No harm in testing the waters, I suppose. The worst they could do is laugh at my attempt, which doesn’t worry me in the least. I know ways of erasing their smiles.
Clearing his throat, Mevon spoke. “Tell me, if you can understand, what is it that you want?”
A chittering went up from the ringed crowd, and though he didn’t know their words, he felt a general sense of amusement rising up from them. The rightmost of his three opponents punctuated the feeling with a snort that would make a bull envious, hefting his massive hammer-like weapon towards Mevon in a gesture lacking all ambiguity. The leftmost one twirled his daggers—each longer than a bastard sword and as wide as Mevon’s head—but otherwise remained impassive.
The one in the middle, however, glared at Mevon with naked, seething hatred. He stepped forward, stabbing the air with a meaty finger, froth forming on ragged lips. “You,” the ruvak giant said. “Dead.”
Mevon grunted. “That much we know. But that can’t possibly be all that you desire. What is the point of all this? Do you even know?”
The ruvak’s face darkened, as if insulted. But whether that stemmed from his outrage at the question, or from his inability to understand, Mevon did not think he would ever find out. The giant made a sound somewhere between a bark and a chirp—Mevon could almost hear the syllables—and gestured to his two companions. They began circling as the one in the middle lifted his blade—an edged, metallic wedge longer than a horse—that looked more like a pointed, oversized cleaver than a proper sword.
Though he was not ashamed of the eagerness within him, Mevon was still a little disappointed that talk had not brought out more than two words from his foe.
It will take a greater speaker than I to reach them. Much greater. Even then, we’ll still have to figure out a way to make them listen. I don’t envy whoever takes it upon themselves to try to bridge this gap, but I’ll do everything in my power to help them.
For now, though, I’ll let Justice do the talking.
As the three finished encompassing him, Mevon readied his Andun, took a deep breath, and summoned the storm.
Jasside examined the tips of her fingers, which had turned blue from channeling too much cold for far too long. She stared at them, holding her hands up to the sun, less to discern the damage she’d caused to herself—yet again—as to keep her eyes from even brushing across the horror below.
“It is done,” Gilshamed said.
She nodded without turning, sensing his golden glow hovering at her side. She did not look down. She couldn’t. After staring so long at uncountable tiny figures on the ground and bending every shred of effort towards obliterating them, she no longer had the stomach for it. Even so, she knew a rough estimate of the number of souls that had been rent from their bodies: a quarter million, between the ruvak and the Fasheshish. All in the span of the morning. Much of it by her hand.
Curling her fingers painfully, she clutched her hands to her breast, rubbing them together for warmth, though to little effect. The cold in her limbs, however, seemed paltry before the ice in her heart. Like a cavern frozen deep amongst snowy spires, she felt hollowed out. Knowing how many millions of people waited beyond the next ridge, innocent families that would have been slaughtered without mercy had the ruvak not been stopped, did nothing to temper the pain she felt at the multitude of lives she’d so recently taken.
Though she kept her face stoic so that no one who saw her would know it, she mourned. For her fallen allies. For the wives and mothers and children who would weep for those they lost. For her inability to see any path, clear or otherwise, that might lead to victory.
She even mourned for the enemy and for how casually she had deemed their deaths necessary.
“We must regroup,” Gilshamed said. “They may have wounded us here, but this is just a single sector. We need to ascertain the status of the others.”
“That seems . . . wise,” Jasside replied.
“Not a single enemy soldier retreated, even when their defeat had become certain, which suggests to me that their actions here do not represent the full extent of their strategy. This attack might even have been a diversion.”
Jasside almost scoffed but stopped well short of expressing it. If I’ve learned anything about the ruvak, it’s that they place no value on individual lives. I shouldn’t be surprised to find out that they’d throw away a few hundred thousand of them just to make us look the wrong way.
At last she turned to face him. Seeing in his eyes as much despondency as she felt drove a spike of alarm through her. He used to be so good at concealing what was inside him. She didn’t want to think about why he no longer tried.
“Get your best healers down to the Fasheshish,” she ordered, as gently as she could. “Keep the rest ready. I’ll find out where we’re needed just as soon as I contact—”
Someone in commune brushed against her mind, letting her know they needed to talk. If it were an emergency, she knew they would not be so gentle, forcing their message through. Yet, the brush seemed too gentle. Almost casual, in fact. As if it didn’t matter how quickly she heard the news, for there was little she could do about it anyway.
Shaking her head to banish her dour imagination, she summoned the barest sliver of energy and sidled her mind into commune.
Orbrahn stood waiting against that persistent backdrop of white. He’d conjured his typical garish costume, complete with lace trim, gold filigree, and gems studded throughout his garments, but none of it could mask the defeated look on his face.
“Where do we stand?” she asked before he could even offer his usual, lengthy greeting.
“Poorly,” he replied.
“Give me details.”
“The northeastern sector was overrun with the dawn. Ruvak had moved close in the night unseen. We pulled reserves from the north and east sectors, only for them both to be hit by enemy forces several million strong. An entire quadrant of our defense is, essentially, gone.”
