The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  He grunted. “Not the first we’ve seen.”

  “Aye.”

  Dripping orange blood from a ruined hand, the lead ruvak chittered at her comrades. They, too, lifted their sorcerous gauntlets, aiming not at him and Ilyem—but at the rectangular box in the center of the chamber.

  It exploded as all four beams hit simultaneously.

  Mevon felt the floor beneath him lurch. The vessel began falling from the sky.

  The five ruvak dashed away, out a door on the opposite side of the room. Ilyem tensed to lunge after them.

  “Let them go,” Mevon said, bringing her up short. “We’ve got to get out of here. They did our job for us.”

  Ilyem hesitated half a beat, then nodded.

  They sprinted through the corridors, retracing their steps with haste, often simply flying as gravity shifted towards the skyship’s front end, and forward instead became down. They made the hatch and jumped up through it, grabbing on to the lip to avoid a meeting with open air.

  Mevon took in the battle at large.

  Every enemy skyship was either falling or already down. Many, he noted with satisfaction, had crashed among the bunched ruvaki infantry. The Imperial Guard were lined up three thick before the massed refugees along the entire breadth of the ravine. But they weren’t alone. Thousands of Sceptrines backed them up, forming a wall that, though hard-pressed, he knew would never break. His own skyships swept along the battle’s edges, filled now with native defenders who slung stones and axes, and whatever else they had to hand at the ruvak trying to flank—or escape, more likely—along the steep ridges to either side.

  Fellow Hardohl raced towards their secondary objectives. Half sprinted to the rear to cut off the ruvak from escaping. A quarter cut their way to the front, to reinforce the line. The rest moved across the battlefield, hunting down those so named by Jasside as conduits.

  Looking down now, he watched the ground rush up to meet them.

  He and Ilyem slammed their Andun into the hull.

  Impact.

  Feet and blades scraped across the vessel’s skin: a vain attempt to slow themselves. The vessel crumpled and bent below them, and Mevon soon found himself hurtling through the air. He crashed down, rolling through dirt and stone and debris, breath purged from his lungs as the sky above him twirled, darkening.

  Eventually, he regained his feet, coughing, and peered about him. Ilyem stood ten paces away, wiping dust from her eyes with one hand. The other hung limp at her side.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Fractured arm. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

  “Did it break the skin?”

  “No.”

  “Still the Uncut, then?”

  “Still the Uncut.”

  Mevon nodded, then cast about, looking for Justice. Spotting it, he retrieved it from under a slab of metal cast off from the wrecked vessel behind them, then straightened, surveying his foe in their frenzied scramble to escape the trap.

  “This,” he said, as Ilyem stepped up to his side, “is what I call a target rich environment.”

  “Aye,” she replied, with more than a hint of eagerness.

  Both hefting their Andun, they sprinted off towards the nearest ruvaki formation.

  The babe’s soft, delighted squeals were the most threatening thing Jasside had yet faced. Innocence incarnate. The very thing she was trying to protect. Yet, she had not the heart to face it directly—not and still cling to that hardness, that solid core of herself that she could never allow to break. The self she had to be to in order to face the ruvak, day after day, and never falter in her defense.

  “Would you like to hold him?”

  Angla held her child gently cradled in one arm. His grey skin, shaded with spots of red in his cheeks, marked it not of pure blood, but still, he was the first one conceived of a mierothi without the need for complex rituals and the sacrifice of the father. The first natural birth in almost two millennia.

  Jasside shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ll break him.”

  A lie, she knew.

  I’m more afraid that he will break me.

  She and the other leaders had recently decided to start bringing a second to meetings. They had found themselves increasingly fatigued, and increasingly likely to overlook things that should have been routine. Thing upon which lives depended.

  She was now starting to regret her choice.

  “Nonsense,” Angla said. “He’s made of pure stone, is my little Traevan.”

  “A good name,” Jasside said. “Was that your choice? Or your husband’s?”

  “Oh, Harridan wanted to name him a Ragremon name—Ganar, or some such—but I overruled him. If I carry a child inside me for eight months, I can call him whatever the abyss I please!”

  Jasside smiled. Beset by curiosity, she asked, “Was the labor difficult?”

  Angla snorted. “It sure wasn’t easy.”

  “Oh, few of them are. Or so I’ve been told. But I know the valynkar go through more extreme distress than humans—regular humans, that is. More of their mothers pass than not when giving birth.”

  “Nothing of the sort for me. In fact, if memory serves me right, it was the easiest of the three.”

  “Let me guess—Vashodia was the most difficult?”

  “Ruul’s light, no! She couldn’t wait to get out. Draevenus, now, he was a little too . . . patient for my tastes.”

  Jasside laughed. She was glad the conversation had steered the woman’s mind with so little effort; Angla hadn’t tried to get her to hold the child again.

  Her mirth vanished, however, as she realized who she was mimicking.

  The grand mistress of manipulation herself.

  “Come, Grandmother,” Jasside said, nearly shivering at the coldness in her own voice. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

  They walked into the conference chamber together, Angla cooing at her giggling infant, Jasside wondering if she was even cut out for motherhood.

