Errol dreamed of the Bridge, gleaming white with pennants fluttering in the breeze, still pristine. She was the pride of Laurentum, the greatest feat of engineering the world had ever seen, and she was glorious. Her spirit danced above the Bridge in the skies, flitting from cloud to cloud in a rush of golden light, free from fear. This was a glimpse back to her happiest memories, to a time unfettered from the storm and its corruption.

He hadn’t felt her presence in his dreams since he was only a small child. After his father died, the Bridge seemed far away, just a whisper in the back of his mind. Once, he’d made the mistake of telling another street urchin about the Bridge. An older kid had overheard, and soon a rumor spread that he was crazy. The insults weren’t the worst part. The beatings had followed in short order—no one had dared to lift a hand to stop the older kids from taking scraps of food or what little money Errol could beg. He was crazy, so he wouldn’t last long. Might as well get while the getting was good.

Rough hands shook him awake. He instinctively reached for his voltage stream, ready to teach the bullies a lesson, when the sergeant's face floated into view. Memory rushed back over him and he realized that he was sitting on the top of the Bridge, hands knotted behind his body. The days of running for his life in Laurentum’s back alleyways were over, but he still had to deal with a dozen soldiers milling about.

“We’re moving camp. I’ll cut you free and let you carry your pack of tools as long as you can behave. If I see one thing I don’t like, you’ll go back to hands tied. Got it?”

Errol frowned. “I’m not sure I like that arrangement. Someone else carrying my pack, and the freedom to do what I want—now that sounds like a good deal.”

The sergeant’s rough breath bathed Errol, almost choking him with its pungency. “Listen, boy. Rueben here tells me that you know Freyman. That’s a story I’d like to hear. But he’s a long way from the Bridge, and no one here would gainsay me if I tell him that you were working with his enemies and died during our attempts to stop you. You ain’t special; you won’t get any offers better than the one I already gave ya.”

“Fair enough, Sarge. I’ll carry my pack. Expect a bill when I’m back home having tea with Oskar.”

The tall, pockmarked man grunted, then waved for his soldiers to undo the knots. A hand shoved his pack to him, and another pushed him down a trail, farther into the broken landscape on top of the Bridge. Above, the sun was just visible enough in the early morning gloom to tell direction. Errol smiled. They were still heading East, then, toward the tower circled on the map.

He reached out with his sensor field. None of the scouts had returned yet, or if they had, then they weren’t in range. He urged them onward, although good hunting in this case meant a live capture, not a kill.

He cleared his throat. “I can tell you where to find them.”

“Already know where we’re headed. Don’t think you’re privy to classified intel.”

Errol stopped a sigh from escaping his lips. If the sergeant knew that he was frustrated, his gambit was up. They’d never trust him if he looked too eager, or too disappointed when they rebuffed his offers.

They marched all day across a broad road that was surprisingly well preserved. Unlike the other sections of Bridge that Errol had seen, this stretch of highway was largely intact. Many small houses lined the way, interspersed with larger inns and a few stables. He tried to imagine the bustle of business in the Bridge’s heyday. Carts and wagons flowing in an endless line, all heading across the bay. Going straight across turned a dangerous, three-week trek through an always snowbound mountain pass into a two-day jaunt across level ground, with shops along the way and entertainment of all varieties—and legalities—at night.

Now it was barren. A wasteland full of haunted memories. The ghosts of yesteryear were nothing compared with the terror of the storm itself, however. Errol shuddered, thinking back to the fury of the weather the day before. They’d huddled in a caved-in old outpost that looked like it had once been a lighthouse or watchtower. The roof leaked, but the steady drip was tolerable even when the ground outside was razed by hailstones. They hail started small, but shards of ice the size of his head had smashed through a stone wall that had stood for centuries, driving him into the basement for shelter.

A faint pulse in his sensor field alerted him to company ahead. He signaled the sergeant discreetly. “Look lively, lads!”

