by Davis Ashura
“What are you doing?” William asked again.
Serena didn’t answer. She focused on William’s heart, on his thoughts, and knew he did the same. She sensed his friendship for her, the joy he felt when she was around, the kindness he saw in her, his admiration for who she’d become, She smiled at the notion that he thought he needed to be worthy of her friendship. He doesn’t. It’s the other way around. And nowhere did she find that poisonous anger spurred by Sapient Dormant’s call. She also felt William’s regret for how long it had taken him to forgive her.
“That wasn’t your fault,” she said, knowing he’d understand what she meant.
“It was,” he said.
She pressed a finger to his mouth. “There was blame enough for both of us.”
Brandon’s eyes widened in amazement when the Servitor sourced his lorethasra. Such depth of power. Vast and endless.
A traitorous notion came to him. How, then, had the Servitor been defeated? Brandon shook off the worrying question.
“Observe,” the Servitor ordered. “The idea to build these weapons originated as all great things do, with Lord Shet, but we’ve modified his original concept to suit our purposes and abilities.”
Brandon waited alongside a number of mahavans, including Preeti, Samuel, and Evelyn, upon a ledge of stone that protruded off a broad cliff looming above the Norwegian Sea.
Evelyn shifted about in clear discomfort. She sported a fresh crop of bruises on her face. Since their return to Sinskrill a week ago, she’d been daily punished and healed for what she’d done on Arylyn. At one time the punishment might have been harsher, up to and including stripping, but Sinskrill needed all its warriors, including the incompetent ones.
Brandon watched about as the Servitor prepared his weapon.
The whitewashed Palace gleamed behind him while on every other side rose an evergreen forest. Everywhere except below the ledge where Brandon and the others waited. There, the docks squatted, and gulls cried harshly at fisherman who had laid out their day’s catch. Thankfully, a stern wind blew from the surrounding hills and dispersed the stench of the haul. Rare sunshine breached the clouds, enlivening the afternoon as the light glistened off the indigo waters of the Norwegian Sea. However, the vibrant color only extended as far as the border of the saha’asra, transitioning at that point into a dull gray. The day’s brightness offered little in the way of warmth. This was Sinskrill, after all.
A hard gust blew then, as if to reinforce Brandon’s observations, and he shivered. He’d been too long on Arylyn, too long within her warmth and beauty.
He mentally scowled at the notion. Arylyn’s beauty represented everything a mahavan hated, an easy, soft life. Weak.
Brandon shook off his wandering thoughts and returned his attention to the reason why they were here, a so-called firewager. It resembled a cannon, long-barreled, squat, and ugly. During Brandon’s scouting mission to Arylyn, the Servitor had apparently developed and perfected this weapon. Somehow it would help the mahavans destroy the magi.
Brandon didn’t see how that was possible. Lilith had seven times Sinskrill’s population and every one of the magi could wield their lorethasra. Only three hundred of Sinskrill’s one thousand could make the same claim.
Who am I to question the Servitor?
“Observe the ship in the harbor,” the Servitor commanded, “as I ready the firewager.”
Brandon did as instructed and studied the boat floating listlessly in the harbor. Had it been abandoned? A second later, his eyes widened in amazement when the Servitor created a weave to power the firewager. The control required astounded him, and awe once more rose in his heart. No one can defeat the Servitor.
Again came the traitorous voice whispering in his mind. And yet the Servitor has been defeated. He was defeated by those two magi who also twice destroyed Adam Paradiso’s mahavans. The World Killers. Who are they, really?
Brandon didn’t know, but he’d glimpsed them on Arylyn. He’d wanted to watch them for far longer, but somehow the woman, Jessira, had sensed his regard. When Brandon and his mahavans had initially hunkered down to study her, nothing had seemed amiss. A moment later, Jessira had stiffened and sent her gaze questing. She’d worn a frown, and even from the distance where he lay hidden Brandon could tell she was searching for them.
He and the others had quickly slunk away, moving before she or her husband, Rukh, the deadly warrior who moved with a sublime grace, found them.
