Broken Ground Page 15

  All his.

  Zerif reached the landing outside the old man’s chamber. Two of his hands stood guard beside the door, their expressions empty. There had been a time when Zerif wanted passion from his followers. Devotion. Belief. But those things had proved fickle. They could not be trusted. This—servitude—was the true way to power.

  Zerif stepped forward and pressed his ear to the wood. Beyond, he could hear Olvan’s scrambling steps, the scribble of his pen on parchment.

  “A coward’s choice, Olvan,” said Zerif calmly, “to not stand with your men and women in the great hall. Not very leaderlike at all.”

  Olvan didn’t answer, but Zerif could tell by the hesitation in his steps that he had heard.

  “No matter,” continued Zerif. “You are not their leader anymore.”

  He drew another vial from the pocket of his cloak and held it up to the light. Inside, the oily shape of the parasite shifted and slithered like a snail without its shell. From some angles, it looked like smoke, from others, like ink, or grease, or damp earth. It was none of those things.

  It was darkness.

  A sliver of the Wyrm, a seed set free to find fresh soil and take root.

  “You will not win in the end, Zerif,” came Olvan’s voice through the wood. “I will not see it happen.”

  Zerif uncorked the vial and knelt, setting the glass on its side at the base of the door.

  “It is the end,” he said, “and I have already won.”

  The parasite slid—less like a worm than a snake—from the glass enclosure, vanishing beneath the door. “But you are right about one thing, Olvan. You will not see it happen.”

  He waited several long moments, and then, beyond the wooden door, at last, the sounds of struggle. A gasp. The crash as a metal pot and a pile of books were swept from a table, and moments later, silence.

  Zerif could feel the new link, a pulse in his forehead as Olvan’s will became his, and he smiled, knowing that he had claimed the leader of the Greencloaks.

  He pressed a hand to the wood. “Open the door,” he commanded.

  The spiral twitched in his skin, met by the footsteps across the floor, the sliding of the bolt, the creak of the wood.

  Zerif considered the old man, his gray hair, his strong eyes now empty. The great Olvan, nothing but a puppet now.

  “Put him with the others,” ordered Zerif. He stepped past the old man and into the chamber, eyes trailing over the wreckage of ink and pots. At the window he looked down on the courtyard, where his hands were gathering, their masses now mixed with figures in forest green. And for every man and woman, a beast.

  They watched him, marked faces turned up, and waited for his orders.

  Zerif turned away, and instead of going down to meet them, he went up, up a second set of stairs that led from the leader’s chamber onto the battlements above.

  From here, he could see the sea that stretched away, toward Stetriol, the hills of Eura, the mountains of Amaya. And even though he could not see the Evertree, he could feel its pull, or rather, he could feel the pull of the thing that lived beneath its roots, waiting to be free.

  The wind caught Zerif’s cloak, ran through his dark hair, brushed over the black tattoos that marked his tan skin.

  Gerathon. Rumfuss. Halawir. Suka. Arax. Dinesh. Tellun.

  He traced their patterns on his chest, his arms, felt where they wrapped around his ribs and back. Their markings ran together, tail to claw, horn to wing, twisting over him like armor.

  The whispers in his head began to coalesce, drawing together from many voices into one. A voice that rumbled and rustled and hissed. A voice that changed its shape as often as the parasite. The Wyrm was getting stronger, and so was Zerif.

  And strength, like everything, had two sides.

  A body had to be strong enough to face the dangers from without, and the trials from within. Too often people thought only of the outside threats. But what good was a body if it was strong enough to fight off attackers, but not infection?

  What was a body, if not a shell, a conduit, meant to harness one’s power, and express one’s will?

  Gerathon the Serpent.

  Rumfuss the Boar.

  Halawir the Eagle.

  Suka the Polar Bear.

  Arax the Ram.

  Dinesh the Elephant.

  Tellun the Elk.

  Every beast made him stronger. Every beast brought him closer. The markings coiled and curved and charged across his skin. Even in their passive forms, he could feel their strength, their skill, their cunning. The talismans had given him gifts, but none so great as these. The Great Beasts woke to his command and slept against his skin.

  He looked down and considered the stretches of unmarked skin.

  There was room for more.

  Room for Mulop the Octopus, and Cabaro the Lion.

  Room for Ninani the Swan, and Kovo the Ape.

  Room for Jhi the Panda, and Uraza the Leopard.

  Room for Essix the Falcon, and Briggan the Wolf.

  The spiral pulsed, and the whispers rose in a chorus, and beneath the roots of the Evertree, the Wyrm strained against its prison, longing to be free.

  “Soon,” said Zerif to the thing beneath the world. “Soon, I will be strong enough. Soon, I will be ready for you.”

  And then, thought Zerif with a wicked smile, I will be unstoppable.

  Victoria Schwab is the author of nearly a dozen books for children, teens, and adults, including The Archived and A Darker Shade of Magic. When she’s not wandering the Scottish countryside or huddled in a French cafe, she’s curled up in her Nashville home with two big dogs and two noisy cats, drinking tea and dreaming up monsters.

  You’ve read the book—now join the adventure at Scholastic.com/SpiritAnimals!

  Enter the world of Erdas, where YOU are one of the rare few to summon a spirit animal.

  Have your ebook ready and enter the code to unlock huge rewards!

