89

Pasco II

Debris rained from the sky. Powder-fine twists of ash floated around Pasco as he stood on the fell looking up, surveying the devastation. Behind him, the charred hull of an airship crashed with slow, inexorable force into the face of the Enchantments, smearing a trail of splinters and crumpled bodies across the rock. The wave of his flame had incinerated a handful of ships, several score lightning birds and most of the imps. Those that had been furthest away were hideously maimed, while those closest to Pasco had been reduced to soot. One of the birds ran past him, its wings smouldering and useless hanging from the rip in the creature's flesh. It ran without thought or logic, fleeing the pain of its wounds and clawing at its eyes. Pasco put it out of its misery with an idle chop of his short sword. Another gift for his Ancestors, he thought, as he watched the scarlet blood drain into the soil. In the dark, it looked as black as tar. But tar had never smelt so fresh.

Pasco opened his mouth and caught a flake of ash on the blackened stump of his tongue. It tasted like soot and victory. Flexing his shoulders he looked around for something else to burn. He was drained, his muscles loose and weary, for the magic had taken its toll but he didn't care. He needed to feel it again. That surge, that release – even the memory was a delight. His pulse quickened at the thought of feeling such strength again. There would be nothing to fear, nothing could touch him. Nothing could come close.

Pasco watched dispassionately as the sky continued to rain ash. The little flakes drifted on the warm summer breeze, dancing like dark snowflakes. It must be midnight, he thought, tensing a little. Around him, the world stirred, and in his hyperaware state he could feel the spirits' attention. He watched as the Necromancer Queen resurrected the remains of those creatures that had escaped incineration. They rose, stiff and grotesque and once more the battle raged. He huffed out a breath of annoyance. His friends needed him. He needed to find more to burn, he had to feed the desire of his aching blood. It was self-defence, after all. Who cared if a few of the barbarians were caught in the blaze? Their children should never have set foot on this shore in the first place. The Lochlanach had taken the land by right of conquest, and it was only right that they should die in defence of their stolen spoils. Here was consequence! Their tin weapons and their heathen rites were no match for the power of Pasco's Ancestors. It was only just. Their suffering was only just.

The barbarians were mere pawns in the game of dominance being waged between Night Nation and Day and Pasco would sweep them off the board and back into the sea from whence they had come. Their sacrifices would mean something. He needed to feel it again, needed it. A laugh bubbled up out of his chest, a gurgling noise that surprised him. He took a wobbling step forward, his foot scrunching in the charcoal-baked earth.

There was another Lochlanach settlement over the hill. It would be so easy, the work of moments to raze it to the ground, the buildings, the livestock, the people... Pasco took another step, then another, his feet clumping and scuffing the dry earth. The air behind him was thick with screams and laden with the heady scent of death. Pasco started to hum under his breath, a tune from his childhood, a simple melody he remembered his father singing, although the lyrics were lost in the haze of his memory. Something about the moon and stars and a praying mantis. All of a sudden he was consumed with homesickness for the sun-baked deserts of Teurek and the temples of his youth. Standing on that midnight slope he yearned for the chaos and bloodshed that was his birthright. For the place he had grown up where power was not only acceptable but respected, respected like the –

Pasco shook his head, feeling violently ill. Nausea bubbled up, and his muscles contracted. He leaned forwards, ejecting the contents of his stomach onto the ground in front of him. The demon that had been whispering in his ear pulled backwards, giggling. It was barely visible in the dark of the night, only discernible by the disturbance of the ash, the ink-black stain of its shadows leaking sideways into the mountain air. A misshapen thing wrought of anger and madness, its teeth flashed in a widening maw before dissolving once more into darkness.

It was unsurprising that Pasco had missed it, distracted as he was by the events of the battle. A foolish mistake that might have cost him his sanity, and his life. He should have known better. Wiping his hand with the back of his hand he sat down, hard, folding his legs over one another. He felt weak and sick. What had he been thinking? The grease of those thoughts still stained his memory, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Desperately, he tried to keep the wicked feelings at bay. The demon whispered, tempting him, and he turned his head, feeling the feather-soft slither of its oily passage over the exposed flesh of his neck. What had he done? What had he been about to do?

Fire and lightning crackled overhead as Pasco buried his head in his hands and did his best to blot out the demon.