The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  “The girl is working out for you, then?”

  “No. Yes. That’s not the point.”

  Vashodia yawned. “Please get to it, then. Quickly. It’s almost time for my beauty rest.”

  “Look, we could understand him, you see? Other than the spy, he was the first ruvak we’d found for whom that was true, after I’d almost given up finding someone we could actually question. And abyss take me did he have some answers.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Voids, sister. He’d been torturing people for information about voids.”

  “What did he discover?”

  “Enough. That’s what I came to warn you about. I didn’t get specifics, but he gave up hints about the trouble the ruvak have been having with the Hardohl up north . . . and about an operation they’d launched to wipe them all out.”

  Mevon grasped the front railing as he vaulted aboard his lead skyship, shouting at the pilot to launch immediately.

  “What’s the plan?” Ilyem shouted from below, even as he began to rise.

  “I’ll leave the ground fighting tactics to you,” Mevon called back, then gestured to the four other skyships, two on either side, that were lifting alongside him. “We’ll take out as many of them as we can, and try to screen you from aerial attacks.”

  “We have some ships of our own,” Daye said. “And a few war engines that can strike at theirs from the ground. We can use them both to break the enemy center—”

  “No. Protect your flanks. Keep the ruvak in front of you. And abyss take me, get those civilians moving! This plain is no place to stage a defense.”

  Daye clenched his jaw, but nodded. “Good luck, then.”

  Mevon returned the gesture. “To you, as well.”

  The vessel beneath him at last achieved altitude and surged forward, wind snapping his hair behind him. Mevon lifted his eyes once more to the enemy, whose vessels outnumbered his own more than twenty to one. Tearing through the air with shrill whines that seemed to split the sky, scores and scores of ruvaki skyships, each smaller than his own, bore down upon him, twisting over and around each other in almost choreographed motions.

  Mevon gripped Justice and twirled it before him.

  Let’s dance.

  He spared a moment to glance behind. The Hardohl were spreading throughout the Sceptrine formation. A good move on Ilyem’s part. They’d be able to utilize their individual combat power to bolster each company they augmented, as well as providing a greater range of coverage against sorcerous attack—either from skyship or conduit.

  The Imperial Guard divided to either side, extending the arc of soldiers protecting the civilians behind. There seemed far too few of them to Mevon, but he knew how critical it was to prevent the ruvak from flanking, and how staunchly those men could hold. Thin as they stood, there were none better for the task.

  Still, it was difficult to judge their chances of victory. He knew how many ships the enemy had, but little else. How effective were Daye’s soldiers? His skyships? His war engines? And just how many troops had the ruvak brought to battle?

  This last question, at least, was answered a moment later, as the deck beneath him nosed over a shallow line of rolling hills, and he saw into the cup of land beyond.

  Thousand-strong squares of ruvaki infantry stormed forward, twelve wide and eight deep—almost a hundred thousand in all—tearing gouts in the soil in their haste to cross blades with his allies. Even with the addition of the Hardohl and Imperial Guard, the human defenders would be facing more than four times their number.

  The space between him and the ruvaki skyships had dwindled to less than half a league, now a quarter, now well within range of their weapons. Mevon edged closer to the forefront of the deck, keeping a wary eye out for the telltale mottled glow that announced a pending attack. He swept his gaze left and right, down and up, all across the swarming mass of vessels . . .

  Yet saw nothing.

  The distance closed to hundreds of paces, now scores, their buzzing movements filling the entirety of his vision . . . and still the noses of the enemy skyships remained dark and dull.

  A chill rode up Mevon’s spine as he realized what was happening.

  They’ve learned how to deal with us at last.

  He turned to alert to the pilot, to tell him to disengage, to evade.

  But the warning came too late.

  Within the span of two beats, four ruvaki vessels slammed into his own, the deck lurching as wood and stone exploded in splintered fragments all around him. Mevon clung to the railing as his body and the skyship beneath him flew in suddenly opposite trajectories. But the section he grasped ripped away from the rest with only the barest resistance.

  Mevon fell.

  The total lack of surprise on his sister’s face spoke more truth to Draevenus than scripture.

  “You knew about this?” he said.

  “Of course I did,” Vashodia said. “It is my job, after all, to monitor all the fickle souls on this planet. Human and otherwise.”

  “How can you be so calm? By all accounts, the Hardohl have become our greatest weapon against the ruvak. We can’t afford to lose them!”

  “Them? Or is it one in particular for whom your concern is leveraged?”

  “Mevon is a friend of mine, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost sight of the greater picture. I may not be you, Vash, but I do occasionally think beyond what affects only myself.”

  “How noble of you. Unfortunately, however, such traits are like the voids themselves—painfully rare.”

  “But potent all the same. And it doesn’t take many thinking the same way to make a difference that the world can feel. Even you can’t argue against that.”

  “Of course not. If anything, I’m living proof of its validity.”

  “Or the exception that proves the rule.”

  “Stop trying to sound wiser than you actually are, brother. I can only cringe so much.”

