Chapter 480: The centaur prophet

Night Eyes of the Summer Wind was not easily moved by emotion. All his life he had lived with one eye on the past, the other aimed squarely towards the future. He was the last prominent member of his Clan, the greatest shaman born to the Green Sea tribes in a generation, and the son of a famous warrior.

He had much to live up to. Much to do and become and restore. And so he had denied himself hope or fear or pleasure as he fought and struggled to do the impossible things his people required, expecting he would likely fail, willing to suffer the consequences.

But now he shrieked like a panicked foal.

The magic of his own ancestors was trying to tear him apart. He could hear his forebears screaming hate in his ears, blaming him for their deaths, for their failures, for being nothing but a pale reflection of their greatness. For being unworthy of their gifts.

You cannot enter here, he heard a strong, contempt filled voice. You are inadequate. Just like your father.

It was hard enough to protect himself, nevermind protect the Hunter. Night Eyes weaved an active Blessing of Protection. He used every scrap of power gifted from his Heritage—his namesake power that turned his eyes blacker than any shaman anyone could remember.

The darkness was dangerous—it permitted magic from the abyss, from the darkest pits of hell, from the plane of night. Night Eyes could see into these places as he could see the distant horizon. They were as known to him as the edges of the Green Sea.

But the creatures living there could look back at him, and frequently did. They tempted, they threatened, they raged and promised and roared. Night Eyes resisted them. He watched, he learned.

So strong was his attunement that he had gained actual affinity in multiple domains—more than any in his Clan, who had always had at least one besides Nature. It was a secret he had kept all his life, taught to mask by his father and grandfather, the knowledge passed down for generations.

“I knew it was possible,” his father had told him as a youngling, intense eyes glowing with pride when he’d tested more than two. “You are the future, my son. If I fail to enter the lost city, it must be you. Have children first, ensure their survival. But you are more gifted than any even your great grandmother can recall. No matter what happens to me, you must try.”

His father had died in the attempt. And now here he was, with only bastard children to carry his lineage. None of whom had yet tested so strongly as him.

He had intended to send the Hunter alone first, hoping the human could somehow reduce the danger and clear him a path. But then the gods-cursed Iron Hooves had come for him. They had threatened his whole clan with destruction if he was voted to the council of elders so young.

Their threats were ignored, his ascension inevitable, his eyes undeniable, his power unrivaled. And so they’d thrown the bones and lit the peat, and he was an elder until his death—the first elder of the Summer Wind in a hundred years. The line of the ancient prophets renewed, and with them—as went the old superstition—a time of greatness, or a time of destruction. Night Eyes was determined it would be the former.

He fought the magic of his ancestors with concentration and focus, then with rage and a wild resistance composed of pure, iron will. But he could do no more than hold his ground. It was as if his dark attunements were not the strength his father had assumed, but a weakness. The thought almost crushed him, almost broke the mental strength required to resist, to hold on…

Then the Hunter picked him off the ground. The strength required was monstrous. The moment chaotic and disastrous. Night Eyes screamed at him to stop, to let him down, to keep away. His concentration slipped and for a moment he closed his eyes and prepared to join his father.

But the temple winds died. Night Eyes felt his affinities ripped away like excess weight, as if he were being freed from useless appendages only catching on trees and branches. The wind blew beneath him, swelling and searching the Hunter now that they were connected.

The Hunter carried him forward through the wind. Night Eyes controlled his racing heart and focused, remembering his first and most important lessons. He weaved the simplest, Natural spells of his people, the kind taught to shamans the same year they learned to speak.

For a blissful moment he lost sight of the far horizon, the planes, the darkness of the world he had taught himself to see. It felt like a return to childhood, a return to a time when his mother and father both lived, when he was not a prophet but a promising foal amongst others, running and laughing and free.

He was glad for the wind, then, and that the Hunter couldn’t see him clearly. Because as he whispered the ancient words and protected them both, he wept openly with joy.

**

Carrying a centaur into a mountain fort guarded by spirits was harder than it looked. It wasn’t a strength problem. Strength was pretty much nothing to Mason now, and if he needed more his Duality would already be ticking away.