Reuben shoved him from behind. “Keep quiet, eh?”

“He’s right. Someone’s on the road,” the sergeant hissed, motioning downward with his palms to command them to keep quiet.

Errol glanced up at the sergeant, who had crouched behind a collapsed wall to peer down the street from behind cover. Rubble spilled out across the road where ancient houses had long since collapsed. The whole place looked like a child had kicked over a house of sticks, then tramped back over them in anger, snapping them into pieces.

The sound of laughter echoed toward them, carefree and out of place. Errol tiptoed over to the sergeant and peered around the corner of the low, moss covered wall. A group of children kicked a hidebound ball back and forth over the dusty cobblestones, chanting in a rhythm that tugged at the corner of his memory. He finally recognized the cadence of a street game he had played as a child, though the words were out of sequence, jumbled up like someone couldn’t quite remember the original. Their accent reminded him of Mikhail, the old builder he'd spoken with at the tavern last week.

Only last week. It may as well have been a lifetime ago.

Errol was about to slip away and suggest that they try to find a path around the gaggle of children when the light glinted off a round, glistening white object one of the kids wore on his back. He squinted. The immaculate surface and exceptional craftsmanship left no doubt: the Bridge child had Taras’s shield.

Indignation and grief blazed through Errol. Somehow they'd come across the old cleric and managed to pry his weapon away. And now this boy carried his shield like some perverse trophy, like a spoil of war. Righteous fury boiled over at the implications. He dashed down the street with a bellow of anger, gathering his voltage stream and forging it into a lance.

Taras had supported him when no one else would; it was time to return the favor, even if it simply meant honoring the dead through vengeance.

=+=

Taras gripped his staff, watching the boys kick up clouds of dust. They chased a hidebound ball, half of them trying to keep it from the other half, although the teams seemed fluid. Mostly, the kids ignored the rules, such as he'd been able to suss out. Children just liked to run and whoop and holler. After the fell storm yesterday, he couldn't blame them; the icy wind tried to flay the skin from flesh, and he’d sensed a darkness in it that hungered for his soul.

Overcast skies today shone with the brightness of a high summer day. Only one week in the darkness of this place, and already wan light took on the weight of rare luxury. He crossed his arms, breathing deeply, and formed fire in his hands. The ruddy glow limned his fingers in a wash of purifying heat. The cracks and calluses smoothed over with fresh flesh, feeding on the flames. The forces of life and death, balanced on his fingertips.

Jagged ruins surrounded them. Tumbled homes and decaying walls jutted at odd angles; the cracked teeth of a humbled beast. He kept his gaze steady, back toward Laurentum. Behind him, far toward the east, a dark-stained tower stretched toward the sky like a broken blade. Cold emanated from its heights. He burned the flames a little brighter, drawing them across his body, and the chill could no longer touch him.

He didn’t want to turn around. All his life he’d faced evil head on, but suddenly in his old age he’d allowed a young child to take up the mantle. The guilt ate like a worm, consuming him from the inside out. He forced himself to turn, to look, to take responsibility for what he’d done, for what he’d allowed. He’d failed Rhae. He’d sent her to her doom.

And for what? Because the Bridge dwellers seemed so sure they could do his job for him this once? Taras growled, disgusted with himself. It wasn’t too late to venture out after her. They would give him a set of wings and grappling hooks so he could glide across the last break in the Bridge and lash himself to the support structure. The climb would be arduous, and she might not even be alive after the pounding hailstorm, but Taras had forged himself in fire. He was a living blade of the light, sworn to execute vengeance against evil.

Taras turned back to the group. Meri wore his shield, though he certainly hadn't earned it yet. Taras would never hear the end of it if his temple cohorts saw him. He was going soft. Time to take back what was his and right this wrong.

“Meri.” The boy turned toward Taras. He reminded himself to smile to try to take the edge off the boy’s disappointment. “I need my shield back. We can resume training another time.”