  Draevenus shrugged. “Fine. But can you at least tell me what you’re planning to do about the threat to the Hardohl?”

  Vashodia snickered behind her hand. “Oh, it’s already being taken care of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you no faith? The gods may be dead, but I am still here. And I’m arguably more effective than they ever hoped to be.” She sighed. “I haven’t even demanded worship from the people I have saved.”

  “With that attitude, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for them to start. But what about the situation? What is being taken care of?”

  “A wayward child runs even now to prevent the annihilation of the voids, duty and desire aligning at last, even as she wars with her own joy at this fact. The only question remaining is if she’ll be in time to save the one for whom her heart yearns. Then again, I’d not worry too much—he is rather difficult to kill . . .”

  Mevon’s eyes snapped open. Before him was nothing but a dark, swirling blur. His head felt as if pressed between two boulders clamping shut around his skull like hungry jaws. Pain would have been reassuring; all he felt was pressure, though, and numbness, a tenuous fiber threading body and mind.

  Then, blessedly, came the burning.

  It scorched most potently in his back and hips and legs, places most likely shattered by the impact and now mending. He’d fallen before, but never from such a height. He could only wonder how close to that edge he’d come, how near to death. If he’d been another few paces high he might have tumbled fully into that chasm, from which no blessing, however potent, could retrieve him.

  The thought of such a death angered him.

  I’ve come too far to die by anything other than an enemy’s blade.

  Darkness came and went, making mockery of his attempts to gauge time, or to infuse will into his recovery. Eventually, the weight from his head subsided and the world ceased its nauseating spin, resolving above into that black blanket of the night sky scattered with glimmering stars. Pain still blazed throughout, but he felt well enough, whole e
nough, to attempt sitting up.

  A new sensation gripped him when he rose, the same that always did after he’d healed from a grievous wound.

  Mevon was starving.

  He hadn’t brought any food with him, but he withdrew his waterskin from his belt. With shaking fingers he upended it over his mouth. He felt better after downing it, and the gnawing void in his stomach subsided. But not entirely. He groaned getting to his feet, and the world began spinning again. He leaned over, propping elbows on knees to steady himself, and took deep, slow breaths until the dark around his sight began creeping out instead of in.

  When he righted at last, he peered around to search for Justice.

  What he found instead were the ruvak, surrounding him on all sides.

  He hadn’t even heard them approach.

  If you think you’ve sealed my fate, then you still don’t understand the Hardohl.

  Spotting a glint of dark steel in the grass nearby, he dove for it, wrapping his hands around that familiar, thorn-studded rod just as scores of shrieking, inhuman warriors converged.

  “I don’t know if I’ve said it aloud to you before,” Draevenus began, “but the way you use people sickens me.”

  “You wound me, brother.”

  “You have to have feelings to experience hurt, sister.”

  “My, my, the filters are off today, aren’t they.” Vashodia giggled. “Why the change of heart after all these centuries?”

  “Maybe I’ve finally realized how pointless you are. What have you actually done that’s made the world a better place?”

  “Better is such a subjective word.”

  “Answer me!”

  “Patience, dear brother. My plans haven’t yet come fully into bloom. And as they say, good things come to those who wait.”

  “What idiots said that?”

  “Those long dead, though still wise despite their hubris.”

  “I’m not sure many would agree. Just look at Mevon and Jasside. You’ve used those two far more than most, breaking every facet of them both just to further your own gains. And for what? Bringing the ruvak down upon our heads? What possible good can come from that!”

  “You’ll see, in time. Or, we’ll all be dead. One way or another, we will at last have peace.”

  Draevenus sighed. “You know, before, I wasn’t sure if you were mad or simply arrogant beyond compare.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I know you’re both.”

  Mevon skated backwards, nearly tripping on a thick tuft of grass. He righted himself just in time to parry a slash aimed at his head, then reversed his stroke to slice his other blade through his assailant’s chest. He repeated the move as another ruvak warrior lunged at him from the other side.

  Two more approached from the front. One feinted high, then spun in low. The other leapt over Mevon’s head.

  He stabbed his Andun into the dirt, blocking the ankle chop, then bent down and grabbed the ruvak by the wrist. He surged around, wielding his enemy like a club, and battered the leaping warrior away. Bones crunched, sending shivers up Mevon’s arm.

  Releasing the crumpled, insensate figure, Mevon spun to face the rest of his attackers. Vision blurred as, breathless, he tried to count them.

  Eleven . . . I think. As many enemy left as there are cuts I’ve already taken. This shouldn’t be too h—

  His knee buckled as he took a step towards them.

  He stared down at the blood oozing from a deep gash in his thigh, the wound afire with pain, yet cold all the same.

  I’ve lost too much, too quickly. If they knew how little I had left, they wouldn’t hesitate as they do now.

  But they did. The eleven half ringed him, no less than ten arm’s lengths away. One, the largest left of the bunch, squawked at the others, gesturing behind them. Dozens of ruvaki bodies, slashed to ribbons by Justice, marked the path of his frantic, fighting retreat. Another argued with the first, pointing towards Mevon—highlighting his weakened state, no doubt—but the first ruvak seemed disinterested in testing him.

