The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  “Bein’ sober’s overrated,” Orbrahn said, punctuating his words with a dainty belch.

  “If you’re to be my partner,” Mevon said, “I’d rather do this mission alone.”

  “But I’m jus’ fine!”

  “You can’t even stand upright on your own, much less be of any use to me. Magic and wine don’t mix.”

  “Nonsense! I’m perfectly capable of performing my duties.”

  Those were the words Mevon eventually was able to decipher, anyway, after taking several beats to unscramble the man’s drunken rambling. He scoffed. “I doubt you could even defend yourself.”

  Orbrahn hiccuped. “Try me.”

  Without warning, Mevon lunged towards the man, fist raised.

  Orbrahn’s hand jolted up. Darkness gathered at his fingertips.

  Mevon felt himself go cold.

  He staggered, falling to his hands and knees less than two paces from the caster. Nausea born of extreme weakness rose from his gut, but did not spill over. Not this time, anyway. After a moment, he lifted his head and glared at Orbrahn. “You can release me now,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The young man stepped back, dissolving his strands of dark energy. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, standing erect unaided as his eyes suddenly gained focus. “How the abyss aren’t you writhing on the ground in agony?”

  Mevon rose, brushing himself off. He was almost surprised at how quickly Orbrahn had shed his drunkenness, but then he remembered that sorcery was a more potent addiction than mere drink could ever hope to be.

  “Vashodia’s around, is she not?” Mevon said. “Regardless that she calls herself our ally, I’d be a fool not to prepare myself against her. Jasside knows the spell well. I’ve had her do it to me several times until the effects were minimized.”

  Orbrahn grinned feverishly. “I bet that’s not all you’ve asked her to do to you, eh?”

  Involuntarily, Mevon clenched his fists.

  “Oh, don’t let him work you up, son,” said Yandumar. “He’s just jealous that no woman will come near him. At least not unless she’s had twice as much to drink as him!”

  “Fortunately,” Idrus added, “there’s not enough wine in the whole colony to allow that to happen.”

  Orbrahn swept a glowering gaze across the room. “Abyss take you all.”

  “It might,” Mevon said, “if we aren’t prepared for this mission.”

  Idrus stepped close, patting Mevon on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ve seen Orbrahn worse and still come through his assignments mostly unscathed.”

  Mevon grunted. “It’s not him I’m worried about.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of yourself. It’s why I chose you for this task.”

  “Which is?”

  Idrus stepped away, raising his voice so the others could hear. “Today’s assignment is a simple one. One of the defensive positions up north hasn’t been attacked in almost a day and a half now. Your mission is to find out why.”

  Orbrahn gestured rudely. “Recon? Why not send a scout?”

  “I have. When the third one failed to report in, I sent for you two.”

  Mevon frowned. “I don’t like it. The enemy going quiet means they’re planning something big. And I don’t think Orbrahn and I have enough subtlety between us to fill a thimble, much less sniff out what they’re up to.”

  “If I’d wanted subtlety, I’d have gone myself.” Idrus sighed, shaking his head. “What I need is someone who can go kick down the hornet’s nest and is sturdy enough to withstand a few stings.”

  Mevon smiled. “Looks like you’ve found the right men for the job, then.”

  “Indeed you have,” Orbrahn added. “My faith in your ability to command, General Torn, has been restored.”

  “Ha!” Yandumar barked, nudging the caster with an elbow. “My faith in your ability to respect authority stands on slightly more shaky ground. You’d best get moving so you can start proving my doubt misplaced.”

  “Elegant words, old man,” Orbrahn said, tossing back his hair. “For you, anyway.”

  Yandumar cranked back his leg, then swung his boot forward.

  It met only empty air.

  Orbrahn smiled at Yandumar, then gestured for Mevon to follow.

  With a sigh, he obliged.

  Arivana held a hand to her stomach as the messenger made her report to Jasside. More fighting along the Sceptrine front.