  Wondering if she would ever get the chance.

  She joined the others around the table, unsurprised to see who each had brought as their second. Gilshamed stood at Lashriel’s side, their hips pressed together with envious familiarity. Arivana spoke softly to Claris. And Chase . . .

  Of course he brought Daye. Who else would it have been?

  The brothers Harkun, king and prince, looked crisp in their dark, military uniforms. Daye’s eyes grazed past her a few times, but he could not maintain contact longer than a beat before glancing painfully away. Though she understood why he was here, she knew this meeting would be more comfortable for them both if he wasn’t.

  “I know we’re all very busy, so let’s keep this short,” she said perfunctorily; they’d dispensed with even informal introductions weeks ago. “You all have the reports. There’s no need to repeat what’s in them. If anyone has anything to say that is not already written down, or if you have insights or concerns that mere words on paper cannot address, please, feel free to speak up now.”

  No one spoke openly for several beats, as each leader in the room conferred with their partners. Gilshamed and Lashriel whispered with cheeks pressed together and lips practically tickling each other’s ears, their faces plastered with ever-present valynkar serenity. Arivana gazed inward in thought as Claris spoke softly over the queen’s shoulder. The brothers put their foreheads close in a clipped, terse exchange. Chase pulled away from Daye only moments into their conversation, cutting the air with a hand to signal an end to debate. Neither of them looked happy, the prince least of the two.

  They straightened, turning towards Jasside, but said nothing. It was Arivana who spoke first.

  “I did not put it in the report,” the queen said, “since projections are still in flux, and optimistic at best. But since the modification of the new crop barges, casualties unrelated to combat have dropped almost ninety percent. It appears we will have enough food for full rations until we reach the mierothi colony.”

  “That is
good news,” Jasside said. “It’s nice to hear some, for a change.”

  “Yes,” Gilshamed said. “It is welcome indeed. But those facts only apply to the four war groups that have merged together under our guidance. The last, the most northern one, tells a different tale.”

  Jasside furrowed her brow. “Are you sure? The reports indicate difficulty, but nothing worse than what we are facing.”

  “The reports do not portray the full situation. Especially considering the main forces involved in that group’s defense.”

  Jasside tried to conjure up the names of nations she’d never visited, and people she’d never seen. “Tristelkia and Dorgon, correct?”

  Gilshamed nodded. “And as Queen Arivana here can likely attest, the temperament of those two peoples, especially in relation to each other, does not lend much credence to their honesty.”

  “Are you telling me they’re lying?”

  “Embellishing, perhaps,” Arivana said. “Those two have long been in competition, each trying to outdo the other in whatever contest might present itself. Neither is likely to report failure, or ask for help. They think doing either is the same as admitting defeat.”

  Jasside leaned forward onto the table. “We’ve enough to deal with without ego getting in the way of things.”

  “Oh, child,” Angla said. “And you’re Vashodia’s apprentice? You of all people should know that few things are more difficult to put aside, regardless of what’s at stake. For some, when all they have left is their ego, their pride, they cling to it all the more tightly. Even unto their own doom.”

  Jasside well knew the truth of it. But hearing it said aloud still stung, and bitterly. Just one more reminder of her failure to fulfill the promise she made to herself, so long ago. A promise to heal the darkness within Vashodia, a task upon which the world very well might rest.

  Appropriate, then, that you speak of doom.

  “Very well,” Jasside said at last. She fixed Gilshamed with a pointed stare. “I assume you brought this up for a reason. Have you evidence to refute the reports?”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” the valynkar said. “My kin standing with their defense tell me a much different tale. To keep it brief—they are hard-pressed, day and night, and their defenders have been ravaged by the ruvak. If they do not receive aid soon, they will be overrun.”

  “How far out are they from the main group?”

  “Two weeks’ march,” Chase answered.

  “They cannot hold that long,” Gilshamed said.

  Jasside sighed. “Then our reinforcements will not travel by foot. Our position here has been harried of late, with few decisive engagements by the enemy. We can afford to give up a fleet of skyships to transport an army to the north in haste.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Arivana asked.

  Jasside gestured permissively.

  “Whoever we send needs to be able to take command immediately. Someone who can force the Tristelkians and the Dorgonians to work together, rather than in competition with each other. Someone for whom they both have respect, and maybe even a little bit of healthy fear.”

  Jasside immediately conjured a name based on the queen’s suggestion. And the fact that she needed distance from a certain someone had, she told herself, little bearing on the eagerness with which she made her choice.

  “Daye,” she said, looking at him as calmly as she could. “Will you lead a force north to relieve our allies?”

  His jaw tightened as he locked furious eyes on her. But just as quickly as it appeared, the anger vanished, and his face became set in determination once more. The face of a soldier putting duty above all else. “It will be done,” he said at last.

  “And if there’s nothing else,” Chase added, “I suggest we end this meeting now. We have preparations to make.”

  “Agreed,” Jasside said. “Until next time, then.”

  Daye was the first person out of the chamber, his steps louder than those of the rest combined. Gilshamed and Lashriel strolled out next with intertwining fingers, followed by Claris and Angla, who was soothing her fussy infant. Only Arivana remained.

