Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  “I have gifts for you. Here, take these potions. You’ll need them more than me.” He forced the weight on to Wux, but the boy didn’t mind. Lunella took three potions from the already opened pouch and stuffed them defiantly back into Artorian’s pocket.

  “Take those,” she ordered him with stern directness. “No sacrificing yourself.”

  Artorian beamed a misty-eyed smile and settled a supportive hand on her shoulder. “I shall not. I have the rest of our family to save when I find them. Also, it’s about time you had this.”

  Without any fanfare, he took the Lapis robe off his shoulders and draped it around Lunella. She didn’t know what to say, and when she tried to speak, the words refused to leave her throat.

  Her Elder addressed her directly, now with both hands on her shoulders, “Years ago, I told Wuxius that he was responsible for taking care of you all. He did his best and took care of you. I’m proud of you for that, my boy.” He gave his grandson a pride-filled nod; both of them were trying to keep their lower jaws steady. Artorian’s bright blue eyes settled back on Lunella, whose expression was full of concern… and a sparkle of hope.

  “Lunella, my dear. You are the next Elder of the Salt village, and I name you as such, even if there’s currently a Church cloister on the land. I can tell when I see the deft hand of leadership at play. Rely on people. Wuxius will be there for you. Grandfather has a promise to fulfill.”

  He took a deep breath, and his heart was in this next part. His voice was filled with power, and authority reverberated through the air of the Fringe as he gave the words meaning. “I hereby grant you my dominion in the Fringe, Elder Lunella.”

  Far in the distance of the Fringe—in a small cavern under a village that used to gather salt—something underground rumbled to life. Vibrations transmitted through an interspatial web *thrummed* as the energetic brush of an oath being transferred caused enough of a disturbance to make waking worthwhile.

  Mana pulsed and built as chaotic light gathered power, a mandible-clicking orb gaining awareness, filling the small space to the brim in a reality-warping, space-shattering instant of spreading influence. Two places across divided distances connected, aligning to allow for an exertion as the cascading waves of power transferred from the orb’s current position to where it needed to be.

  Crystalline energy stretched and flexed like a waking muscle, reaching out to fill a previously flattened space, just as a bird would stretch every individual tethered feather as the entity re-established itself. An unseen, spherical bubble surged forth, rapidly expanding its area of influence. As there were no Mages in the area, this event went unnoticed.

  Teleportation Mana sucked down ambient energy with enough pull to drain away even the clouds, clearing a dome of unmarred blue in the sky in a perfect cylinder above the Core’s location. The landscape took a deep breath as the Core of the Scar occupied this space once more. The water on the flats shuddered as if something heavy had fallen in the distance, and like creeping dread, the edges of the Scar’s tendrils stretched once more.

  Lunella kept her hand on her mouth as she was bestowed the title and nodded through thick tears. She needed to hug him again. “Thank you.”

  Artorian held her and gave her comforting pats on the back. “Let’s get you both home now. Follow the main road out, and veer left after the second hill. I left a merchant's cart and two horses behind. With luck, the horses will still be there. Do you remember who to ask for once you reach the cloister?”

  Wuxius nodded and filled in, “Tarrean.”

  The old man nodded sharply. “That’s right. Head Cleric Tarrean. Don’t rush in the approach. They’re likely currently fending off that raider party you sent. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. They’re all cultivators. Keep that robe on tight, Lunella. They recognize it well. Heh.”

  He brushed it over her shoulders to fix the fit. “Yell out these names Yvessa, Tibbins, Tarrean, or Hadurin if you start being fired upon. Avoid dying at all costs.”

  He leered at them both and quizzed the duo, “What’s the single most important thing?”

  They hugged him, and Wux replied, “Stay alive. Just stay alive.”

  Artorian nodded and embraced them again, so proud. He released his sproutlings and picked up the bow, reslinging the quiver that had fallen when he’d taken the Lapis robe off. “You know the way. Ahead of me, you two. This time without disappearing into smoke?”