  My husband is in danger.

  Her belly roiled, as if she’d drunk milk too long left in the sun. The feeling had grown more intense with each mention of battle and, she now realized, in direct correlation with her rising affection for Daye.

  “Send wings thirty-six through forty,” Jasside ordered.

  “Only five?” the messenger asked. “I don’t think a hundred casters and a score of skyships will be enough.”

  Jasside sighed. “It will have to do. The Weskaran front has been unusually quiet all last night and this morning, which makes me believe the ruvak have something big planned. I don’t want us to overcommit.”

  The messenger nodded, then strode to the other side of grassy hill, closing her eyes to enter commune and relay the orders.

  Jasside sighed, then looked down on Arivana, her features instantly transforming into an expression of pity. “Worried about your husband?”

  Arivana nodded. I guess I still haven’t mastered the art of hiding what’s inside. Or maybe, I’ve grown comfortable enough around you that I don’t feel the need to. “Does this sickness ever go away?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know,” Jasside said. “Once you see Mevon in action, it’s hard to think any harm—any lasting harm, anyway—could ever come to him. Besides, I usually put myself in just as much danger.”

  Arivana looked down at the snow-speckled grass. “You must think me so weak. So . . . worthless.”

  Jasside flipped her wrist. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even in war, there are more ways than fighting to prove your value. Without people like you holding things together, people like me wouldn’t be half as effective.”

  “You’re right. I suppose. But what about the people who don’t, as you said, prove their value? People who just take and take and give nothing back. Do their lives even matter?”

  Jasside snorted. “You must be feeling ill. Usually you’re the one lecturing the rest of us on the worth of the weak and powerless.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . I spend most days among the people left behind, left idle, while the rest of you risk your lives to safeguards theirs. While it’s true that doing so has allowed me to see uncountable acts of selflessness, compassion, and everyday heroism—in other words, the best humanity has to offer—I’ve also been witness to the worst.”

  “It can’t be as bad as what’s out there,” Jasside said, pointing past the horizon.

  “Can’t it?” Arivana shivered, wrapping her arms about herself. “Even with the danger we face every day, the most vile scum still stalk this colony. Thieves and swindlers, rapists and murderers. Packs of boys, some as young as ten, have taken to standing guard around their tents and tenements, just so their sisters and mothers can sleep in peace. We’ve enough to be afraid of as it is—no one should have to fear violation from those who would abuse our lack of a proper watch to satisfy their own sordid pleasures.

  “And yet, a part of me doesn’t even consider those the worst of them. That kind of evil is at least expected. But those who complain about what they’re given without lifting a finger to help, despite obvious and vital needs going unfulfilled on every side . . . those people almost make me want to let the ruvak in for a visit!”

  Jasside shook her head, frowning. “I’d slap you if I didn’t know you were joking.”

  “If I weren’t joking, I’d deserve it.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Poor taste. I know.” Arivana sighed. “I’m sorry for taking my frustrations out on you, Jasside. With Claris and Daye busy fighting, an
d some necessary space between me and my guardsmen, I’m afraid I have no one else to turn to.”

  The woman’s features softened. “I understand, Arivana. Positions of power are often lonely ones, regardless of whether you took your place or were given it. I know you feel the burden of responsibility. I feel it too. It’s a good thing.”

  “How is crushing despair a good thing?”

  Jasside laughed. “It means you’re doing it right. It you don’t feel that weight, people are probably better off without you.”

  Arivana shrugged. “It doesn’t always feel that way. In fact, most times, it feels completely pointless.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just look at us!” Arivana swept a hand over the colony. “Even under a mutual danger to our very existence, we divide ourselves according to such arbitrary means. Us from the always malicious them. Take away the threat of the ruvak, and we’d be right back at each other’s throats.”

  “Take away the threat . . . ?” Jasside said, as if lost in a dream.