Meri unslung the shield, movements hesitant. He touched the shining alabaster, longing in his eyes, and grinned at Taras as he held up the shield in a guard position, catching the light. The movement saved his life, deflecting a lance of lightning that crackled in the morning air. The shield spun sideways, ripping from Meri’s grasp in an explosion of sound and color: the wards on the shield activated, tearing apart the lightning and releasing the energy into the sky. Another bolt followed almost instantly. Taras formed a prismatic barrier in its path, intercepting a stream of electric energy.

Taras dashed toward the child, picking up the shield to mount a proper defense against the Eel. He stumbled over an upturned paving stone, and the temporary shield of light blinked out. A third lance caught Meri in the chest and slammed him down, ribs cracking with the force of the hit. The boy screamed, back arching as he spasmed, and then another lance hit and the primal howls cut off. Meri crumpled, his head lolling to the side.

Taras lunged forward to meet the attacker, still too far away to see clearly. Light burning around him in a nimbus of justice, Taras ran up the road. The scraggly looking Eel held up his hand, shouting, but white hot anger surged through Taras, fueled by the righteous fury of grief and a life snuffed out too soon. A sharp, sudden paternal affection he didn’t even know he had pierced his soul as he glanced over at Meri’s mangled body.

Fire formed, flickering from his fingers, flying forward to finish the fight.

A big man in the battle garb of a Laurentum soldier tackled the Eel before the fire struck, flattening him to the ground below the torrent of flames. They scrambled behind the shoulder of a stone wall, which exploded a second later as Taras launched another fireball at their location. Shrapnel flew in all directions, but he couldn’t see his targets.

Drawing in so much fire that he trailed smoke, Taras sprinted forward, shield held out in readiness. Another strobe of light rent the stones, fusing the walls of the houses together with its fury. Stab after stab erupted from Taras, chasing the murderers. Scores in the roadway blistered over, instantly transformed into glass by the searing light.

Ten or twelve soldiers emerged from an outcropping, fanning out into battle formation. Two stepped forward to sling javelins, then fell back to the shield wall held up by their comrades.

Taras ducked behind his own shield, deflecting the barbs, briefly losing track of the Eel. He growled and switched to the new threat, forming three fireballs above them, then smashing them down into the middle of the formation.

They scattered sideways before the fireballs hit, shields angled to absorb the worst. The explosion still launched them off their feet, and one of the men squealed like a slaughtered pig, rolling on the pavement, burning away while his entrails spilled out.

Four more javelins flew toward Taras, staggered apart by a split second. He batted three to the side with his shield, but the fourth sneaked through low and hit his thigh. Grunting, he put his hand over the shaft, shoved the blade all the way through, and broke the wood. He pulled on the front end, withdrawing the javelin from his leg, guarding himself with his shield. Laurentum elites were famous for their barbed, twisted javelin tips. If he’d tried to simply pull the javelin out, the resulting wound would have been far more difficult to heal.

Pounding feet announced their approach to finish him off before he could go back on the offense: standard procedure with a mage for the elites. Taras fired blindly, laying down a sheet of fire to wall off his would-be attackers.

His power flared, and light flowed into the leg, sealing off the bleeding. He limped back a few steps, throwing out a stream of fire that caught one of the soldiers by surprise.That would have to do for now. He couldn’t afford to give his full attention to a proper healing, although the throb of pain in his thigh warned him that he would pay for it later.

Foul black smoke billowed everywhere he looked, streaked with dirty gray. The stench of burning hair coiled around Taras, all pervasive in his senses, but he pushed onward, undeterred in his righteous task. The heat from the fire had ignited even the air itself. Scorch marks traced pale, sickly lines in the ether. Images wavered around him; the battleground grew unsteady and rippling in the oppressive heat.

