Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  She would do her best to kill as few as possible, but with the casters, she had no choice. Power such as this could not be easily contained. And, she guessed, no one with sorcerous blood in his or her veins who strode within a war zone could ever be entirely innocent.

  That she herself fell into that category bothered her. But only a little.

  She had work to do.

  Jasside reenergized, then prepared her spells. One by one, she funneled her energy towards each of the enemy casters. One by one, they fell. Some, probably sensing the scope of her power, formed their own shields in defense, but they provided little protection. Her spells ripped right through them like a sword through cloth.

  More soldiers raced towards her now, hundreds of them. She recognized many of them to be their captive’s brethren, fellow Phelupari. Had she given her word to spare them? Right now, she couldn’t remember. But, based on his testimony, she wasn’t sure they were deserving of the same fate as the casters.

  She peered back over her shoulder. The artillery pieces lay in smoking ruins behind her. Farther back, the other half of the encampment writhed in furious swaths of chaos and death. Vashodia, apparently, hadn’t been nearly so restrained in her use of sorcery. Jasside heard what seemed like a thousand screams from as many paces away, a discordant sound that chilled her to the bone.

  Disengage.

  Wherever the thought came from, Jasside had no problem obeying. They’d done their part, and now the Sceptrine army would do the rest. She couldn’t let the fact that these men might very well still die in the coming battle affect her decision. War was an ugly thing. Until they got to the root of it, this was the best they could do.

  Jasside turned around and shadow-­dashed back the way she had come. Other than the occasional crewman futilely trying to salvage an artillery piece from her flames, she ran into no resistance.

  Sighing, she walked back towards the alley just as Daye came out, pushing their captive ahead of them. Before she could say even a word, Vashodia strolled towards them, explosions and cries of agony still erupting behind her.

  “Is it finished?” Daye asked.

  “More or less,” Vashodia said.

  “Let’s get to the rendezvous point,” Jasside added. “Your brother can handle the rest from here.”

  “What about him?” Daye said, giving the Phelupari man a gentle shake.

  Jasside met the man’s eyes. “Release him,” she said. “The Sceptrines will win the day, with or without his kinsman’s involvement. Perhaps he can convince them that surrender is the best option.”

  “Without question,” the man said.

  Daye sheathed his sword. The limped man ran off without another word.

  “Let’s go,” Vashodia said, casting cold glances towards both Jasside and the prince. “I’ve had enough of your sentiment for one day.”

  “This. Is. Pointless!”

  Arivana threw down the book she’d been reading.

  Tassariel lowered her own book to her lap as Flumere dutifully picked up the queen’s discarded pages. She sighed, wishing she could find some reason to disagree. The bookcases held too many empty spaces, bereft of even a hint of dust. Anything useful had been hastily removed.

  “You’re probably right,” Tassariel said. “I’m sorry this turned out to be a waste of time.”

  “We suspected as much coming in. I guess I just hoped those fears would be proven false.”

  “I was a fool to trust the consular personnel simply because they were my kin. I should have known better. All the worst ­people I know are valynkar.”

  “You just haven’t met enough humans, then. Give it time.”

  Tassariel chortled at the joke.

  Flumere looked aghast, darting her eyes back and forth between Tassariel and the queen. “You—­” she began then paused, shaking her head. “We aren’t all that bad. Many are choked by greed and lies, only thinking of themselves, but there are still good ­people out there. Selfless ­people who think only of the welfare of others. Who are . . . compassionate.”

  Arivana leaned back in her seat, folding her arms. “Name one.”

  “Arivana Celandaris,” Flumere said without even a breath of hesitation.

  The queen squeaked, then fidgeted in her seat. “You really mean that?”

  “Absolutely. I’d not be going this far beyond my duties for just any old queen, now would I?”

  Moisture glistened under Arivana’s eyes. The girl reached out to Flumere and clasped her hand. “Thank you, Flumere. It means so much to me to hear you say that.”

  Tassariel wondered at the exchange, marveling that these two ­people had managed to look beyond their respective stations and, somehow, become friends. They were both exceptional ­people, in their own way. No wonder Elos had brought her to the two women.

  Even if he had tried to kill one of them.

  “Shipping logs.”

  Tassariel flinched at the sound of her god’s voice. She hadn’t heard it in a while. Hiding her mouth behind a fake cough, she whispered, “What?”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t see the covers from here. Had to wait for the right angle of sunlight to bounce off . . . oh, abyss, you don’t care. Look, up there on that shelf past the queen’s right shoulder.”