No. It was something nameless and terrible. A strength problem would have been downright pleasant.

Mason felt like he was like trying to carry a tent through a storm. He stumbled and struggled to keep his balance, pretty sure the only reason he didn’t fly off was because he had the centaur’s weight holding him down. He could hear the shaman mumbling and laughing and maybe crying and going insane, and that was all just fucking great.

The thought somehow triggered Transformation. Mason’s flesh and bones thickened and gained density, weighing him down as the terrible wind tried to turn him and the centaur into the world’s most ridiculous kite.

He stepped forward, foot after foot, a steady march into a hurricane. It seemed entirely possible he was going to kill the shaman en route, but there was no turning back now. When he came back alone he expected whatever deal he made with the centaurs would be off. There’s be no pleasant exchange of slaves or scout knowledge.

So he’d have to go talk to the man Lila hated and figure out what was what. Then he’d have to steal them and the elf, or kill his way free. And then he’d somehow have to figure out how to teleport them back to Nassau, or…

Focus.

Mason blinked and marched. He started up Inner Fire because why the hell not, and then realized his skin was maybe on fire. So what, he thought, and go fuck yourself.

Did they think it was the first time somebody lit him on fire?

When the flames went out he realized Night Eyes was covering them in spells. It meant he wasn’t dead, so that was something. And you probably couldn’t cast a useful spell if you’d lost your entire mind. So maybe, despite the attempted Mason barbecue, things were actually going well.

The thought struck him as just stupid enough to be funny. So he laughed, and he marched, hearing some poem Blake must have made him read.

Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!

There's no discharge in the war!

Mason was at least heavier now and didn’t feel like he’d blow away. It was working so well he almost let himself think they were about to make it inside the tunnel. So the wind took a different tack.

It stopped so quickly he stumbled forward, nearly dropping the damn shaman and certainly squeezing his flesh so hard he’d ripped skin. He gathered himself and glanced up.

A wave of unnatural, multi-colored flame came roaring from the gloom in a cone, and there was absolutely nowhere to hide. Mason decided he could probably survive it. Or at least previous attempt to fry him would suggest it. But Night Eyes…?

He turned his back to the flame and dropped the centaur on the other side, pulling the human half down and wrapping his arms around it.

For a second the fire almost tickled. Then it struck.

Mason clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, focusing on Inner Fire and picturing a nice, cool, ocean breeze.

[Apex Predator: Elemental affinity.]

Heat washed over him. What felt like electrical current shook him like a dozen cops with tasers. But he held on, and smelled himself cook. He roared in pain and rage and kept backing towards the tunnel, step after pitiless step.

Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different

Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic!

The flame couldn’t last forever. That’s what he told himself. It was a battle of attrition and Mason intended to win. He watched Transformation doing its work but he wasn’t sure it was enough. He was about to turn and activate his Shield gem when he remembered Earthsoul and practically punched himself.

He activated the gem, really hoping it stopped the fire and not just whatever protective spells Night Eyes had left. Except it was supposed to stop everything except Nature magic. Maybe the centaur used that, but this fucking fire definitely didn’t.

His gem pulsed with an almost sci-fi sounding thrum. A green ring of power flew out in every direction, sucking out the flame the instant they touched. The horrible pain and sound vanished, and Mason’s ears rung in the unnatural feeling silence as the centaur looked over his shoulder. They met eyes, and the shaman mouthed ‘run’.

Mason turned and bolted for the tunnel. His body was so numb it didn’t hurt anymore, but he staggered once or twice and felt Night Eyes grab his arm and pull.

“I’m coming,” he muttered, feeling drunk. “No need to pull.”

They got past the entrance, and whatever magic had been charging the air simply vanished. The shaman staggered into the wall with a hand on his face, breathing hard with his eyes closed. Mason went to lie down, then screamed in agony and rolled over to his chest.

“I’ll heal,” he said, then again and again, mostly to himself. But he decided next time, for a nice change, he’d really try not getting burned at all.