Retribution, p.19
Retribution, page 19
I stood and reached for my blade. I couldn’t help it. Suddenly, all the conflicting emotions Orlaeth had forced to surface were submerged beneath a glass-smooth shell of subservience.
Cylrit was faster. He flashed past, his rune-etched blade hissing as it cut the air.
Orlaeth growled as he reached up and caught the blade. Confusion ground my movements to a halt, and I could only stare.
He had attacked the Sovereign. But that was wrong. The Sovereign had commanded…Seris’s horns…to do anything else was wrong.
Orlaeth’s wrist twisted, ripping the blade from Cylrit’s hand. In the same motion, he swung the blade like a club, striking Cylrit across the chest and sending him tumbling end over end across the room, then crashing through the wall and out of sight.
The right head stared into my eyes. “Bring. Me. Her. Horns.”
My entire body trembled as I tried to separate who I was and what I wanted from the puppet Orlaeth sought to make of me. One leg stepped forward of its own accord, while one hand released its grip on the blade.
“You won’t break her.” Seris’s voice sounded distant. “She’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Even you Vritra can’t turn her into something she isn’t.”
These words echoed around in my mind as my body half dragged itself toward her.
At any other moment in my life, I would have gushed over with mushy silliness to hear such glowing words from my mentor, but now, I felt only the bitter reality that either she would be forced to kill me in defense of her own life, or she would let me strike her down, because, despite her words, I did not feel strong enough to resist the Sovereign’s command.
Even you Vritra can’t turn her into something she isn’t.
My lurching forward progress slowed further. What did those words mean? Was she trying to tell me something? Some hint at how to break the spell, how to resist?
Seris had given me an option to live my own life. When the entire Alacryan apparatus was designed to create, foster, and make use of people exactly like me, Seris opened the door for me to choose my own path. Without her, my entire existence would have been spent doing exactly what Agrona or some other Vritra commanded.
I refused to be anyone’s tool.
My body ground to a halt, trapped between the conflicting signals it was receiving, unable to move forward, unable to resist.
“So it would seem, Seris. Interesting.”
Orlaeth’s right head watched me, his gaunt features softening as his curiosity won out. The left head seemed to take over. Its guise of irritated, put-upon genius scientist faded away as he held up Cylrit’s weapon, and I saw the truth of the asura’s power, for they were not one thing, not definable by a single trait, but were grace and strength and authority and divinity entwined, never sacrificing one aspect for another, embodying each simultaneously.
If I weren’t paralyzed by my own resistance to the Sovereign’s powers, I might have laughed. Death made us lessers philosophical, apparently.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to deal with you myself,” Orlaeth’s left head said tiredly as he closed in on Seris and thrust Cylrit’s sword.
Several things happened all at once, and it took far too long for my sluggish perception to catch up with the scene.
The blade ran effortlessly through Seris’s collarbone, sticking out of her back and staining the rugs beneath her with a splash of hot blood.
Using one foot, Seris kicked aside one corner of a plum-colored rug, revealing a dull silver-blue plate inset in the floor beneath it. A short spike sprang up from the plate, and Seris stomped down hard onto the spike so that it plunged into and through her foot, its bloody point sticking up into the air.
With a driven commitment, Seris grabbed Orlaeth’s wrist in both hands and pulled the sword deeper into her. Blood spurted between her lips, staining them crimson as they curved upward into the barest hint of a smile.
A sphere of inky gray-black mana wrapped around their joined hands. I could feel in my core how her nullification magic struggled against the overwhelming surge of mana boiling out from the Sovereign.
“Stop!” the right head shouted to the left, but too late.
The effect was instantaneous.
The force of command driving me forward released, and I fell sprawling onto the floor, my head suddenly spinning. Mana began to pour from the Sovereign in rivers and floods, passing through Seris and into a network of channels that ran down into the floor beneath us.
There was a surge as Orlaeth attempted to withdraw his mana, but the tugging force only strengthened.
“Get your lessuran hands off me,” the Sovereign hissed from both heads, struggling backward, but the blade resisted him, some pulling force of its own keeping it firmly lodged in Seris’s body, and the black sphere seemed to be binding his hand to the blade.
Seris was grinning with blood beneath her teeth. “Spoken with the true bravado of an asura.”
The back of Orlaeth’s hand crashed across Seris’s cheek, and for an instant I thought her strength would fail as her magic flickered and her body trembled. The hand rose for a second blow, but before it could fall, Cylrit was there. The retainer struggled to pin down Orlaeth’s arm with the full weight of his body, his eyes flickering between Seris and me, determined but searching for answers.
I tried to push myself up, but my head swam dangerously. All I could do was watch as more and more mana was drawn from the Sovereign. And as it was, he seemed to weaken, unable to shake off Cylrit or break his connection with Seris. The struggle dragged on and on, and I thought for sure one side or the other would fail, but now I saw it.
Seris didn’t need to defeat the asura, simply outlast him until…
The machinery underneath the compound hummed back to life, and out beyond the balcony, the shields started rising over the cliffside once again.
“Look, Sovereign, your shields are working,” Seris said, causing blood to leak from the corner of her mouth.
