The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  Mevon felt the storm surge to the point of breaking.

  Just hearing the stories was not enough. I had to see your heart with my own eyes. Thank you for so quickly telling me everything I needed to know.

  He clenched his jaw, fury he knew without doubt to be righteous cascading through every pore. Today, here, against this foe, he would have no trouble unleashing the fullest measure of himself. Jasside’s instructions had been to find the enemy, wherever they might threaten the innocent. Find them . . . and destroy them.

  In this, he did not plan to disappoint her.

  He lifted his gaze past the troops on the ground. He had a secondary mission, at least to begin with. The whole reason he was here, at the fore, alone. An important test that would determine how effective he and the rest of the Hardohl would be as they alone stood in defense of Sceptre.

  Two enemy vessels, their hulls like masses of rough-hewn blocks smashed together and held by mud, swam through the sky like sleeping fish. As his own skyship drew near, however, they awoke quickly enough.

  Mevon shuffled forward, poking his boots over the foremost point of the arrowhead-shaped transport. The enemy ships began glowing a muted, warbled green, angling their noses towards him. A moment later, twin energy beams shot out like javelins.

  Mevon stood firm as they struck . . .

  . . . and did him no harm.

  When voiding darkness or light, Mevon had only felt a tingle of energy, a small wash of cool or warm air as the sorcery vanished. The caster would typically reel from the backlash, but most would recover unharmed within beats.

  What happened now was . . . not so gentle.

  Something shrill rasped against every sense as the energy around him spiraled back to its source, surging into and through those two enemy vessels. Like blocks of soft cheese struck by a hammer, the ships ruptured, expelling rocky chunks in all directions with galewind force.

  Eyes flared, all Mevon could do was stare. That was not the reaction I was expecting. A smile crept into his lips.

  Though it’s a surprise I certainly welcome.

  His first task done for the day, he spun to see about the next.

  The four remaining ships in his party swept low over the refugees’ heads. Eighty-four other Hardohl, all who had volunteered for the expedition, rode poised along their starboard edges. The rest of the deck space was filled with the eight-score members of the Imperial Guard.

  Mevon watched as his skyships came abreast of the harried human defenders. Their noses angled left and their back ends curled forward as they braked hard, losing almost all speed in an instant.

  Carried forward by momentum, his peers leapt from the decks. Andun gripped in eager hands, they sailed thirty paces through the air, barreling through the wedge of ruvaki troops like hawks swooping down on prey.

  The Imperial Guard unloaded in the next instant, placing themselves in a line before the Sceptrines in formation, two ranks deep: the front bore heraldic shields and longswords, while the rear wielded heavy crossbows.

  Faced on one side by a wall with teeth, and on the other by whirlwinds of death, the enemy force dissolved into chaos.

  Mevon smiled. How . . . appropriate.

  Even outnumbered more than four to one, it was his allies who closed on their adversary, clamping shut the trap like jaws. Still, somehow, a group of perhaps forty or fifty ruvak managed to squeeze out and made to run for the hills.

  The skyship beneath him was merely a transport, mounting no weapons of its own.

  I guess I will just have to do.

  He pointed towards the escapees. The vessel veered, sweeping towards them twenty paces above the surface. Mevon reached behind him, lifting Justice from the hooks holding it to his back. Twin black blades, bent back onto themselves like the outline of a diamond, jutted from either end of a steel rod carved with thorns. He spun the Andun once for good measure.

  He gauged distance and speed, waiting until directly above the enemy before simply stepping off the deck’s edge.

  Falling, he unleashed the storm.

  Time slowed. He examined his enemy, close now for the first time. He noted weak points in their armor, the length and manner of their weapons, the quickness of their limbs, how many of them—or, rather, how few—lifted chins to acknowledge his descent.

  He spread his feet to contact two heads as he crashed to the ground. Inhuman skulls squashed beneath his boots. The impact sent out a shock wave that toppled the surrounding enemy troops, and raised a panicked shriek from the rest.

