Daughter of War

by Brendan Wright

  Her smile finally returned.

  "The Cubby-house?"

  "The Cubby-house."

  Elana

  It took a while for her to get her bearings again. After leaving the Tyran with Hayne's wife, she wrapped herself in shadow again and leapt silently onto a nearby light pole. It felt like an incredible effort, the wounds she'd suffered screaming at her to rest. The excitement and energy of battle was draining away quickly, and she felt the damage to her body taking its toll. It was time to leave Ermoor.

  As she rushed along rooftops and light poles, her Shadow spell faltered. For the first time since she'd become Kaizeluun, she felt the magic completely leave her. Suddenly, even with her Kaizuun drawn, she was out of strength. She tripped mid-step halfway along a light pole, and crashed down into the street. It was a long fall; she felt a bone snap in her leg. She'd run far enough that she was out of the military district, but guards were still patrolling randomly; no doubt to search for slaves who might have escaped. Or for me, she thought. Pushing herself to her feet, she limped on. The docks were three districts away from Dreadhold, in Ivorstorm, and she was close by. Still, every step was agony, and she had no idea what she'd do if soldiers found her.

  As she thought it, five soldiers turned into the street she was limping down. Though there was still fog, she had no magic to hide with and it wasn't long before one of the Ermoori saw her.

  "Who's that? You there, stop!"

  They ran, their weapons already drawn. She still held her Kaizuun, and angled it behind her body as they approached. As they drew closer they faltered, and the tone of the soldiers who spoke changed.

  "It's one of us!" One said.

  "You're injured!" The one who'd first seen her said.

  They reached her, concern on their faces; they wore the standard Ermoori guard armour, much less decorative than the demonic armour they wore to guard Tyra. It was dark, a mix of deep blue fabric and grey armour plates. And no helmets. She waited for them to get close. Two of them stayed back, watching the street. Damn it, she thought. The three close to her could be taken out fairly easily, but she was out of magic and badly injured.

  She'd never felt this weak in her life. With the Shadow Magic depleted, her strength and stamina were utterly drained. Her wounds pulsed viciously, and her leg was going numb. She brought her hand to her side, hissing at the pain; definitely a bad injury. As she moved her hand to the leg wound, it caught on something half way down; a round shape on her belt.

  Smiling grimly, she grabbed it, pressed the button, and threw it at the two soldiers further down the street. As shouting started and the soldiers close to her watched the explosive device fly through the air, she brought her sword up. One of them died instantly, a deep cut slicing from his groin to the top of his head. He didn't even make a sound. Twirling, she severed the head of the second soldier just as the last turned back to her. He brought his gun up, and might have killed her had her momentum not spun her out of the way.

  He fired, missing her by a hair, and she brought her Kaizuun down through his wrist. Another gunshot boomed, and the soldier grunted as his blood sprayed into the cold night air; the explosive hadn't triggered properly, and the two soldiers had the advantage now. Cursing her luck, she leapt behind the corpses in front of her, hoping their bodies would be enough to shield her. They fired again, and she heard a wet thumping sound as the dead man in front of her convulsed. His gun lay on the ground in front of him, right next to her.

  Footsteps, a gunshot and another wet thump followed while she struggled to grab the gun and remain hidden. Several loud clacks filled the silence; the soldiers had reloaded their guns. She waited, their footsteps getting louder, wishing she could see their auras through the dead soldier she hid behind. I've become reliant on magic, she thought, furious with herself.

  The footsteps suddenly halted, and she knew they were close. Making a guess, she jumped up, her side and leg screaming, took aim, and before she could pull the trigger, a massive explosion rocked the street, throwing her and the closest soldier to the ground. The other soldier had stayed back, ready to fire at her if she killed the one who came close. He would have succeeded in killing her, if not for the delayed explosion of the device she'd thrown. It reduced him to pieces instantly in a flash of light and fire. She'd never used one before, just pressed the first button she saw; but it had been enough to save her life.