  Unsure if he was grateful or not, Mevon stood his ground as they turned their backs and ran. Less in flight, perhaps, than it was in search of easier prey. He gave only the barest thought towards giving chase.

  All he could think about was the possibility that those he’d already slain might have something on them he could eat.

  Mevon spent the next several marks rummaging through the pockets of warm corpses, finding more than a few still breathing: further evidence of his weakened state that he’d been unable to do more than wound. He left them, not knowing if it was mercy or not to let them bleed out. What he did know was that he didn’t have the energy to finish them off.

  He gathered several armloads of a bread-like substance, tasteless and crumbly. After the first bite, it seemed the most delicious thing in the world. He washed it down with a borrowed canteen, secured two more, and thrust as much of the bread-stuff into his pockets as would fit.

  Then, finally, he took stock of the situation.

  The clank of metal, screams and shrieks of the dying on both sides, and rattling thumps that could only be conjured by sorcerous sources indicated the direction of battle. West. He’d fallen behind the ruvak, then. Those that attacked him must have broken off from the rear of their formation after seeing his crashing descent.

  He had a choice to make, then: return to the battle, or search for the five pilots and four other Hardohl who had joined him in the fateful aerial assault.

  Mevon closed his eyes, sighing as he realized the only logical course of action.

  Even if I could find them in a timely manner, there’s no guarantee they survived the crash, or the attack that likely came after. And there’s not much I could do for them in any case.

  Feeling revitalized, somewhat, by the food and water filling his stomach, Mevon took off west in a run. He found seven human bodies along the way, two of them his peers, which helped justify his decision.

  What it didn’t do was temper his rage.

  “Funny you should mention doubt,” Vashodia said. “It is, after all, one of the more powerful tools at my disposal.”

  “To you, everything is a tool,” Draevenus replied.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Only the blind could think it’s not.”

  “There you go attempting wisdom again. Like a marmot struggling to escape once clutched in an osprey’s talons—a valiant effort, yet, ultimately, a bit sad to watch.”

  “Don’t speak to me of sad. Tell me one person in this world who would call you friend. One person who, without threat or promise of favors, would do the smallest thing for you. Tell me that, and you can call me ‘sad’ all you want.”

  Vashodia glowered. “Friends are a weakness those in power cannot afford.”

  “What about love?”

  “Love?” She shook her head. “Love is a tool, as well. When harnessed correctly, it can be even more powerful than doubt. More powerful . . . than anything.”

  “How can you possibly use what you don’t understand?”

  “I can understand perfectly the way magma flows beneath this world’s pathetically thin crust. That doesn’t mean I’m foolish enough to let it touch me.”

  “Not everything can be mastered through observation alone, Vash. Sometimes you have to dive in, headfirst, before you can truly see what something is all about.”

  “Are we still talking about me? According to my . . . observation . . . that statement sounded a bit too personal.”

  Draevenus shrugged. “What does it matter? You’ll either have your way . . . or have a fit. Just like the child you appear to be. The only difference is when you throw a tantrum, every mother in the world hears the screams.”

  Mevon screamed in fury as he chopped his way through the ruvaki lines, the storm unleashed in full. Bodies pressed close on all sides, shrieking in counterpoint. All fell as quickly as they came in range of his blades, spinning without end, without
mercy. Orange blood filled his sight, misting in the air, splashing across his face, weeping from wounds in waxy flesh that gaped open everywhere he looked.

  Justice . . . delivered.

  He didn’t bother trying to count the corpses he created. He was too busy making more.

  “Is this all you have!”

  Chop, twirl, slash.

  “You come to our world—”

  Step, twist, stab.

  “—you place your cowardly blades upon the necks of our children—”

  Sweep, crush, parry, sever.

  “—invoking the wrath of this world’s defenders—”

  Batter, break, eviscerate.

  “—and this is the best you’ve got!”

  Kill.

  Kill!

  KILL!

  Tides of blood flowed and Mevon allowed himself to be carried away, swimming with the currents ever deeper into rage. No part of him wanted to return to the surface. The quiet voice in his mind, which normally sang of sanity, called out encouragement along with all the rest.

  He saw no need to disappoint.

  “Mevon.”

  The voice, soft yet firm, began sweeping away the haze consuming him. He looked about him, seeking more ruvak to kill. Froth flew from his lips as he found none in range.

  “Deep breaths.”

  The dappled surface seemed just above him. Mevon, regretfully, obeyed, filling his lungs with copper-tinged air.

  Things quickly came back into focus.

  But chaos still surrounded him on all sides.

  “Are we winning?” Mevon asked.

  Ilyem, standing close—but well out of blade’s reach—shook her head. “Many of their skyships crashed into our lines, forcing us to disperse in order to mitigate the damage. When their ground troops arrived, we were in disarray. We’ve lost half our troops already and barely bloodied their nose.”