“The High Sovereign…will have your…core…for this,” the left head groaned weakly. With his next breath, the last of his mana left his body.
Seris dragged herself off Cylrit’s blade and stumbled back, her foot leaving the spike with a wet squelching sound, a hand pressed to her chest as blood poured between her fingers.
Cylrit twisted the Sovereign’s arms, forcing him to drop the sword, and then slammed him face-first into the ground.
Seris sagged without Orlaeth and the blade holding her up, and I realized how insubstantial her mana signature was, wavering like a candle flame in a stiff breeze. But she didn’t fall.
Her eyes sought out mine. “Where does your allegiance lie, Caera? And…what are you willing to do to prove it?”
“It has to be now!” Cylrit growled, shaking with effort as the asura struggled in his grip.
I looked dumbly at the scarlet blade, dull against the bright blue rug beneath it.
Pushing mana into my extremities to give myself strength, I pointedly didn’t think about the way my hand felt gripping the handle of my sword or how many steps it took to close the distance to the asura or the weight of the blade as I lifted it over my head.
“Take…the left head,” Seris said as she let out a shuddering breath.
Instinct pushed soulfire into my blade to strengthen the blow, and then it was a black-wreathed red streak. I didn’t think about the way the blade jerked entering the asura’s flesh or the dead sound of the head landing on a royal-purple rug.
The second head let out a gargled screech, and its eyes rolled back into its head. The body spasmed, gushing blood from the gaping wound, and Cylrit released it.
Orlaeth slumped, unmoving but still alive, ambient mana already being drawn like breath into his body.
I stuck the point of my blade into the floor and leaned against it, breathing heavily. There was a faint buzzing in my ears as the sudden surge of adrenaline wore off and my emotions slowly settled. The effects of the Sovereign’s presence were fading, leaving me oddly calm, considering.
Cylrit, already on his knees, rolled over to lie on his back beside the asura and let his eyes drift closed.
“What now?” I asked hollowly.
Seris wiped the blood from her lips. “Now…we prepare for war.”
393
BENEATH TAEGRIN CAELUM
NICO SEVER
My feet pounded along the bare floor of the long hallway. It was so, so long…had it been this long before? The pale lights blinking on and off, on and off…
I could hear them, the idiots in the crowd, cheering as if my entire world wasn’t about to end, as if he wasn’t going to kill her. When had my friend become so blinded by his desire to rule?
In the distance, I could just see the miniscule arch of a paler light at the end of this tunnel that seemed to stretch from the beginning of my life straight to its end.
Something moved to my right, and I flinched away from it, then slowed, my rushed steps becoming an awkward sideways shuffle as I tried to both stay still to watch and continue to move forward. Through a sort of window in the hallway wall, an image was playing.
A group of adventurers were gathered in a small clearing in the woods. The Beast Glades, I remembered. Introductions were being made to a young boy in a white mask that covered his face, but not the telltale auburn hair draped around it. “Elijah Knight. A-class, dark orange conjurer. Single specialization in earth.”
The voice shivered through me like an electrical shock. It was my voice, except…it also wasn’t. This was my memory, but not. Elijah Knight had been my false name growing up in Dicathen, when my real self was subdued, hidden—no, taken from me.
I’d thought most of these older memories were buried. I’d purged them. Elijah’s purpose had been to grow close with Arthur, but he was weak, a tool that had served its purpose and been tossed aside. That wasn’t me. He wasn’t me. These weren’t my memories.
I could hear Grey and Cecilia fighting in the distance. The sounds of their blades hammered against one another, each resounding clang a near-death blow in my electrified nerve-wracked mind.
I began to run again.
More memories of Elijah Knight’s brief life flashed by to either side: the Dire Tombs, Xyrus Academy, his growing bond with Arthur, the kindness from the Leywins and Helsteas, Tessia Eralith…
Enough with these things, I ordered. I don’t care. I don’t want these memories.
“What a mess,” one of the lights said, flickering nervously.
I slowed again, staring at it. Since when did lights speak?
“This? I thought it cleaned up well enough. A few more hours and he won’t even know he was cut open,” a man said, his voice coming from a television screen tucked away in the corner between the shallow ceiling and unadorned wall of the endless hallway.
“Didn’t you hear? Vechor was attacked. A staging area for the war in Dicathen completely wiped off the map,” the light answered with a pulse of brightness.
“You know I’ve been down here for days. I haven’t heard anything. What time is it, even?” The man on the television looked around, a comically weary expression on his face. “We’ve been the only ones down here for hours. I’m tired as a wogart boar after breeding season.”
“Sovereigns. You’re gross sometimes, you know that?”
Below the screen, a window into another memory showed young Arthur stepping into the room we’d shared at Xyrus Academy. “Arthur!” Elijah yelled, grabbing Arthur firmly.
“There, there. Yes, I’m still alive. You can’t get rid of me that easily,” came the sarcastic response.
“I know,” Elijah said with a wet sniffle. “You’re like a cockroach.”
I had been so thrilled to have my best friend back. Bile rose up in my throat. The best friend who murdered my one true love…
“No,” I ground out through clenched teeth, tears welling up from the corners of my eyes. “I don’t care about any of this. Where is Cecil? Show me Cecilia!”