  Crying out as she hit the ground, Elana rolled onto her feet much slower than she would have without injury. Too slow. This is it; this is how I die. But as she scanned the street, she saw the last living soldier moving even slower than herself, groaning and dazed. She raised the gun and fired just as he began rising. He grunted as her shot hit him in the stomach. The gun dropped from his fingers and he slumped back to the ground. She heard his ragged breathing, and limped over to him.

  Her Kaizuun sliced through his throat as easily as it did through the fog in the air. He died quickly, and Elana moved on.

  The docks were busy even at night, but only a small guard crew were stationed there; either the rest had been pulled away to reinforce the others in Dreadhold, or the Ermoori were far too arrogant about the shipments coming to and from their dock. Elana didn't mind. She was done with fighting for now. All that remained was getting herself onto a ship bound for Tarsium.

  Without magic, it was going to be tricky. She'd taken off the demonic armour in an alley near the docks, and felt much lighter without the heavy armour weighing her down. It did wonders for her energy, but she was still at the end of her limits. She had no idea why the Ermoori felt the need to wear such heavy armour; it barely stopped their own guns, and did nothing to stop the Kaizuun or Shadow Magic. All it did was make them slow.

  Most of the people at the dock were either workers or sailors; overseeing the transfer of goods on or off the ships, or preparing for another trip at sea. They wore all different clothing, and there were Omati workers as well as the occasional Tarsi supervisor. Even the Ermoori here wore different clothing; these were the lower class, the working class, who couldn't afford to wear the extravagant clothing worn in the city proper, nor cared to if they could.

  Elana strode as casually as she could into the docks. She knew the guards had no idea what she looked like; in Dreadhold and Ivorstorm she'd been spotted wearing the red and orange armour, and she'd managed to go unseen other than that. But she was still a Shenza warrior, and would be captured on sight regardless of whether she was recognised.

  In that moment, she hated that her tunic was sleeveless. Shadow Magic was much more effective when the spell tattoos weren't covered, but at the moment they were useless anyway. She'd never once feared to have her tattoos on display; until now.

  Wandering down one of the piers, she came to a Tarsi supervisor. As diplomatic as they were, it was no secret that Tarsium held little love for Ermoor. She just hoped this particular Tarsi felt the same.

  "Hello, supervisor," she said, keeping her voice low, "how goes business?"

  "Business goes, child," the Tarsi said evenly, "day and night, it goes."

  The Tarsi's eyes flitted over Elana's body, no doubt taking in every little detail; the tattoos, the wounds, the Kaizuun. Her massive eyes didn't blink, and the barest hint of a wry smile pointed at the end of her small mouth.

  "Does it go to Tarsium? Tonight?"

  "Business goes where it must. When it must."

  Elana was running out of time, and patience. Her mind was slipping as exhaustion and pain took hold. She couldn't remember when she'd last slept, or eaten. The dock spun in front of her, and she was losing grip.

  "Please," she said, "I need to get away. They're going to kill me if they see me."

  "Ah," the Tarsi woman said, then focused her attention on the manifest in her hand.

  "We are transporting silks and power reserves to Tarsium tonight. When we arrived, it was with a very large shipment of fish and other food. I believe two barrels were seen to be defective, somehow coming undone during the
journey. They are not fit to eat, but Ermoor does not allow the dumping of unusable foreign stock in their oceans or even in their bins. Those barrels, unfortunately for me, must stay aboard until our return to Tarsium, and then will be emptied."

  Elana smiled. Finally, some good luck. She thanked the Tarsi and moved towards the ship.

  "Of course," the supervisor called after her, "all stock requires payment. Even defective stock must be paid for."

  Riffolk

  Riffolk screamed, and the servant who brought him the news of Mathys and Mara's escape exploded into white ashes. She's gone? He'd been prepared to attack again, prepared to destroy her once and for all, and she interrupted his plans yet again. Shaking with rage, he launched bolt after bolt at the wall, smashing huge chunks out of it each time.