Jasside closed her metaphysical eyes. She didn’t bother asking how this was possible. With the war engines taken over by the enemy and turned against their own skyships, along with the diversionary force sent against the armies of Fasheshe, all their usual forms of reinforcement had been distracted and rendered useless.
“What is Yandumar calling for?” she said, glancing once more at Orbrahn.
“Retreat.”
“To where?”
“The center. For now anyway.”
Jasside shook her head. “That won’t buy us much time. I’ll send every available ship and caster to slow down the ruvak. We’ll have to—”
“That not why I contacted you,” Orbrahn interrupted.
Jasside frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Yandumar has the movements coordinated. I came to you personally because . . . well . . .”
“What is it?”
“It’s Mevon, Jasside. He was out there with me when the ruvak sprung their trap. He told me to dash ahead. I figured he’d be fine, but he hasn’t reported back in y—”
Jasside didn’t hear the rest of what he had to say, dropping back into her physical body. Nor did she hear any of what Gilshamed mumbled to her a moment later. She was too busy pouring energy she could barely control into her platform, urging it into greater and greater speed.
Mevon jerked to his left as the hammer came down. Wind rushed and stone rumbled with such force as to put the elements themselves to shame. Twisting, he spun Justice to ward off a flurry of dagger strikes from the opposite side. He kicked their wielder, buying just enough space to plant himself and level his rod overhead as the great cleaver chopped down. The impact sent jolts from his fingers down through his toes, driving him to a knee.
His three assailants collected themselves, then stepped back to prepare for their next attack.
Within the storm, he had speed enough to see and react to each incoming blow, but despite his blessings, the giants had him bested in raw strength. Mevon had faced similar situations before
—namely, against fellow Hardohl—but had always found a way to divide his opponents, snatching small moments within the skirmish that became, in effect, a duel, taking them out one by one.
These three ruvak, however, struck with such precision, such coordination, never leaving themselves exposed, that he had been unable to touch a single edge against them. That they had also failed to draw his blood was of little consolation; repeated impacts from parries had shaken him to his core, and he had yet to find an obvious weakness to exploit.
They were so careful, in fact, that a casual observer might even think they were toying with him. He knew that was not the case. He and his peers had fought against them enough times by now that they must have finally learned what worked and what didn’t. Wearing him down with small cuts was pointless, for such wounds would heal long before blood loss could become a concern. Instead, every strike against him had been intended to either kill or set him up for a subsequent attack.
So far, Mevon had no answer.
They came at him again. Twin daggers slashed high and low. Mevon made to deflect but saw almost too late that it was a feint. He corrected his answering swing just as a slash from the giant cleaver whistled right over the top of the dagger wielder, who ducked under it. Though Mevon caught the blow, it pushed him backwards a step, driving him to totter on the edge of balance.
Where he felt a presence loom behind him.
If he’d had more than a quarter heartbeat to think, he would have realized there was no room for the ruvak to swing a hammer without risking his companions. He lunged towards the presence, hoping to get close enough to negate the hammer’s effect. But as his vision came around, he saw that it was not a weapon that drew near to him.
It was empty hands.
Thick fingers reached for his Andun. Mevon regained just enough balance to jerk it out of reach, then danced around his foe, who clutched at empty air, though barely. Outside the ring of the three ruvak for the first time since the fight began, Mevon smiled and swung at the hammer wielder’s now exposed back.
Sunlight glinted off twin blades, striking like vipers. Mevon saw that they would be too late to stop his own attack, but that in landing his blow, he’d be hard-pressed to deflect even one, much less both of the daggers.
Guard myself? Or take the wound, but eliminate one opponent? I take a risk either way.
Though he had, from his perspective, all the time in the world to consider, he knew right away which choice he would make. Some fights were decided by the width of a finger; some by the width of a hair.
This one, most certainly, had the feeling of the latter.
Completing his initial motion, Mevon drove one blade through fabric and skin of the hammer wielder’s back, all the way through his spine. Steel sliced and grinded simultaneously against flesh and bone.
Mevon snapped his eyes to the metal tips, now closing to within lethal range. Having no time to pull Justice out, he wrenched the free side upward, a task made more difficult by the deadweight still clinging to the other end. Still, he managed to entangle one dagger, turning the thrust aimed for his chest into a glancing slash that bounced off his leather armor without so much as a kissing flesh.
The other blade, however, bit deep into Mevon’s left shoulder. Skin and muscle parted in a burst of searing pain, curling away as the dagger cut deeper still. Blood gushed down Mevon’s arm. His grip on his own weapon faltered, then slipped away.
Inhuman eyes flared. The ruvak’s face was now close enough that Mevon could smell his hot, putrid breath. His foe, it seemed, had obviously not expected Mevon to expose himself.
Relinquishing his Andun with his one good hand, Mevon reached up, grasped the ruvak’s collar, then slammed him to the ground. He followed by smashing his knee into his assailant’s face. Bones crunched like crushed twigs.
Motion caught Mevon’s eye from the periphery: the third ruvak, swinging his massive cleaver. Yet, the blow was too safe, on a path that had no chance of intersecting either of his companions.