Taras was the heart of the flame. He hurled another white pillar into the twisted warren of bricks, steel, and cobblestones where his original quarry had fled, searching for a hit. A burst of flame licked at the ground around his heels, spreading outward in a slow, incinerating march. An answering rain of rocks hit him from the rest of the soldiers. He managed to lift up the shield in time to avoid serious injury, but one grazed his cheek and drew blood.

He spat, pushing outward with the groundswell of fire, and the world around him ignited. Flames rose as tall as trees, shooting out from the epicenter of his wrath, consuming four of the Laurentum elites instantly. The others ran after the Eel and the sergeant. He hurled more bolts of fire after them, catching one in the back, kindling him into a human torch.

Crouching behind his shield, Taras advanced on their hiding hole, still wary for the bolts of lightning that he expected any second. Why the Eel hadn’t counterattacked when his soldiers had momentarily incapacitated him was a mystery that he didn’t have time to unravel, though he was thankful for their stupdity.

Two soldiers faced him, back to a low wall, spears at the ready. Laurentum elite training did them credit; they stood their ground, faces grim, prepared to fight to the end. Taras lifted his free hand, conjuring a ball of light, and he flung it forward, surrounding the soldiers. He clenched his fist and the ball collapsed into an ember, shearing through the men like a bonfire consuming dry parchment. Guttural shrieks of pain cut off almost as soon as they began.

Taras turned back to the maze. Tongues of fire winked into existence on his fingers and erupted forward, burying into the rock walls. They exploded, torn asunder by his anger.

He had them pinned. No one would escape his justice. They would pay for their crimes, flesh for flesh, burn for burn. Again he drew on the light, pushing back on the darkness around them, and a sphere of pure white flame spun into existence around him, pulsing with power. He strained, willing it to grow and quicken, but he'd drawn too much attention.

Storm sickness reached down from the sky, ragged tendrils of dark clouds, roilling with malevolence. It stained the light in streaks of pale green and mottled brown, severing his control over the spinning ball, which crashed away from him toward the last soldiers with a clap louder than thunder.

Reverberations shook Taras until his legs gave out. He sprawled, writhing around on the ground, the shockwaves a resonance that he felt even more strongly than he heard. The sphere collapsed in on itself, sucking in the air from around the former village square, then exploded in a chaotic rush that sent pain twisting through his gut.

Wave after wave of power pounded him in unrelenting horror. Taras struggled to his feet, trying to throw his shield back toward the remaining Bridge boys; he couldn’t reach them, but he hoped to cast a barrier from the shield to protect them from the stormfire’s ill intent. The rushing wind slapped him back down, knocking him to his knees. The tainted power clashed against his shield. It clawed at him, insatiable desire hungering for his mind.

Lightning split the air, shattering the corruption, and the thunderclap boomed about him.

Taras staggered back to his feet, wobbling. Bodies of Laurentum soldiers were strewn all about the road ahead of him. Why had they attacked the boys—why were they even here at all? Had Indara gone rogue, or had some new player entered the fray? Questions tumbled through his mind, but his concentration broke, and they swept away half-formed, bouncing like boulders crashing through a gully in a flash flood.

He surveyed the destruction. Not a single stone stood on top of another. The little village square had witnessed centuries of trade and traffic, falling into disrepair as time spiraled on, but he’d leveled all the buildings and torn up the streets for hundreds of yards around. He picked his way over broken shards of stone, slipping on the scree, and climbed out of the shallow crater he had formed around himself when he’d incinerated the area.

An eerie silence covered the battlefield like a shroud. Taras picked up the pace when he reached level ground, searching for signs that the boys had survived. A head popped up from a depression in the ground a few dozen yards away, and then the boy stood up and whistled. The rest of the children emerged from hiding places in the rubble. Taras sank to his knees in relief at the sight. His conscience was heavy enough without more lives to add to the tally.

A hoarse cry of desolation drew his attention. Aravind knelt next to Meri’s body, wracked by sobs. He lifted his face to the sky, lamentation ululating up from his throat, eyes pressed shut as if to block out the reality of death.

Meri’s charred body didn’t move.