  However long it takes, he thought, wherever I have to go to find you, I will hunt you down and kill you. He focused the words into a shout, and pushed them with his mind, visualising Mara and her terrified little face.

  She will not hear you.

  "Then tell her for me."

  I serve no mortal.

  "Yet I held you in a cage and used your energy. You served me whether you wanted to or not."

  Taranos didn't answer, and Riffolk smiled, his breath calming again. Knowing he'd taken a God and bent it to his will worked wonders to sate his rage. But Mara was still out there, somewhere. He couldn't feel her presence any more, which worried him; his research had revealed that magic interacted with its own kind no matter the distance between wielders. Theoretically, even if she was on the other side of Pandeia, he should have been able to feel her energy.

  Launching one more bolt of lightning at the wall, he went back to focusing on his work; if magic couldn't help locate Mara, a global invasion certainly would. It would take far longer without Taranos, but either way, Ermoor was going to rule all of Pandeia, with Riffolk as its leader.

  Arthor

  In the weeks following the order for Mathys' death, Arthor got almost no sleep. His only solace was knowing the Twelve no longer wanted him dead too. That, and knowing Ellie was safe somewhere in Tarsium. He was on edge constantly, ready for Mathys to appear from the shadows. Ready for the Spectre of Ermoor.

  Production was beginning on the weapons and vehicles required for the invasion. Without the creature powering fully automated factories as Riffolk originally planned, they were stuck with the manned factories and more limited operating hours. The time frame was long, but the Twelve had accepted that, and left him to oversee the operations.

  He had soldiers with him every hour of the day, and the Twelve promised him they would stop any attack. Arthor wasn't so certain; he'd seen what the Spectre could do. He moved like a shadow, silent and faster than blinking. He could go from being on the ground to the top of a nearby building in seconds. Smoke appeared around him at will, and he seemed to have the strength of ten men.

  He wore invincible armour made of black metal, and wore a dark cloak that folded in on itself, billowing, hiding his countless tools and weapons. The original Spectre was said to have wielded a sword made of lightning, but that was myth; Arthor had never seen anything like that.

  He spent most nights in his office, with one hand on his gun and the other nursing a glass of Darkfire. Made in Ermoor, the dark red liquor was inspired by an ancient Thearan myth; the Darkfire was supposedly a prophesied warrior who could wield both Shadow Magic and Fire Magic. He was said to be capable of destroying all of Pandeia. It was sweet with a unique bitter twist, what he thought might be aniseed, and served with crushed ice. The deep red made him think of a pool of blood, but it got the job done. The building that contained his office had a kitchen, and as Lord Commander he could order whatever he wanted. Darkfire wasn't on their menu, but they made it every night for him. And every night, as he waited for death or victory, the voice whispered to him.

  He is coming.

  He will try to kill you.

  He must be stopped.

  You must kill him.

  He'd given up arguing. He'd given up everything. Ellie remained in his mind, the sole beam of sunlight shining through thick black clouds. If she survived, it would all be worth it.

  Not to mention the power you will possess once Ermoor controls all of Pandeia.

  Arthor sipped his drink, staring into the shadows in his office. Every now and then he could have sworn he saw a twitch of movement in the darkness. His gun sat on the desk in front of him, pointing at the door, his hand resting on the grip. He'd seen many battles in his career, and the gun in his hand was his companion in all of them. It was as familiar to him as the faces of his Commanders and Generals, and just as valuable.

  Mathys had an identical weapon. They'd both been carrying the same guns, ever since they had first been made. Of course, back then they were simple designs; manually loaded with gunpowder stamped into the barrel and a lead shot dropped on top. Difficult, time consuming, and not particularly accurate. Still, Arthor had made do, practising constantly next to Mathys, competing and laughing as they destroyed man-shaped targets in one of the training yards in Dreadhold.