  Mevon swung one blade in a wide arc. Blood spat from half a dozen fatal wounds, filling the air with thick orange mist that coated him entirely in a beat.

  He had space now: two or three paces on all sides, filled with a convenient barrier of dead or dying ruvaki bodies.

  The next layer of his foe turned inwards, lifted blades, and converged.

  Mevon punctured the largest one in the chest, then swept his Andun with the enemy soldier still attached. Half his would-be assailants tumbled after contact.

  He extracted the blade, then spun, lifting Justice as three hooked blades swung down at him from the end of chains. The middle one slashed down his cheek, spilling the first red blood of the skirmish. All three, though, wrapped tightly around the rod.

  Mevon smiled . . . and yanked backwards.

  A trio of inhuman bodies, shrieking in surprise, careened towards him. He thrust forward again, decapitating the outer two. He rammed his forehead into the third’s face, eliciting a wet, satisfying crunch.

  Metal whistled through the air behind him. Mevon swung blindly. Head turning to find his target only a quarter beat later, he saw the wide, tapered blade, attached to the outside of an arm, reeling back from the parry. He followed through with his other edge, entering at the ruvak’s hip and exiting at the opposite shoulder.

  Mevon jumped amidst the pile of those he’d knocked over before, who were just now attempting to get back to their feet. Justice stabbed down, precisely, again and again, delivering its namesake.

  Chest heaving from exhilaration, Mevon peered all about him, disappointed to find no more opponents bearing down.

  No surprise, really. They’ve already proven themselves cowards by running once. Why should I expect them make a stand now?

  A broad arc, some twenty strong, fled out from his position like a wave.

  But not nearly fast enough.

  It took him four marks to chase down the last of them. By the time he was finished, so too was the battle.

  He found Ilyem, who was conversing with what he assumed were the makeshift commanders of the refugee defenders. He waited nearby until she finished relaying her instructions.

  At last, she dismissed the Sceptrines, then marched over to his side.

  “Losses?” he asked.

  “No Hardohl, but three of the guard,” she said. “They have the enemy’s measure now, though, and first blood out of the way. They won’t be so careless next time.”

  “And what of yourself?”

  “I am well. As you can clearly see.”

  “Yes, but does your moniker still stand?”

  “My reputation is . . . intact,” she said with forced modesty. “I do not plan to stop being called Ilyem the Uncut anytime soon.”

  Mevon nodded, smiling, then gestured towards the refugees. “What about them?”

  “They’re grateful for our rescue, of course, but surprised that it was necessary. No other ruvaki force has penetrated so far westward into their land.”

  He grunted. “That means we’re on the right track. Any chance they know where more of them might be?”

  “East,” she said. “And in far greater numbers.”

  Sighing, Mevon rubbed his jaw. “We’ll need help, then. Send four of our ships back to pick up more of the Imperial Guard.”

  “What about the last? It can’t carry us all.”

  “No, but it can scout out for the ruvak, then ferry back and forth to bring us all close enough t
o attack.”

  “I don’t like the idea of limiting our mobility so much.”

  “If the enemy operates in larger units than what we faced here today, we’ll have to dictate each engagement. And until we get more reinforcements, those will, by necessity, have to be carefully planned raids, rather than chance rescues like this one. The people of Sceptre need an effective deterrent against anything the ruvak can muster. We’re simply not enough as we are.”

  At last, she nodded. “I’ll see to it.” She walked off to begin issuing the order.

  “Oh, and Ilyem?”

  She halted, turning her head. “Yes?”

  “This feels good, doesn’t it? Protecting the innocent. Like we’re finally doing what we were meant—what we were born to do.”

  Though it lasted less than an eyeblink, Mevon swore he saw her smile.

  “They have assembled,” Claris said.