Mevon had been counting on that.
He leaned dramatically, arching his back until it was nearly touching the ground behind him. The blade whipped past his nose, licking it with wind, then skidded across the ground.
Rebounding, Mevon surged upward. He lashed out a foot, aiming to knock the weapon from the warrior’s hand. But his other opponent was not as out of the fight as he’d hoped, and clutched at Mevon from below. His kick connected, but only just, and had too little force behind it to do any damage. The fact was, the third ruvak seemed okay with losing the weapon anyway.
Letting go of the cleaver’s hilt, the ruvak grasped Mevon’s ankle.
Then, with a shrill roar, the giant flung him through the air.
After a flight and a desperate search that together seemed to take an eternity, Jasside finally spotted them. Everywhere along the northern front, ruvak hordes were swarming over battlements and chasing down the fleeing human defenders, opposed only by a thin line of skyships and sorcerers. A thousand paces below her, however, over a hundred score ruvak stood in a ring, motionless except for the small cluster of figures dancing at their center.
He’s there. He has to be there.
Leaning forward on her platform until she was almost completely horizontal, Jasside began her dive.
Wind rushed past her face as she gathered within her as much dark energy as she could hold. It didn’t seem like much. Having pushed herself as far just this morning as she usually did in an entire day, her reserves of power had fallen dangerously low, to the point where she doubted her ability to destroy even this meagre force.
But as the ants grew in her sight into mice, and then men, she saw a familiar shock of black hair swirling as the figure it belonged to spun in a deathly dance. With only a dagger in one hand, Mevon fended off a pair of howling ruvak warriors who were astonishing in their size and savagery.
Inexplicably, he seemed to be losing.
Slowing, she could now see his arm, drenched in blood and hanging limply at his side, and a third ruvak giant lying facedown in a pool of orange blood, with Mevon’s Andun sticking up from his spine like a banner pole.
A plan formed in her mind, and she began its enactment without waiting for a better one to present itself.
Closing her eyes, she quested outward, finding the two strongest heartbeats and homing in on them. The pair of warriors were moving too quickly for any kind of projectile attack, especially in her weakened condition.
But if I form the spell in place instead of sending it . . .
Darkness burst in twin explosions below. When she opened her eyes, she saw only Mevon standing in a cloud of orange mist. The surrounding crowd erupted in a squawking rage. Steel bared, the ring began to constrict.
Sweeping low, she leaned over the side over platform, grasping Justice and yanking it free of the corpse. Then, she guided herself over Mevon.
“Grab ahold!” she called without slowing.
A moment later, Jasside felt the platform lurch with sudden weight. She rose, one husband now dangling beneath her, as the angry mob closed in on the spot he’d just been standing.
“She’s got him.”
Yandumar grunted his acknowledgment without looking down at Orbrahn, who sat propped against the railing of the skyship.
A part of him wondered if he’d done the right thing. Naturally, no one would fault him for sending someone to rescue Mevon, but he’d seen too often those in power only using it for their own gain, placing the lives of those they cared about, or those they deemed worthy, over countless others. It’s why he hadn’t sent a more traditional force, even though they’d been closer than Jasside. As overall commander of the defense, everyone was his responsibility. He didn’t want to be seen playing favorites.
All I really did was inform a woman about her spouse’s . . . predicament. The rest took care of itself. I had no right to deny her that knowledge, and the opportunity to do something about it, not even to assuage my own uncertain co
nscience.
Though he’d long released his tight hold on his only living son, telling himself it was only a matter of time before battle claimed him, Yandumar still allowed himself a quiet exhale at Orbrahn’s news.
The relief did not last long.
Elbow propped on one knee, his wide eyes were fixed ahead on the object his skyship was fast approaching. Had he not suspected who was behind it, he would have called it impossible.
“Get back in commune, then, and keep a close eye on things,” Yandumar ordered.
“What’s the point, old man? Any fool can see that we’re beaten.”
“Aye. But we’re not dead yet. That’ll change if we don’t maintain an orderly retreat.”
“Retreat? Where the abyss are we going to flee to this time?”
Yandumar narrowed his eyes at what lay ahead. “I think we’re about to find out.”
As Orbrahn begrudgingly complied with his instructions, Yandumar continued staring, reevaluating the thing’s scale every few beats as they raced ahead without the object appearing to change size.
Abyss take you, Vashodia. Even during our own impending genocide, you just couldn’t let yourself be outdone.
From the very heart of the colony rose an edifice similar to a domicile, only so colossal it made the valynkar cities seem like toys. The underside was all of dark soil and stone, flaring wide and angled like a cut gem, while the top was sprinkled with familiar houses and tenements, granaries and tents, grasses and roads. And at the center of it all, somehow even more ominous-looking than ever, the voltensus poked toward the sky like a needle.
“Looks like the scorching mountain decided it wanted to fly,” Orbrahn said.
Yandumar grunted again. Then, he turned, glaring down at the boy. “I thought I told you to—”
The Light That Binds Page 32