  Once Riffolk began inventing things, it didn't take the young man long to design a new type of gun and ammunition. They worked very efficiently, and had a wide target range, meaning accuracy wasn't as problematic. Arthor and Mathys had requested their existing weapons be fitted with the necessary upgrades so they could keep the original grip and muzzle; mostly for nostalgia's sake, but they'd also practised so much with the old guns that the fit and weight were easier to use than the lighter, smaller new designs. All the other soldiers took the brand new guns.

  Sipping more of the Darkfire, Arthor wondered if Mathys would feel sadness whenever he looked at his old gun, after he'd killed his Lord Commander.

  Did you ever feel sadness after killing your enemies?

  "I didn't train every day for decades next to the enemies I've killed. They weren't my friends."

  That did it. He was left again in silence, brooding and trying to keep his courage up. Waiting for death was a harrowing experience. If it wasn't for the drink, he knew his hands would be shaking.

  The door handle gently squealed, disturbing the silence as suddenly as if someone had shouted at him. He brought his hand up, his gun levelled straight at the door, and fired without hesitation. The door was thick, but made of wood, and Riffolk's designs were potent. A wide pattern of holes slammed into the wood, and Arthor heard a muted grunt from the other side, followed by a heavy thud.

  He reloaded as he rose from his chair, then palmed another round in his left hand as he circled around his desk. The Spectre had been known for using deception as one of his tools.

  "Come in, Mathys, I know it's you. There's no need to play these games with me. Not any more."

  A groan floated through from the corridor, followed by a couple of ragged breaths. If it was fake, it was incredibly believable. The door opened inwards, and the latch had been pulled before Arthor fired, so the door was slightly ajar. He approached from the side so he could see out through the small gap. A body lay on the floor; a body dressed in servant's clothes.

  He scanned the corridor in both directions quickly, then rushed to the body, dropping to his knees. It definitely wasn't Mathys, and the corridor was empty. The man was still alive, choking and coughing, several ragged holes torn into his body. Arthor held the man's head gently.

  "Damn it, what were you doing here?"

  "I ha-" another cough stopped him, blood spattering out of his mouth, "message for... you."

  The servant tried to take a breath, coughed up more blood, then tried again. A horrible bubbling sound gurgled from his lips as he fought for breath. Arthor had heard it before, on the battlefield; the man's lungs had been punctured, and were filling with blood.

  "Is it written down?"

  He managed a weak shake of his head, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment.

  "Math... fled. Gone."

  He died still trying to speak.
Arthor understood the message, but didn't quite believe it; the news was too good to be true. Mathys fled Ermoor? That's totally unlike him. Mathys had never once retreated from battle, in the years they'd fought together.

  There were two possibilities Arthor could think of. Either Mathys was simply disappearing to bide his time and strike later on; or, much worse and hopefully much less likely, he was going to strike where Arthor was weakest. Cursing, he ran to his desk, pressed the button underneath, and ran from the office.

  One Crown. Again. He knew the situation was difficult, but he was fed up with being disregarded like this; not being worth the time or attention of more than one Crown. It was an insult.

  "Is it true? Mathys fled the city?"

  "Yes," the Crown said, "we don't know why, but our information suggests he has taken the girl with him."

  The girl. Riffolk's wife. Mathys seemed to think she was far more involved than she appeared.

  She is. She has been touched by the Gods.

  "What?"

  "Mara Hayne. Mathys took her with him."

  "Yes, I heard, I was talking to... Why would he take her?"

  "Maybe he knows more about us than we realised."

  The Crown stood, tall and slim, and Arthor couldn't help but tense up for combat, his hand moving automatically to his gun. It's a trap! he thought, not quite ready to fight, not quite ready to die.

  "Calm yourself, Arthor," the Crown said, raising his hands slowly.

  His palms were out, his hands splayed wide; no threat. Arthor left his hand on the grip of his gun, though he settled into a more relaxed stance.