Skyclad (Fate's Anvil Book 1)

by Scott Browder

  “A dozen or so people out of a hundred will reach their fiftieth level before old age cuts their regen back ‘til they finally succumb to sickness, or just get tired and die,” continued Nessara in the background. “Out of those, another dozen out of a hundred will find some reason to push on. War, adventure, stubborn determination…whatever their reason, they’ll get into their sixties. Lot of them come here; once you’re that high, you’ll likely only gain levels out there, in the Wildlands. There are more level fifty-plus classers in this city than in entire nations. Not even Stormbreak Isle comes close.”

  “And Terisa is in charge of them all?” asked the Worldwalker.

  “Heh,” Kojeg grunted as the Huntress knocked an arrow against the ghostly string and let herself relax. “No one’s ‘in charge’ of’ this city, lass, but if there’s a top dog sitting on this gathering of mutts, they walk small when she goes a-hunting.”

  “Every now and then,” said the mage, “once or twice, maybe, in ten thousand or more people, someone has the fire. Something driving them to keep pushing, whether it’s ambition, or pride, or greed… something simply makes them relentless. Terisa has fought more than one war, and went adventuring with Kojeg and I for over twenty years in between them. Her story is hers alone to tell, but…”

  The mage trailed off and the dwarf continued, “Lassie, ye’ve seen the Great Forge, and ye build mighty works. But now ye stand before true power, earned the hard way. The [Wild-Heart Huntress] be level seventy and four, and not a score others in Anfealt are alive at this moment with higher levels.”

  Terisa finally tuned them out completely, her will combining with that of the Living Weapon in her hands. The arrow was simple and mundane, albeit of exemplary quality, enabling it to withstand the terrible pressure applied by the magic coursing through the bow. Focusing her mind, she settled into an almost trance-like state as she felt her own Mana and Stamina drawn in to merge with the will of the weapon itself.

  Now!

  The thought came unbidden from her mind, echoed by a gentle wave of power that emanated from the bow. She took a deep breath as the bow came up, and up, until the tip of the arrow was nearly vertical. The muscles of her arms stood out like coiled steel springs and cables under tanned parchment skin as she drew the string back as far as it would go. The energy from her Mana and Stamina roared through her veins, and though she felt calm, the light bent around her as the magic drew in to squeeze down to a point just ahead of the bow’s glowing gem. As the stones around her began to vibrate with power, she spoke.

  “Now, Althenea! Pierce the heavens!”

  Her fingers released the bowstring. The concussive force from the string returning to its neutral position drove the crowd—Dana included, despite her armor’s best attempts to keep her upright—to their knees. Kojeg and Nessara alone remained standing, a testament to their own strength and power.

  Slung upward as though borne aloft by a rocket, the arrow flew skyward with such force that it split the air apart, ionizing it into an incandescent column—a lightning bolt cast back to the clouds, leaving a jagged afterimage in its wake.

  A mile and more into the air, the Mana wreathing the arrow detonated into a brilliant flare so bright that the rising sun itself hid its face.

  Terisa, lowering her arms, blinked the remnants of her signal out of her eyes. As the city began to reverberate to the beat of unseen drums, and a clamor rose up from the ranks assembled atop the barricade, she gently ran her fingers over the bow.

  Softly, so softly that only those closest to her might hear, she whispered, “I declare this year’s Expedition underway.”

  Dana had regained her footing by now, expression still shell-shocked for a moment more. Approaching the Huntress, she said, “You called your bow ‘Althenea.’ Isn’t that your sister’s name?”

  Terisa turned her head, expression unreadable, but with just a hint of longing. “Yes,” she replied, sighing, “and I’ll tell you the story behind that…if you’ll answer me one question.”

  Dana brimmed with excitement. “I can’t say no to that! I’ll answer whatever question you have! …As long as it doesn’t violate my oaths,” she amended quickly.

  Terisa cracked the ghost of a grin. “Perfect. Now…tell me… How do you relieve yourself in that suit of yours? You haven’t taken it off in the three days you’ve been in the city, and you haven’t visited the latrines even once. And I don’t see anybody else asking.”