  Arivana placed the stack of reports she’d been reviewing on the bench next to her and rose. Hunched to avoid brushing her hair against the wooden supports and weather-beaten canvas that stretched overhead, she moved to the back end of the wagon and descended the three steps that led to the ground.

  Boots crunched against what had once been soft, powdery sand.

  The Fasheshish desert was no place for traveling across open terrain, but the few trade routes leading north weren’t wide enough to contain the massive, rolling camp of refugees. Casters—those too young or too frail for combat—had been forced to rove ahead of the formation and blast the sand until it had hardened enough to allow passage.

  Just one more headache on the long list of logistical nightmares.

  The thought made her pause. She turned back to the wagon and reached for the sheet lying atop the pile of reports. Anything to help get the point across.

  With Claris guiding, and Richlen and his men in a protective ring around her, Arivana marched to the latest of an endless series of appointments, squinting against the harsh, orange glare as the sun rose in her face. A breeze swept by, raising chilled prickles on her arms. Though afternoon would see her drowning in her own sweat, this late in the year the desert failed to hold heat throughout the night.

  She didn’t mind the cold, though. For her task today, it suited her mood perfectly.

  They came shortly to an entrance guarded by the wardens, passing between them into a temporary square, two hundred paces across, lined on all sides by rudimentary tents. Claris gestured towards several crates; three were stacked up like stairs, leading up to the last, largest one. Without hesitation, Arivana mounted her makeshift podium, then surveyed the crowd arrayed before her.

  Rows and rows of haggard, unshaven men, wearing little more than sandals and sweat-stained tunics, peered intently towards her. The odor that rolled over the heads of the wardens standing guard before her might have made her gag, not so long ago. But no one—not even her—was smelling the least bit fresh these days. From the men, no sound was made except the occasional cough . . .

  . . . and the rattle of the chains that bound them.

  I could look for a hundred years and never find a more captive audience.

  The thought should have held humor, but failed to elicit even a private smile. Arivana shook her head, clearing her throat to begin.

  “Prisoners of Panisahldron,” she said. “You’re probably wondering why you’re all here. I’ll keep this simple. Since the merging of our war group with the one from Kavenmoor, we are now tasked with protecting, feeding, and otherwise caring for, thirty-nine million souls.”

  Arivana held up the slip of paper in her hand. “This is a list of the dead.” She lowered it before her face and began reading. “Dehydration, eleven hundred. Malnutrition, eight hundred. Exposure, thirteen hundred. Injuries and illness, nineteen hundred. Combat related, twelve thousand. Unknown causes or missing, five and a half thousand.”

  She let her arms hang, limp fingers barely holding on to the sheet in the breeze.

  “Realize two things,” she continued. “One, that these dead are women, children, innocents who have committed no crime, except that of being human. A crime for which the ruvak have condemned us all. And two, this list does not chronicle those lost on the exodus as a whole . . .”

  Arivana paused, feeling the tremors start again.

  “It is from yesterday alone.”

  The wind finally won the battle, and the paper fluttered away. No one seemed to notice.

  “The truth is this, we cannot afford to feed those with idle hands. There is simply too much work that needs to be done to keep us moving towards safety. It comes in many forms. Each of you will get the opportunity to choose the new manner in which you will serve your remaining debt to society. Like it or not, your days and nights spent doing nothing more than marching are over.

  “I have good news, though. Anyone who chooses to take up arms in defense of our species will have the remainder of their sentence rescinded once this conflict is over. On that, you have my word.”

  Arivana looked down at those closest to her. “Wardens! Get each prisoner’s pledge. Then put them to work.”

  She spun and stepped down from the podium without another word, joining her entourage as they departed the mobile prison camp. Claris waited until they were both seated once more in the wagon before opening her notebook and scanning for the day’s next scheduled activity. The woman winced.

  “What is it this time?” Arivana asked dourly. “More mothers concerned about their missing children? The once-affluent complaining about their rations and labor duties? People begging for a nonexistent berth on a skyship? What?”