  “Is everything all right?” the queen asked.

  “What? Yes, I’m fine. It’s just . . .”

  “Just what? It okay to tell me . . . unless you don’t think I’m worthy of your trust?”

  “No. Abyss no. I trust you completely, Arivana. But Daye? Well, I’ve never known a man who took rejection well.”

  “Rejection? You mean, you two were . . . involved? Romantically?”

  “Almost.”

  Arivana raised an eyebrow.

  Jasside sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “He seemed angry.”

  “I suppose he has a right to be.”

  “Because you refused him?”

  “No. Because, from his perspective, it must seem like fate conspired against him. Against . . . us. But it’s not. Daye is a good man—one of the very best this world has to offer—and there is every conceivable reason for me to give him my heart. I remember you asking if it was all right to love someone even when it didn’t make sense, and I told you it was. There is another part to that, as well—it’s also all right not to love someone, even when it does make sense. Love is a choice. And I?

  “I chose . . . differently.”

  Chapter 11

  Draevenus hung from the eaves of an inn ruined by more than just fire, watching the sentries kick up dust on the street below. With no human feet, no carts hauling produce, no hooves clopping by day after day, the roads had lost their hard-top layer, growing brittle with misuse. Growing dead. Ash choked him with every breath, and he had to fight both nausea and the rising urge to cough, to spit, to rid himself of the intrusion that cloyed body and mind alike. He’d seen the pyres at every intersection. Old, now. Cold. But still thick with char, and littered with what appeared, in the moonlight, to be scorched branches, splintered and tossed together like refuse. Draevenus knew better, though.

  Not just wood had burned when the ruvak took the city.

  They’d crossed the border just days ago, coming into Mataroa. After Yusan, it had been the first nation to face the invaders. Not having heeded his sister’s advice, however, it wasn’t much of a defense. The ruvak had had plenty of time to get . . . comfortable.

  But not for much longer.

  He tracked the two sentries as they passed behind what remained of the inn’s stable. It was not difficult. Their armor wasn’t as polished as a Panisian’s, but on the night of a full moon, as that lone orb arced across the sky unobstructed by clouds, they may as well have carried lightglobes strapped to their backs. He saw flashes of them through the stable’s ruined roof, progressing exactly as he expected.

  He loosened his feet from the boards behind him, even as he tightened his fingers on the one in front.

  Breathe even. Count the steps. Ready the angle and distance.

  Execute.

  He swung forward, releasing as his body became vertical. He flew straight, hands empty, finding the closest sentry in the instant his path crossed the narrow space between inn and stable.

  Colliding.

  Controlling.

  Draevenus wrapped his legs around his target, hands grasping the slack shoulders, guiding them both as they struck the ground. Tumbled. Raised clouds of dust into both their faces, though neither of them coughed. Draevenus held his breath. The ruvak beneath did as well, though only because of the arm clenched tight about his throat.

  Between surprise and Draevenus’s centuries of practice, the chokehold did its work flawlessly: his opponent went limp in fifteen beats. And all without making a sound that could be heard as close as the next street over. Which was more than sufficient; the enemy’s makeshift fortress began half a dozen blocks away.

  He pushed off from the unconscious body and turned around, searching for the second sentry.

  Tassariel was already standing and dusting herself off, one foot propped on the ruvak’s back, just to mak
e sure he didn’t try squirming away, most likely.

  “Nicely done,” he said. “I didn’t even see you.”

  “I waited for you to strike first, as was the plan. And you were a little busy when I made my move.”

  “True. I’m just glad to see you were so decisive.”

  “Glad I didn’t hesitate, you mean.”

  “No, no! I don’t—”

  “It’s fine. Really. It’s a valid concern after my last performance.”

  Draevenus sighed. “I’m sorry. How do you feel, though?”

  She shrugged. “The quiet approach still isn’t my preference, but it is easier with empty hands.”

  “Right. About those hands . . .” He pulled the thin rope from his belt. “Time to make sure ours are the only ones that can move freely.”

  Tassariel knelt, removing her own rope, and set to work binding her prisoner. Draevenus trussed up his own by reflex, keeping his eyes on her. Not that he doubted her ability, but he did like to see his instructions put to the test. He’d made her tie himself up five times, each tighter than the last, until he couldn’t so much as budge. It seemed a gentler sort of training than the last he’d tried to give her.

  She’d become withdrawn, turning to the softer side of her nature after he’d asked her to kill in cold blood. After she’d failed. A part of him understood the reflex—even cherished that about her—but he still needed her help if their mission was to be anything more than a nuisance to the enemy. He needed the warrior that he knew she could be. Tassariel had the potential, in some ways, to surpass even himself. So, as much as he hated to do it, he’d forced himself to begin killing the softness within her.

  Slowly, though. Gently. And perhaps, if I’m very good—or very lucky—I won’t need to slay it entirely.

  He watched her finish the knots, satisfied by their placement and tightness, and offered her an affirmative gesture as she looked his way. They each grasped their prisoner and hefted them up on their shoulders. Draevenus led the way to a secluded spot they had picked out during their reconnaissance.

  They would need some privacy for what came next.