  The Worldwalker opened her mouth, shut it, and blushed furiously as the crowd burst into raucous laughter.

  Chapter 24: Bitter Tears

  Constable Zizzy stood before another crime scene, yet another display of pointless brutality serving no purpose higher than pain and suffering. Echoes of the raw agony suffered here dragged across her nerves like nails across a chalkboard. She found herself constantly surprised by this feeling; ordinarily, the pain and suffering of mankind failed to move her. After all, the Hells she was summoned from—and by extension, she herself—existed for the sole purpose of cleansing the sins of the damned by returning to them all the suffering they’d inflicted during their lives.

  This scene, though, like all the others, was different; this was no ordinary predator inflicting ordinary suffering on an ordinary victim. Like others of her kind, Zizzy was able to sense the good and evil inherent in the souls of Man, and even through the remnants imprinted on the crime scene, two things stood out to her: The Defiler was evil, and his victims were innocent.

  Despite her agitation, Zizzy kept her wings furled and her tail tucked around her waist; she was the picture of tranquility as she took in the sight before her. The scene had already been documented, of course; the local township—called Hat for some reason not even the residents could remember—had a handful of retired, yet still competent Wardens who took every pain to record the scene. But Zizzy wasn’t here to observe those details; if she were, she could have reviewed their meticulous report.

  The details she sought weren’t sounds, smells, or sights, and her attempts to explain them to her mortal peers, even those among the Wardens, had all fallen short. It was more like the heat from a fire that warmed the skin, but it came with flavors, and she could feel it through clothing. All living things emanated such energies in varying intensities, and every person’s trace was different. On top of every person’s unique signature came impressions of a person’s emotions and feelings, to which her heritage sensitized her. People were constantly giving off these signals, and if they were particularly intense, objects and places around them could echo the signals for some time.

  What she could sense didn’t tell the entire tale by itself, but it added vital context to what she already knew from the Wardens’ report. The crushed chair and the broken table reeked of outrage and surprise, most likely that of the victim, whose body was still cooling in the evening air. The slashed tunic he wore gave off desperation; so too did the shattered plank of wood, half of which was still in the decedent’s grip. His body, riddled with shattered fragments of his own bone, stank of suffering and malice alike, a pall that hung like a miasma through the entire room.

  Again, The Defiler lived up to his title. Nothing in this room was spared the marks of The Defiler’s passing; though Zizzy was used to seeing this level of brutality in connection with ritual sacrifice and the like, there was no evidence of such acts here. There were no ritual circles with lingering traces of Mana, no blood sigils, and no patterns denoting any sort of language. At least no language known to Man or Demonkind. She couldn’t completely rule out the possibility of The Defiler using some sort of ritual runes from his own world in the smattering of bloody mess spread amongst the random sprays, but she didn’t think that was the case. She sensed no Faith- or Mana-based magics from the scrawling lines.

  She knelt down by the man’s body, sniffing the air. The blood, like the corpse, was still warm; she was closing in, gradually whittling away The Defiler’s lead as he killed, night after night. A silver pin covered in
blood lay on the floor next to the body, marking the young man as an Adept in the Storm Breakers. The outline of the broken storm cloud was just visible under the blood. The young mage hadn’t had it long enough for his feeling of pride and accomplishment to wear off, and his emotive essence made the symbol stand out, shiny and gold to Zizzy’s senses even through the coating of blood.

  She heard footsteps approaching the door to the room and stood, turning to greet the other Warden.

  “Every head in the village is accounted for, Constable.” The man looked tired even beyond his middling years, certainly never expecting such tragedy to interrupt his comfortable posting. He shook his head with weary sadness. “Tarma hadn’t been stationed at the local array very long; less than a year. But we all liked him. The village midwife, Miss Landi Pael, is the only one not here. She’s up the valley at Middle Gates, deliverin’, but I’ve questioned everyone else.”

  “And not a soul saw or heard anything in the early morning, just like the others,” Zizzy replied.

