and disappeared.