I felt the light grow brighter, almost like it was leaning toward me. “Did he say something?” it asked.
“Shit, let’s finish cleaning him up and get him back to his room,” the man in the television said. “Agrona won’t be happy if he wakes up on the table, and I sure don’t want to be the one to explain what happened.”
Wakes up? I thought, repeating the words to myself. Why would…
A dream, I realized with a jolt. Only a stupid dream.
Wake up!
My eyes snapped open. The damp-darkened stone of a low ceiling filled my vision. Two blindingly bright lighting artifacts on moveable stands were illuminating my bare, blood-covered torso. There was a cross-shaped incision over my sternum, the edges raw as the flesh slowly knit itself back together, the entire wound shining with a chemical-smelling ointment.
A woman in red robes approached, focused on wetting a square of cloth from a bowl on a table next to me. She met my eye and froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
I tried to move and realized my wrists were shackled to the table. Kicking out experimentally, I confirmed my legs were as well. I tensed. The thick leather creaked as I strained against it. A feeling of panic boiled up inside me as my strength flagged, then the bindings finally snapped, and there was a loud ping as a rivet ricocheted off the wall.
The woman let out a startled gasp, and the other voice cursed as something metallic clattered to the ground.
“S-Scythe N-Nico,” the woman sputtered, taking a step back and bowing.
With my free hand, I unstrapped my other wrist and sat up.
I was resting on a cold metal table at the center of a sterile, largely empty room. The air pressed close around me, heavy with moisture. The woman slowly lowered her rag back into its bowl, which sat on a small bench next to a tray of tools, some still slick with blood. A larger table was pressed against one wall, and several implements I didn’t immediately recognize were arrayed across it, along with an open notebook.
Metal scraped on the ground, and I turned to see a man in the same white robes. He was slowly putting several metal pins back onto a tray that he must have dropped when I woke.
“What did you say?” I asked, but when the man looked confused, I realized it had been some time since anyone had spoken. “What don’t you want to explain?”
I wasn’t sure what was happening or where I was. The last thing I remembered, I’d been in Vechor, and—
Grey!
My hand went to the cross cut into my sternum. I reached for my mana, a half-remembered nightmare of my core being destroyed lapping at the edges of my mind.
My core felt strange. Distant, both mine and not mine. Just like the Elijah memories. I ground my teeth against the thought.
A blood iron spike manifested from the shadows beneath the table and sank into the man’s chest. His eyes bulged madly as he clawed at the spike, but his movements quickly became lethargic, and within seconds his limp body sagged, his blood running along the smooth black metal in little rivers before dripping to the damp floor.
Icy claws raked at my insides, my core a heavy ball of pain in my sternum, and it was all I could do to hold on to the magic.
“W-what happened to me…” I turned back to the woman, holding myself on one trembling elbow. “What were you doing to me?”
She had shrunk back a step but was paralyzed by my gaze. “The High S-Sovereign, he…he…”
Both her hands came up, and a weak shield of light blue transparent mana hummed into existence between us. She turned to run and slammed into a second spike. From my angle, the sharp point speared out of her lower back, and a crimson ring began to stain her white robes.
Cold sweat broke out across my brow at the effort of casting and the pain it caused me. My arms shook as I broke the ankle restraints, and I had to support myself on the side table as I maneuvered around to the woman’s front.
The spike had gone in just above her hip and was pinning her in place, but it was thin, a weak, trembling thing, just like me.
Despite the pain and fatigue, I took hold of her chin and forced her to face me. “What were you doing to me?”
“W-wanted to understand…examining your…core,” she gasped. “She…healed it. But it’s…imperfect…”
I pressed my fingers into the incision marks again. These two had opened me up and poked around inside my body. They hadn’t asked, hadn’t even planned on telling me. I felt no anger at this, which in itself seemed remarkable. I was always angry now. My temper burned like a forge fire right beneath my skin, and any gust of adversity made it flare bright and hot.
Except…
I looked at the woman. Really looked at her. She had unremarkable dull-brown eyes and mousy hair that matched them almost exactly. Worry lines were etched into her face, and she had patches of chewed skin on her lips, which I could picture her biting with nervous curiosity as she peered at my insides like I was a bullfrog pinned to the table.
“What happened at the Victoriad? Did we capture Grey? Kill him?”
I read the answer in the woman’s face. Her eyes dilated, leaking frightened tears that mixed with the snot dribbling from her nose. Her lips parted then squeezed shut, the muscles in her jaw working silently.
And I felt…
Nothing.
Soulfire jumped to life over the metal of the spike, then raced along the trail of her blood and into her body. Her brown eyes rolled back in her head, and she screamed, but only for a moment. The soulfire was in her lungs an instant later, and she was dead. Not because I was angry, but simply because she didn’t matter.
I dismissed the two blood iron spikes I had summoned, letting the bodies fall unceremoniously to the floor, then slumped back against the wall and slid down it into a sitting position. There, I could only wait for the pain and weakness to recede.
My attention turned back to the room.