  Arivana studied the woman and could almost read the words going through her mind: If only we knew how.

  After a moment, Jasside shook herself. “Putting aside differences is harder than you make it out to be, as history has so often proved.”

  “Perhaps,” Arivana replied. “But that doesn’t mean it always has to be that way.”

  “And you’ll be the one to change it?”

  “Why not?”

  “It won’t be an easy task.”

  “Don’t think I can handle it?”

  “Well, you are chafing under the responsibility you already have.”

  “Only because I have so little actual power. And because people are too afraid to even think about embracing change.”

  “Are they? Seems to me fear is sometimes the only thing that will get people to reexamine their priorities. My advice? If you’re going to start something so ambitious, don’t hesitate. By the time things settle down—if they ever do, that is—you’ll no longer have a captive audience.”

  The last two words drove chills down Arivana’s spine. Yet, immediately following that cold flush through her bones, another sensation took hold: a curious feeling, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. There were bridges that needed to be crossed, but she’d hesitated to traverse them, either because they were brittle or burnt, or simply because no one ever had. She’d been too afraid to do more than creep along the edge.

  Not anymore. Even if I have to rebuild each one, stone by stone, plank by plank, making them sturdy enough for others to follow behind, the path will be forged. I will no longer allow fear to keep me from forging it.

  She glanced at Jasside, smiling. The gesture was returned for a moment, before Jasside turned to face the messenger who was coming towards them once more at a sprint. Conversations with her always seemed to make things simple. It shouldn’t really be a surprise, though. When you do the impossible every day, every problem must seem a matter of mere persistence.

  The old woman skidded to a halt, panting. She tried relaying her message, but it was said through too many wheezes to make any sense.

  Jasside held up a hand. “Catch your breath first,” she said.

  The messenger nodded, but there was no gratefulness on her face. All that showed was panic.

  “The Fasheshish,” she said at last. “They are requesting immediate aid.”

  Jasside raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you heard right?” the sorceress said. “Fasheshe never asks for help.”

  It was true. The territory they defended was flat and featureless to every horizon. The ruvak had no way to sneak up on them, and the vaunted Fasheshish cavalry could run down any attempt they made to retreat. Arivana couldn’t remember a single time they had called for reinforcements.

  “I heard right,” the messenger said, still too breathless to affect affront. “The force that arrived at dawn did not withdraw after a brief skirmish as usual. And when they cut off their retreat with a cavalry encirclement . . . ?”

  “Well, what?”

  The old woman shrugged. “They don’t know. The fight continues. And though they didn’t say it outright, the Fasheshish are losing.”

  The look on Jasside’s face made Arivana shiver. “Send in Fanilmyr.”

  “How many wings?”

  Jasside shook her head. “All of them. Send the entire domicile.”

  “But—”

  “And get word to Gilshamed. Tell him to be ready.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything.”

  With the barest flick of her finger, Jasside summoned her floating platform from its resting place behind the hill, and shadow-dashed onto its surface without saying a word. Arivana was not upset by the manner of the woman’s departure. She had her own war to fight.

  And I have mine.

  Mevon finished filling his waterskins from the well, then strapped them back into place along his waist. He lifted an eyebrow at Orbrahn. “Sure you don’t want to fill up? We don’t know how long we’ll be out there.”

  The caster shook his head, patting the lone, half-empty skin on his belt. “Oh, I’ll be fine with what I’ve got.”

  “It’s wine in there, isn’t it?”

  Orbrahn shrugged. “Your point?”

  “You weren’t a drunkard the last time I knew you. What changed?”

  “Your old man put me in charge of things back home.”

  “That’s it?”

  Obrahn shrugged.

  Sighing, Mevon turned away.