  The duo nodded in sober recollection and took off down the corridor with their armed Elder in tow. His footsteps were so quiet that Lunella had to look behind her to make sure he was actually following. To her relief, he was right there, expression as stern as a battlefield ghost.

  “Next door to the left gets us out,” Wux whispered, taking a sharp turn to shoulder check the door and fling it open.

  “Go, go, go!” When the apprentice and assistant whisked out of the door, a gilded dagger piercing Artorian’s side informed him that he wasn't going to be able to follow.

  “Argh!” he cried out, wincing as the blade pulled him back into the foyer. “Go, just go!”

  He yelled the imperative at his grandchildren who hesitantly looked behind them. Wuxius was about to turn around and rush back in, but Lunella jerked his arm. Everything up to this point had been to get them out, and turning back might corner them behind a fence of reinforcements. Wuxius looked back and forth between the woman he loved and the Elder who vanished into the darkness. His hands balled up, his leg trembled, and he wanted to rush to the old man’s aid. A second, harsher tug from Lunella made him see the worried expression marring her face. The decision was heart-wrenching. He grit his teeth, and Lunella won out. The duo ran off together while their Elder bought them the time, holding off the terror incarnate that was Hakan.

  Artorian had swung his bow wildly in an arc as he’d been pulled back into the dark building by the knife and had no choice but to turn with it to avoid being outright gutted. The slender, powerful, and agile woman curved with all the finesse of a snake as she twisted her body in an ‘S’ shape to dislodge her dagger, dodge the wildly swung bow, and cut the string all in one seamless set of movements.

  The *clak* of severed string snapping against his fingers made the old warrior wince. Without a thought, he tossed the stick at her to buy a precious second, but the vile predator was upon him. His free hand slid into his pocket and thumb-forced the cork off a potion. He downed it with a hard swallow only to throw the emptied vial in the raider’s direction when his arm came back down. Hakan laughed at him—an amused cackle as she slid out of the way. The unimportant bit of glass shattered behind her as she moved with all the delicate swerve of sentient water.

  The assassin knew she had the upper hand, and half a glance at this ancient relic told her that he knew it too. The venom on her knife had all but confirmed her victory with the sneaky strike she’d snuck in at the door. The gilded blade could afford to toy with her food before she hunted some traitors down. She relished in the opportunity of making a gory example out of them.

  Artorian wasn’t in great shape; he fell back along the wall to keep distance while the predator eyed him up. She’d had plenty of chances to leap at him again, and those extra seconds were prized moments for him. His Essence was in a full swing of activity as his real focus was on pouring venom-hunting celestial Essence through his right hand which held the wound.

  Venom expulsion was priority number one, or this was going to be a short bout. He’d gotten a good amount of practice handling the venom; so, while the deep cut was certainly painful, it had already ceased to be fatal. The minor potion was doing the patchwork and closing the wound while he was cleaning up. Keeping his hand over the wound prevented Hakan from spotting that it slowly healed, and if it left a scar… well, that would mean he had survived.

  The clear fluid stuck to the inside of his gi, which he’d hoped was just a bit more cut-resistant than this. Thoughts for another time. He took stock of the situation and quickly deduced that she had him outm
atched in all aspects of this fray… save one.

  He was a cultivator, and she was not.

  Unfortunately, Hakan was a creature whose profession, passion, and self-assigned purpose were to slaughter and kill. Her skill with the blades was practiced and well-honed. Her body was young, trained, and in amazing condition. She had the muscle, the confidence, and the equipment all going for her. While she didn’t wear armor, all those metal blades covering her were an excellent deterrent. A direct strike without a weapon was going to cut his own hand up, possibly doing more harm than any he’d inflict on her.

  No, the survival plan was going to be biting a cost he’d hoped to avoid—a colossal waste of Essence. It was time to do or die. He sharply exhaled through his nose at her, eyes remaining locked as they slowly circled in the lavish room. Artorian knew she was just playing with him; he was a toy already wounded and about to fall. She just wanted to see his suffering.