Brandon’s attention returned to the cannon when Adam Paradiso, the Secondus, pressed a round stone into its barrel.
“This is the shell,” Adam announced, “a type of nomasra.”
He shoved the ball farther into the barrel with a wooden rod, grunting in satisfaction. The Servitor leaned forward and thick braids of Fire, Earth, Water, and Air poured off his hands and into the stone. Next he created a braid of Spirit, white as bone and shining with dark flecks, and attached it to the ball. “Prepare to witness history,” he intoned.
The ball of stone Adam had placed within the cannon began to glow and growl. It gave off a low-pitched snarl, like a pack of ferocious wolves. The sound increased in intensity, howling now. An unexpected boom shattered the air, and Brandon started, nearly pitching into Evelyn.
The shell exploded out of the mouth of the cannon, white-hot and raging. It arched skyward, trailing light and twisting right and left.
Brandon blinked, uncertain he’d seen the unnatural movement. Again the shell juked, proving it hadn’t been his imagination. It corkscrewed as it descended, spiraling until it slammed into the boat floating in the harbor. Wood exploded in all directions. The boat blasted apart like a toy smashed by a blacksmith’s hammer.
Brandon gaped in shock.
Evelyn was ecstatic, reverential. “We’re going to crush the magi,” she said with a triumphant laugh as she softly clapped her hands.
The Servitor exulted. “Now you see how we will destroy our ancient foes once and for all. When Shet returns he will find his people have not forgotten what it means to bring war and conquer!”
The mahavans continued to clap in delirious joy, and Brandon joined them. However, the traitorous voice in his mind wondered if destroying the magi was a good thing. In his heart of hearts, he’d liked the peace of Arylyn.
The Servitor held up his hands, calling for quiet. “This is only the first of my firewagers,” he said. “This one will be placed aboard my own ship, Demolition, but we will have many more. With them we’ll destroy the magi and their cursed island!”
DECISIONS LAUNCHED
August 1990
* * *
Adam kept pace beside his brother as they strode along Village White Sun’s pier and surveyed the preparations underway for the coming attack. They still had much to accomplish but at least they’d finally collected enough ships. The vessels, all of them large, bobbed in Village White Sun’s harbor. Most possessed towering masts, sails stowed on yardarms, and had the lean carriage of modern vessels, which made sense since they’d been stolen from docks as far away as England.
The Servitor had wisely decided against using only sailing ships when motorized yachts would do far better. Of course Demolition, the Servitor’s ship, had no engine, but she could easily keep up with the modern vessels. With her wealth of sails and Axel to power her, she’d be a match for any ship on the sea.
Drones and even mahavans bent under the weight of crates and barrels, lowering them into waiting boats or carrying them up gangways to be stowed in the rapidly-filling holds of the impromptu war fleet. Shouted orders and questions added to the milling confusion as preparations to weigh anchor neared completion.
Adam tugged his cloak closer when a bitter gust flapped. The wind carried the scent of brine and fish and set the vessels rocking in their berths. The clatter of ropes smacking masts echoed as dreary clouds scudded across the sky. Typical Sinskrill weather.
He ignored the cold. Mahavans didn’t display weakness.
“We leave in
a week,” Axel said.
Adam hid a quiver of worry. Is attacking Arylyn our only course of action? He didn’t think so, but he also ensured that his lack of enthusiasm for Axel’s plan never showed on his face or demeanor. Rather, he nodded in self-assurance, trying to figure out a way to bring up his doubts in a manner that wouldn’t trigger his brother’s fury.
“I would still prefer we take more mahavans,” he stated.
The Servitor gestured and formed a bubble of Air about them. “You know why we can’t. We only have three hundred trained mahavans, and we have to leave some behind to oversee the drones.” He quirked a grin. “While the master is away, the mice will laze the day away.”
Adam didn’t find the old aphorism humorous. “If we wait but one more year, even six months, we’ll have up to another five hundred ready. Our chances for success would be significantly improved.”
Axel sighed. “Time is not on our side. You know this as well as I. We made a promise to Shet. We vowed to defeat Arylyn by the end of this year. Do you really wish to tell him otherwise at this late hour?”