  With his temporary partner following—or wobbling, to put it more accurately—on his heels, Mevon marched through the outer perimeter. The tents and cook fires were already behind them. The only things allowed here were for purposes of war. Each level was defined by a wide pit filled with spikes, and long planks across them that could be pulled back by defenders during each retreat. In this sector alone, every layer had been captured by the enemy and retaken by his allies dozens of times, averaging more than once a day. Silence had become, to these soldiers, the most suspicious thing in the world.

  And today, there is far too much of it.

  Only after they’d surpassed the last bulwark and were marching through a forest of bare-branched trees did Mevon look back on their recent trip through the defenses and realize that something was out of place.

  “Did something seem . . . wrong?” he asked, continuing to tread through the woods.

  “Whaddya mean?” Orbrahn said.

  “Back there, in the camp. There was something off about it. About the soldiers.”

  The caster grunted in clear disinterest. “They were a little quiet. Maybe. Probably don’t know what to do with themselves without their daily dose of combat.”

  “Quiet? They were downright lethargic.”

  “Not our mission. Not our problem.”

  Mevon sighed. Perhaps Orbrahn was right. But even so, it did nothing to settle the queasy feeling in his stomach.

  They continued on for several marks, traveling deeper into the territory outside the perimeter, yet still within the area affected by the voltensus. It was strange being out here. Mevon had chased down a few enemy groups that had bitten off more than they could chew, but had otherwise stayed within the borders of the encampment. His existence had narrowed to that place. Anything outside it no longer seemed natural.

  Despite the lack of animal noises—or perhaps because of it—there was a kind of tension in the air. A sense of something hidden, waiting. The queasiness burgeoned suddenly, and Mevon realized it was not simply instinct. It was too sharp a feeling for that.

  The clip of voices returned to his mind, things he’d overheard only half-aware while traversing the perimeter. Men had been complaining about all the vomit. A sickness going through the camp like wildfire in dry grass. The look in every soldier’s eyes had been more than mere fatigue.

  “How are you feeling?” Mevon asked, stopping and turning to his partner.

  “W
hy do you ask?” Orbrahn said.

  “Just answer me!”

  Orbrahn lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m fine. Really. The walk is even starting to clear my head.”

  “How’s your gut? Any nausea?”

  “No.” Orbrahn narrowed his eyes. “What’s this all about?”

  Mevon closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations within him. His belly continued to roil, but now something new joined the fray. A burning sensation that he knew well.

  Blessings scouring him clean.

  “You’ve had nothing but your wine to drink today? Honest, now. It’s important.”

  Orbrahn slowly nodded.

  There was only one thing it could be, then.

  Poison.

  Before Mevon could so much as whisper his suspicions, the forest around them erupted.

  Jasside felt her breath catch as she surveyed the scene below her. There, at the edge of a vast desert shimmering in morning light, sat the southeastern defensive perimeter. Manned almost exclusively by the people of Fasheshe, it had stood stoutest of them all, repelling all ruvaki assaults with almost pathetic ease.

  It was already half-overrun.

  The force sent against it was no mere band of fast-legged skirmishers, the kind meant to disengage before aerial reinforcements could arrive and bound back out of range of the voltensus. This was an army. Fully armored blocks of heavy infantry pounded against the Fasheshish positions, few of which were not already in retreat. Of the cavalry, she could see nothing. Allied and enemy troops swirled together almost everywhere she looked, giving her no clear target upon which to unleash her destruction.

  Abyss take me, this is going to be messy.

  Directing her platform forward and down, Jasside peeked over her shoulder. Fanilmyr Domicile was approaching, a ragged rock on the opposite horizon. It would be a several marks at best before it was in range, but by then it might already be too late. If she wanted to prevent a rout, she’d have to stall the ruvak on her own.

  She popped open her spheres and let loose her darkwisps, harmonizing with them in beats. The activity took as much thought as breathing.

  With so massive an enemy force—outnumbering the beleaguered defenders at least five to one—she would need to be efficient, a task she’d become exceedingly adept at. Crafting something from nothing was possible, but draining. Using the resources at hand required far less of her energy.