  Her face was full of malicious delight. The ear-to-ear smile indicated she would savor and relish the impending kill. Still, she could strike at any moment, and he needed to buy time. With some refined drama, he frowned and coughed extra loud and pretended to stagger, as if the venom was doing its work. His voice was hampered, and he hid the intake of a breath under it as he got to work spending a ludicrous amount of Essence.

  “Two,” Artorian muttered wetly. Hakan’s eyebrow perked up as her game suddenly included killing him in a fashion that matched his own words. Two stabs? Two lungs ripped out of him? Oh, choices, choices!

  “You only kept two of the children from my Salt village. What, were the other three too good for you?” His expression was reddening, his appearance that of a frustrated, angry, dying, old man.

  What Hakan could not see was a swiftly diminishing Aura as his Center chugged refined Essence faster than a Dwarf in a drinking contest. Artorian was taking entire cultivation circles apart in a hurry to have enough *oomph* in his body. Refined Essence flooded his system, and with all the charismatic leadership of a seasoned commander, he directed it to his heart meridian to surge into his bloodstream. There was no way he’d have the concentration to cycle his Essence to his whole body at once, and he needed a comprehensive boost to everything just to keep up with her. So, that’s exactly what he was going to do—let his body do the work for him.

  It most certainly wasn’t without risk, as he would be slowly filling up the maximum capacity any muscle of his body could take. This was an awful, crude, idiotic, on-the-spot technique that had zero finesse. He was throwing refined Essence straight at the problem because his expertise was required elsewhere. If he couldn’t keep up with her, this was going to be a one-sided slaughter. To his dismay, he needed time for the torrent of Essence to actually cycle through his system.

  Hakan didn’t understand why, but she could feel the presence of the man in front of her shrink as the pressure of his Aura lessened. It was a pressure she hadn’t even noticed before it started failing. So, he was dying? Swiftly as well, it seemed… too bad. She was having quite the frustrating day, and playing with her meal was exactly what she needed to relieve stress.

  “The runts? As if I would keep the toys that didn’t have potential. I’m running a Queendom, not a daycare, you worthless old fool. I need servants to make sure my future troops grow up to properly serve me.”

  The twirl of her knives glimmered in her vengeful smile. “However, if you’re so fond of them… I’ll find them again and slowly cut them to pieces in memory of your lovely contribution today. Rooting out traitors so close to my person and relieving me of incompetent apprentices was very helpful. I’ll ensure their suffering is deep… and well-explained.”

  She would have devolved into a set of bitter laughter had the old man not looked like he was getting more vibrant by the second. Without another word, she charged right at the unarmed problem. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong. Her slash wasn’t wild. It was a pointed, directed, and lethal swipe that was going to sunder his jugular and carve out a significant portion of his throat.

  Her footsteps were light, and the carpet beneath her boots shifted from the force of her launch. Her blade was so cold and swift that the tip of the knife made a telltale, metallic, cutting *zing*.

  He was dead. She was certain he was dead… He should have been dead.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  *Thrum*. Artorian watched the raider charge. A golden ring surrounded the outer edge of his bright, cyan-shining irises. The circular movement of his empowered arm was reminiscent of the smooth roundness of a rising moon. His cloth-covered arm suddenly occupied the location her strike should have landed.

  Hakan’s killing blow was beautifully deflected. She was struck with more than enough power to make the blade miss his neck entirely, his palm guiding the gilded blade off its destined path. Defying an expected pattern, the rest of his body filled the empty space with the grace of ritual tea pouring into a cup.

  She’d expected a dodge, a sidestep, or him to move away in reaction to a lethal blow. Instead, the entire right side of Hakan’s face became aware of agonizing, broken, pained stretching. It was the herald of a shattered cheek and jaw. That infuriating fool had twisted on the back of his foot, spun with his shoulder inwards, and bashed his elbow into the side of her pristine face! Somehow, the old man had hit with enough force to make her vision blur, mind go starry, and break several bones.