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  A sneak peek of the next

  Book Three

  The Return

  By Varian Johnson

  ZERIF JAMMED HIS FINGERS INTO A SMALL CREVICE AND climbed onto the narrow, rocky ledge. Ahead, the majestic peaks of the Kenjoba Mountains stretched before him. Below, he could still hear the shouts of the Niloan warriors and Greencloaks in pursuit. They had been chasing him for days. He thought that he would be able to hide in one of the villages in South Nilo, but it had only taken a few days for someone to turn on him and alert the authorities. He bolted as soon as he saw the first Greencloak roaming the small village.

  Now that the war was over, Zerif found that very few of his allies remained. Most of the Conquerors had surrendered as soon as they lost control over their spirit animals, thanks to the destruction of the Evertree canceling the effects of Gerathon’s Bile. The few warriors that still pledged allegiance to the Reptile King wanted nothing to do with Zerif—and would have probably turned him over to the Greencloaks themselves if they found him.

  Not even Zerif’s jackal remained. Like the other animals, it had abandoned him as soon as he lost his power to control it.

  He was glad that he hadn’t bothered to name it.

  No matter, he thought. I am Zerif. I will triumph again. As always.

  Zerif climbed to another ledge, scraping his hands and face as he pulled himself up. His blue tunic, ripped and withered, flapped against him in the howling winds. The breeze shifted direction, and suddenly the stench of rot filled Zerif’s nostrils. He looked around. To his right, on another ledge, large black buzzards picked at the remains of an animal. Zerif backed up to gain as much running ground as possible. Then he took off, his weakened legs flailing as he leaped through the air. He landed on the ledge and stumbled, almost falling over into the deep, empty valley below. Once he was sure of his footing, he charged toward the birds, driving them away.

  Zerif peered at the rotting carcass. There wasn’t much left of the wild dog—a few slivers of flesh hung on th
e otherwise dry bones, and the beast’s fur was torn and ripped. Still, he picked up what remained of the animal and flung it over his shoulder. One of the Greencloaks had been traveling with a fox; he hoped the dead animal would help mask his own scent.

  After a few more hours of climbing, Zerif stumbled upon a long fissure in the rock face. It took some effort, but he crawled through. Sparse patches of green moss covered the slick, cool walls of the small cavern. The cave was barely big enough for him to sit up in, much less stand. He was shivering so much that his teeth rattled and his fingers were blue, but he didn’t dare light a fire.

  Anger seethed from him. This was not what was supposed to happen when he allied himself with the Conquerors. They had failed him.

  Zerif dropped the carcass beside him and curled himself into a tight ball. He would wait and plan. Eventually, the Greencloaks would abandon their pursuit.

  And then, very soon, he would be great and powerful once again.

  Two days later, he still hadn’t crawled out of the cave.

  Every time he considered leaving, he thought he heard the footsteps of Greencloaks or the shouts of Niloan warriors. Perhaps it was just the wind. Or the sound of rocks tumbling down the mountain. Maybe he was hallucinating. He had tried to eat moss to gain strength but had retched the bitter vegetation back up as soon as it hit his stomach.

  It was there, lying with his face pressed against the ground, that he first saw the gray worm inching toward him.

  It was small and strange-looking. And fluid—almost like a coil of smoke. It moved toward him with an eerie purpose, as if it knew he was there. Zerif had never seen anything like it.

  What is this? A leech? A snail?

  And is it edible?

  Zerif shook his head as he considered what do to. Has the mighty Zerif fallen so low that the idea of eating a worm excites him?

  He picked up the worm, hoping to study it. It wriggled up his hand much quicker than he had anticipated. Before he knew it, it was at his elbow. He shook his arm furiously, but the worm remained. It burrowed its way into a deep gash on Zerif’s shoulder. Panicked, he hurled himself into the wall, hoping to crush the thing. When that didn’t work, he picked up a jagged rock and tried to cut the worm out of his skin.

  Nothing seemed to stop the creature. It inched its way beneath his skin, up to his collarbone, then neck, then face. Zerif could feel it writhing. He screamed—both in fear and in pain. He felt it curling at his forehead.

  Zerif twisted, clawing at his face, driving deep gouges into his skin.

  And then, Zerif fell silent. His legs and arms ceased to move. They no longer belonged to him.

  Slowly, he heard ancient whispers echoing in his mind. Soft at first, they intensified, feeding the anger and evil already residing in the depths of his soul.

  Power surged inside him. He rose to his feet, no longer hungry or pained. He sensed the voice telling him to leave. To travel north. A being of great power would be there. An eagle.

  Halawir.

  Suddenly, Zerif found himself surrounded by hundreds of small gray worms. They crept from rocks, seeping out like liquid darkness. Parasites. Allies.

  With their help, Zerif would be great once again.

  He would be feared and worshipped.

  He would rule the world.

  Copyright © 2016 by Scholastic Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SPIRIT ANIMALS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015950270

  ISBN 978-0-545-85442-9

  First edition, January 2016

  Cover illustration by Angelo Rinaldi

  Cover design by Charice Silverman & Rocco Melillo

  Art Direction by Keirsten Geise

  Metal frame: © caesart/Shutterstock

  Wood texture: © CG Textures

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-85958-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

 

 

  Victoria Schwab, Broken Ground

 

 

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