  “Not a thing.” The man sighed in resignation. “I never thought I’d have to send a letter like this back to the mainland. I think his family is in Meadowspire, but the Breakers will know for sure.”

  “The failure is mine, Senior Warden. Have his personal effects delivered to my office at Stormbreak, and I’ll see to notifying the family.” She stepped out of the room, letting her wings finally spread out and relax, while her tail whipped in nervous agitation. “I have to get ahead of him, Warden. The road splits just north of Hat; where do the forks lead?”

  “Well, the coastal road keeps on following the shoreline for sixty or so miles to Twelve Oaks and their array. It’s bigger than the standard ones, and the next upstream link for our lesser array here at Hat.”

  “And the eastern fork?”

  “That cuts over Bald Rock Road, through a bunch of gullies and switchback canyons heading to the interior of the island. Can’t take a cart over it, but it can get you to Ridgewater in a day’s travel on foot.”

  Zizzy stood still for a moment, deep in thought. “Ridgewater doesn’t have an array…but it sits on the road to Southpeak. They’ve drafted older students through the old treaties so they can fire the entire array, and they’ll be travelling under guard.”

  “Twelve Oaks has a chapter-house retreat for [Paladins] on pilgrimage to get their Blessing from Asima, Constable,” the Warden informed her. His expression gained a grim and eager light. “If he heads there, his story will end.”

  “We can hope,” she muttered. After a moment’s thought, she nodded. “I’m going to Ridgewater to try to get ahead of him,” she said with a stretch of her wings. “If he goes to Twelve Oaks, I’d just get in the way. And if I catch the wrong end of a thrown Holy Judgement, well…” She shuddered at the thought of being anywhere near a Holy Warrior throwing down Divine enhanced abilities. “He doesn’t leave traces when he travels, so tracking him directly is right out. But a bunch of students fresh from the academy, travelling scared? That’s a tempting target.”

  “How do you know he won’t simply go around, Constable?”

  “I don’t. But he’s taken over thirty victims so far since Purple Night. He has to be close to a Class Specialization into something even nastier, if not already past one. I have to get to him before he gets too strong for me to take him.”

  She snapped her wings and leapt into the sky, barely hearing the man calling out to wish her good luck and good hunting. Winds from the approaching storm buffeted the succubus as she climbed over the township, but her magical nature permitted her to cut through them with ease. By the time she reached a thousand feet over the village, she could see past the ridgeline to the western sea. Though the worldstorm was still hundreds of leagues away, she found herself staggered by its size and ferocity. The wall of inky clouds whipped the ocean into a roiling froth, and smaller storms spun off to wreak their own devastation. Flashes of wild Mana arced through the steely thunderheads, illuminating the distant darkness with impressions of eldritch shadows moving within the storm. It was a stark reminder of what was at stake: by threatening the Storm Breakers, The Defiler threatened the entire continent.

  As she winged her way north and west to head inland, Zizzy activated one of the enchantments she’d had placed on her uniform. She felt the magic settle against her body and knew she’d just become transparent, nearly invisible to mundane sight. A static light-bending camouflage enchantment was simple enough for even student [Mages] to make; however, hers was of a caliber that allowed her to move while maintaining the effect. Gliding in near silence, she rode the winds from the approaching storm, climbing above the rocky crags after less than an hour of travel.

  As she crested the ridge, she could make out a town to the northeast, sprawling at the intersection of one broad roadway paved with time-worn stone cobbles that bisected a sprawling community of thatched-roof buildings. The avenue ended in a wide, circular lot with smaller roads heading southward in half a dozen directions. Several stone bridges crossed the rushing water below the ridge that gave the town its name, and to the north she could see a large caravan slowly making its way toward the town. Evening approached, and the lengthening shadows lent the entire scene an eerie ambiance from her lofty vantage point.

  For a few minutes, as she flew, Zizzy contemplated informing the Wardens guarding the convoy of her plan. But every person who knows could betray my plan, and I have no idea what this monster looks like, who he could be…

  No, she decided as she settled onto a rooftop next to the north gates of the city, still shrouded in the effects of the magical cloaking enchantment. Better to surprise everyone, not just him.