Adam shook his head and silently wished they could tell Shet something else, something crude.
“Our plans are laid and determined,” Axel continued. “You’ll take two hundred mahavans and land upon the island and raze everything you come across. Meanwhile, the fifty under my command will level the magi village with our firewagers—”
“Cannons,” Adam said, daring to interrupt his brother. “Firewagers might be what Shet calls them, but we all know what they look like.”
Axel chuckled. “Firewagers is a rather stupid name, isn’t it?”
Adam laughed with his brother. It felt good to do so, such a rare occurrence. “Consider who named them.”
Axel laughed louder. “Yes,” he agreed. “If not for his power, we would never bend knee to Shet or anyone.”
His words stirred a longing within Adam, one he couldn’t suppress. “Why must we then?” he asked. “Is there no way to ally with the World Killers and—”
Axel made a chopping motion. “We’ve discussed this already as well,” he said. “I took the measure of these supposed World Killers. They are powerful, but you and I both know they would stand no chance against Shet. They cannot be our allies.”
“In a frontal assault, yes,” Adam agreed, “but is there no way to prevent the opening of the Seminal anchor line? Perhaps they could help us with that?”
“That knowledge is long since lost.”
Adam grimaced, and his brother squeezed his shoulder. “Let it go,” Axel said. “We each have our roles to play, our missions to fulfill. Only then can we hope to survive Shet’s arrival.”
Adam nodded agreement, although in his heart he remained rebellious.
“What about the nomasras that contain lorasra?” the Servitor asked. “How many do we have?”
“Not enough,” Adam answered. “At least not enough for the number of mahavans we’ll need.”
“Then I’ll have to make more of them,” Axel said.
Early on, when Adam had been raised to his status as Secondus, he’d learned that all Servitors upon their ascension were granted great power. All of them were both thera’asras and raha’asras.
“I’d double the number,” Adam said.
Axel grunted. “Is there anything else?”
Another troubling thought came to Adam. “What about the unformed? You’re certain they’ll follow my commands?”
“Absolutely,” Axel said, “but I can only grant you fifty. Any more than that and I can’t guarantee their loyalty.”
Adam grunted in acceptance, although truthfully he’d rather no unformed sailed with them. Despite being one himself, he didn’t trust the creatures.
Axel clapped him on the shoulder. “You worry too much. We’ll destroy the magi and these Ashokan Irregulars. We’ll kill them all.”
Ashokan Irregulars. Adam frowned at the name. Where have I heard that name before?
Axel noticed. “What is it?”
The memory came to Adam, and he inhaled sharply. “Ashokan Irregulars. Does the name not sound overly similar to that of the Befouler, Shokan?”
Axel stroked his chin as his features went flat and unreadable, a sure sign of his concern. “Perhaps it does.”
His words and reaction did nothing to allay Adam’s spike of worry.
Jessira observed the work crews as they went about strapping the cannons into their carriages. They’d decided to place a few of them upon the lowest terraces of all the Cliffs while the rest were positioned on Clifftop. Jessira paced along the flagstones of the Village Green as the work went on, knowing her presence here was superfluous. The men and women of the work detail knew their job, and they required little oversight. However, Mr. Zeus held the opinion that the magi worked better whenever she or Rukh observed their efforts, so she remained nearby, watching the labor taking place around her. If nothing else, duty impelled her.
She smiled at the thought. It was something Rukh might have said. He’s rubbed off on me.
Laird Reed moved to stand in front of her and interrupted her thoughts. “We’re about done with the last one, ma’am.” He twisted his hands and all-but bowed to her.
Jessira stilled a disappointed sigh, wishing once again that the magi would simply treat her as a woman and not an object of terror or veneration. When she and Rukh had first arrived on Arylyn, the people had given them little more than curious gazes. Unfortunately, time and events had changed the villagers’ perceptions. First had come her and Rukh’s rapid physical maturation. They’d largely resumed their semblances from when they’d walked the green hills of Arisa. Then had come their actions on Sinskrill and Australia, and lastly the training of the Ashokan Irregulars. Too many hard, fast changes had given the people here a distorted image of her and Rukh, a curious mix of fear and hope.