  Claris raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s best to cancel the rest of the day’s appointments?”

  Arivana sighed, shaking her head. “No. I made a promise to take care of the people, and it’s one I don’t plan to break. I just didn’t anticipate their needs being so . . .”

  “Petty?”

  Arivana almost laughed at that. Almost. “Consuming.”

  “Of what—your time?”

  Arivana dropped her head in half a nod. “Among other things.”

  Claris snapped shut the leather-bound book then forced a smile Arivana’s way. “Well, at least you have this morning’s business taken care of. Putting them to work with the promise of freedom for their cooperation is the best way to handle all those prisoners.”

  A vise seemed to grip her heart, spinning tight. “Not all of them.”

  “No,” Claris admitted, after a moment. “But we can’t very well set her to stirring a cook pot or bandaging the wounded, now can we? Putting any ruvak in the public eye would be worse than a death sentence. They’d rip her to pieces.”

  “Of course we can’t. I know that. But keeping her hidden and isolated hardly seems a better situation than simply handing her over to Vashodia for . . . testing.”

  Claris looked away, pursing her lips. “That is no longer an issue.”

  Arivana pinched her brow.

  “I’m sorry for not bringing it to your attention before now,” Claris said. “I would have told you sooner, but I only found out recently myself.”

  “Found out what?”

  “Vashodia obtained new prisoners after the battle for Panisahldron, along with a mostly intact enemy vessel. She has, apparently, been studying them both quite extensively—and quite secretively—the whole time we’ve been on the march. I don’t think you need to worry about her trying to snatch Sem Aira away from us anymore.”

  For several long breaths, Arivana lost focus on the world around her, caught in the throes of a powerful, yet strange sensation.

  She was . . . relieved.

  Then, a moment later, disgusted. With herself.

  And then confusion at her mixed emotions.

  They are all enemies. Why do I care what happens to one over the other? Shouldn’t I simply hate them all?

  Hunching over, Arivana wrapped her arms about herself, feeling the chill with sudden acuity. She didn’t want to hate anyon
e. Not even those who slaughtered her people indiscriminately. There had to be some misunderstanding, some lie or twisted truth, some essential barrier to communication between the species.

  If only we could overcome it . . .

  Sighing, Arivana straightened once more, calmly sliding her hands to the ends of each knee. Such a notion belonged to the child she’d left behind—that she’d thought she’d left behind, anyway. A queen had to deal with realities, not the impossible dreams of an undeveloped mind.

  “Let us continue on, then,” Arivana said flatly. “Our next task of the day awaits.”

  Jasside eased down her platform onto the grassy knoll outside the residential district of Loranmyr Domicile. The two ancient women—one a Corbrithite, the other a daeloth—stepped off first. She hadn’t learned her new messengers’ names.

  She didn’t want to get too close.

  As much as their old bones crackled as they touched down, it was Jasside who felt as if her knees were about to buckle. The ruvak had been relentless today. With no food since morning, and almost twelve straight tolls spent channeling energy that seemed increasingly difficult to control, she felt on the very edge of her limits. And each day spent testing them didn’t seem to push the boundaries any further.

  If Vashodia would take over duties for just one abyss-taken day . . .

  But Jasside knew she wouldn’t. Her mistress was much too busy experimenting with her new playthings. For all the good that had done.

  Not for the first time Jasside considered putting a stop to such activity. Or, at least making the attempt. There’d been a period, back when they were still trying to end the violence between Sceptre and the southern nations, when Vashodia had seemed receptive to, for lack of a better term, correction. She had a soul that was forever closed, yet somehow, the door had finally cracked open.

  Only to slam back shut.

  Since the descent of the ruvak, her mistress had regressed, becoming not just closed, but locked, as well. And Jasside had been far too occupied to even begin looking for a key. She knew one existed, but also knew the search would consume her wholly. As important as such a task would likely prove, too many lives hung in the balance to allow herself distraction.