  With inhuman patience, she waited until the convoy of guarded wagons passed through the stone entrance. Tired young men and women in various colors of robes denoting their academic affiliations sat in the open wagons or took turns walking beside them. Dipping further into her demonic abilities, it was a trivial thing to slip into the group. A quick drop to an alley before they passed, a quiet furling of her wings back inside her tunic. Her golden braids darkened to a milk-chocolate brown, then flowed down into tousled locks, and her skin likewise went from pale cream to an islander’s tan. As if sculpting herself, the succubus ran her hands down her bust to enlarge her chest, while a wriggle of her hips rounded out her posterior, her tail vanishing through the slot in her trousers. The enchanted attire proved its worth, responding to her intent, while her badge and signature hat slipped into an enchanted storage pouch on her belt. The colors of her uniform faded from a formal grey to a more well-worn brown befitting a dusty and road-weary student of magic, pants tightening around her curves, while the buttons of her tunic strained to hold her bosom, seemingly ready to fail at any moment. A cloak from her utility pouch completed the disguise as she shed inches from her height.

  A short and mousey brunette with wide, innocent eyes and a figure that would cause any mother to hide her sons casually flounced out of the alleyway to join the passing pack of students. A wizened but burly Master with the golden emblem of a broken storm clasping his cloak at one shoulder looked across his group of charges. His gaze lingered a moment on Zizzy, and he reached for one of the many flasks on his belt before recognition dawned on his face. He remained silent, and she nodded respectfully. One didn’t reach the rank of Master in the Breakers without a hefty amount of Intellect.

  “Groups of three at a minimum,” he growled as the students began to disperse toward the inn, its windows casting a warm and inviting light into the chill evening air. “Don’t wander off, not even to use the facilities, just like last night.”

  Zizzy paid no attention to the murmuring gossip and whispers of the students, but she did listen to the general tone. Older students feigned bravery and boldness, as much to impress the younger as to mask their own feelings of fear and nervousness. A less experienced succubus—a less experienced demon —would have found the aura given off by the anxious younglings to be a nectar too sweet to resist, a
nd she was counting on The Defiler feeling the same way. She slipped into a chair next to two timid girls, quietly pretending to eat from the tray of meats and cheese offered to the mages. They offered no conversation, and Zizzy was silently grateful that she wouldn’t have to play a role. While playing to the fantasies of others was instinctual to any succubus, she’d spent decades growing into her own maturity of personality. Even without the geas from her unknown master, she would have preferred older, more deserving prey.

  The meal passed without consequence, quiet and hushed conversations carrying on between different groups of students. Armored and well-armed [Fighter]- and [Brawler]-type guards surrounded the building, with experienced [Scout] and [Ranger] lookouts watching the perimeter. All should have been well. But Zizzy’s instincts—naturally honed far past any mortal ability, and further refined by decades of experience tracking nefarious criminals through myriad situations—were screaming inside her head.

  As the Master instructed, the students traveled in threes when they had to go anywhere—including the facilities. The girls she’d attached herself to, after doing the same, slowly made their way back to the room selected for them. The need for security drew out the process of getting the students settled in, and it was well past midnight before her pair settled on their shared bunk, tossing and turning as sleep slowly took them.

  Sisters, I’m sure, she thought to herself. And far too young for this.

  Hours passed in what was, for Zizzy, a mixture of nervous waiting and the calm anticipation of the predator waiting for its prey. Her keen senses brought her the snoring and other nocturnal sounds typical of a large group of travellers, especially the romantic couples that normally would’ve piqued her unique interests. The building grew even more quiet as the hours drew on; as the eastern horizon slowly began to brighten, she could hear the kitchen staff rummaging through cupboards and beginning preparations for the morning meal. Her innocent charges had finally succumbed to sleep, entwined on their bed and exhausted by the pallor of fear that had likely followed the group all the way from Stormbreak.