  *Scrack*! The sound caught up to the feel.

  With rage suffusing her blood, Hakan felt her now-deformed jaw quiver as the muscles no longer connected correctly. The bone that kept everything neatly in place was either no longer there or shattered beyond recognition. A crushing headache—a sickening concussion—struck her senses, and Hakan had to back off, an unplanned shuffle to assess the damage and dodge a follow-up punch by a hair. That strike whirled through the air with such strength that it made a whirring *vwup* on passing.

  “Imhossihle!” she shrieked her unwillingness to accept that she’d been hit. All she had available to her were broken, agonizing sounds. The pain kept splitting through her entire face. How? One moment, she’d been lined up for another of her patented, flawless kills… and the next, her strike had been deflected. Her opponent had spun the same arm into the side of her skull with an elbow strike, then stepped in, spinning the other way with the intent to crush the other side of her skull.

  Ridiculous! No elbow strike could do this kind of harm to her. Hakan began to seethe, and the dominoes fell as she swam through the effects of her concussion. This relic was a cultivator! She threw her gilded, venom coated dagger at him with uncanny accuracy, forcing a sidestep from the old man. Her woozy senses informed her that he’d seen the attack coming. That had been the point of the throw; it bought the raider time to down her own potion. This potion was of far higher quality than the one the old man had sipped.

  As compensation for his earlier slight, she dropped her arm and launched the bottle at him. *Clash*.

  Hearing the glass shatter, she watched as he deftly moved out of the way with agility and flexibility an old man should not possess! The pain in her face ended abruptly, and the visual of her face knitting back together under the skin was stomach turning. “Muchh etter. Back to torturing the truth out of you.”

  Hakan’s words bubbled, and she drooled as she spoke. Still, she went from needing interpretation to abject clarity as she finished her words. The old man winced and closed an eye to rub it. A weakness!

  Another blade found its way into her hand so swiftly that Artorian couldn’t puzzle where it came from; he also didn’t have the time to. Being temporarily evenly matched brought a different factor into the combat equation. Hakan’s blade didn’t miss, but it didn’t reach its intended target either. Blood splurged once more from her mouth.

  *Crack*.

  The old man’s back-kick very much found its target. The bottom of his sandal exploded into her ribs upon impact. His stabilizing foot that had been steady on the wooden floor twisted, and the floor i
tself erupted into splinters with an unhappy screech.

  The difference between standing and not standing on the lavish carpet had made all the difference for his support, and the rotational power whirled up his frame with a well-positioned pivot. The sandal was cut deeply by Hakan’s knife-armor protections, but his tabi stopped the blade-clad leather from reaching his skin, preventing those deadly knives from actually slicing into his foot. A victory for socks!

  Hakan’s ribs followed the cruel fate that the side of her face had tasted a few moments ago. The shockwave immediately returned her nausea to her as her breath belched out. Her heart was forced to miss a very harrowing beat. Not only had her ribs shattered along the entire surface area his rectangular tabi struck, but it was particularly damaging where the heel had impacted. Her cry of pain came out as a blubbered gurgle, and for the second time in one day, she was forced to back off and cut the air between them with an expendable knife.

  Artorian had no choice but to dodge, needing to pull back from the stance without being sliced. That motion had to be followed up with a sequential dodge when a second potion bottle crashed on the wall behind him. An arduous set of blood spittle coughs later, Hakan was once again in top shape. Her words were back to her usual shrill of hatred. “You’re going to die slowly, you cur.”

  She was done playing. She drew larger blades from her hips as the internal damage patched itself up. Hakan was no stranger to potions nor the addictive qualities of the stronger ones. Who would have guessed that her secret, little pleasure was currently saving her hide? Boro’s special ‘bigger on the inside pouch’ was a marvel for storing the stronger variants she savored.