Jessira smiled at Laird, hoping the simple expression would thaw the man’s frozen nervousness.
No such luck. If anything, Laird grew more disconcerted. He shifted about, tugging his hands so hard Jessira thought he’d twist them off.
She held onto the smile. “Thank you. Let me know when the work is complete and I’ll examine it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Laird said. This time he did bow as he stepped away.
Jessira sighed and stared westward, toward Lilith’s Cliffs and the Pacific Ocean. The late morning sun gleamed on the homes and stones as clouds floated serenely in a blue sky. River Namaste tumbled in an unbridled series of misty waterfalls, making the fantastical bridges between the lush green terraces shine with rainbow iridescence.
As always whenever she considered the bridges, Jessira’s eyes went to Chimera Seed. How had images of Suwraith’s creatures made their way here to this other world? There could be no mistaking the Baels, Tigons, Braids, Ur-Fels, and Balants. Statues of all the Sorrow Bringer’s fell creatures had been carved into the blocky, ruddy stones of the bridge.
Jessira shook her head. A mystery for another time.
She turned her attention to the study of Lilith itself. So lovely and elegant, it reminded her of a smaller-scale version of Rukh’s home, magnificent Ashoka. That faraway city had also arisen above the shores of an ocean—the Sickle Sea—with its buildings carved onto the slopes of nine verdant hills. When Jessira had first beheld the city she had likened it to a diamond set amongst sapphires and emeralds. Rukh had gifted her with such a necklace after he’d heard her description.
More memories tumbled through her mind. She smiled as she recalled Sign, her fearless cousin, tall, strong, and proud; and Rukh’s sister, Bree, with her razor-sharp intellect, humor, and enduring strength. One had been her sister-cousin and the other her sister-in-law, her chellelu. Both of them had been the truest sisters of her heart.
Memories of Rector Bryce came to her. He had been so upright, stiff, and judgmental. In the end, though, he had seen past his moral certitude, and it had been his final courageous grace that had allowed victory.
<
br /> She also remembered Jaresh, Rukh’s adopted brother. The scandal of his existence—a child raised in a Caste not of his own—had always caused him trouble, but he’d never let it slow him down. Jaresh, every bit as willful and generous as Rukh, had been Sign’s equal and her husband, and they’d been blessed with lovely children.
For some reason, thinking of Jaresh reminded Jessira of William. She was glad the young man was no longer crippled by his anger.
Her smile faded as she then remembered her own children, and a tear leaked down her cheek. What peace have they found? And what peace will Rukh and I ever have?
Brandon took in the miserable morning weather and wanted to scowl. The day had dawned wet and gloomy, which meant it was a perfectly normal day for Sinskrill. Winter had yet to bite down on the island, but its harbingers—a stiff wind and a freezing rain—warned of its approach. Brandon clutched his coat more closely about himself as he stood on Demolition’s stern and stared at Sinskrill. In the distance, mist and fog wreathed green hills that marched northward until they merged with the rugged outcroppings and mountains that towered over the island’s interior. Closer at hand, puffs of smoke drifted skyward from the various barracks and houses of Village White Sun. A stray dog wandered the street and several children played in puddles. Otherwise, the village lay empty since the rest of the drones currently worked the fields, harvesting a last yield of crops to carry them through the winter.
This island was a hard land for a hard people, and Brandon had pride in having been raised here, of surviving and earning what he had. He was a mahavan of Sinskrill, an accomplishment not easily achieved, and he straightened at the thought. He would fight to stay true to who he was and what he had been born to be.
And yet . . .
The memories of golden Arylyn and her sun-kissed beaches, hills, and valleys, the glories of her fields and farms, the warm wind blowing and bringing ease to his soul . . . They weren’t so easily set aside. Scouting the magi’s home had given him a greater appreciation for why Serena had done as she had. While she was and always would be a traitor, part of him applauded her for escaping Sinskrill’s hard life for Arylyn’s soft one.