  Tassariel glanced up. A pile of ragged parchment, ancient by the looks of it, sat atop a bookcase she hadn’t even seen before. They’d been in here long enough that the shifting sun had finally deigned to drench the spot in light. In shadow, it had been all but invisible. She supposed he wanted her to fetch them.

  She stood.

  Arivana’s eyes whipped towards her. “Ready to leave? I’m about done with this charade as well.”

  Tassariel made a show of stretching, touching her fingertips above, then behind, her. “Not quite. I’d like to do one more sweep. See if they missed anything that could be useful to us.”

  “Good luck,” Flumere said. “I’ve searched about every bookcase in this section already. If there’s anything to be learned, I doubt it will be here.”

  “I don’t know,” Tassariel said, edging closer to the place Elos had indicated. “Maybe we just need to redefine our parameters. Look in pages we haven’t previously thought would hold the information we seek.”

  “That implies we actually know what we’re looking for.” Arivana sighed. “Which means our systematic approach has been worthless. Anyplace really is as good as another.”

  “Exactly,” Tassariel said. She reached out for what Elos had called shipping logs, moth-­chewed parchment wrapped in frayed leather, and blew dust free from their top. “Abyss, even these old rags might hold the hint we need.”

  The queen shrugged. “Might as well. Bring them over, and we’ll have a look.”

  Tassariel returned and plopped the crinkled mess down on the table between them, kicking up a cloud of dust and setting them all to coughing. What she’d blown off the top had only been a fraction of the whole.

  “Trying to kill us?” Arivana said as she waved the air clear in front of her.

  “Slowly, maybe,” Flumere said. “These pages are as likely to give our lungs the rot as they are a clue.”

  “Sorry!” Tassariel said.

  “Get going,” Elos said. “There’s something in here. I know it. Read!”

  She passed out the first three of the six bundles. All three of them set to the sacred task of poring over pages packed with tedious accounts of goods shipped, including buyer, seller, shipper, price, package, procurement, origin, destination, all planned stops along the way, and some categories she didn’t even recognize. After half a toll of silent skimming, replete with many yawns and sighs and droopy eyes, they all seemed to reach the last page about the same time.

  They’d found nothing.

  Tassariel handed out the other three.

  Within a mark, Flumere
sat up straight. “Hold on a minute.”

  “A what?” Arivana said.

  “Nothing. Look at this.”

  Tassariel leaned in close on the handmaiden’s right side, as the queen did the left. She peered where Flumere’s finger rested, on the “package” column of the very first entry.

  “Tuleris,” it read.

  “What’s that?” Tassariel asked.

  Arivana had gone pale. “A common Panisian surname.”

  Tassariel felt a cold grip her, one that had nothing to do with her god’s calculations. “What else does it say?”

  They studied the lines together. Next to Tuleris was a kind of shorthand that was easily worked out. “M–34” translated to a thirty-­four-­year-­old male, probably the father of the family, shipped to a noble household in Fasheshe.

  “It doesn’t say why, though,” Arivana said. “What would they send him there for?”

  “If they’re treating ­people like cargo, can it be anything good?” Tassariel stated.

  No one seemed in the mood to answer.

  Skimming down, the next four entries also had the main package title of Tuleris. By translating the markings, they discerned that a woman, age thirty-­one, and three girls—­eleven, ten, and eight—­were also moved, though none to the same place. The picture that formed presented a startling parallel to Arivana’s trip to the lower parts of her city.

  And then they read the year of shipment.

  It was 11,079, AF.

  The queen hissed. “This is over seven hundred years old!”

  “That only means this has been going on for a long time,” Tassariel said. She sat back, rubbing her temples. “And that the consulate has had a hand in it.”

  “Can we know for sure what any of this means?” Flumere asked. “I can’t help shake the feeling that all this is just speculation run wild.”

  “I know someone who could tell us for certain,” Arivana said.

  “Who?” Tassariel asked. “Minister Pashams?”

  The queen scoffed. “He’s too busy trying to get me to open up my legs to the prettiest boy in the land to give me a straight answer.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “Claris.”

  Flumere shook her head at Arivana. “Out of the question.”

  “Claris,” Tassariel said. “Your aunt. The one who tried to kill you.”

  “And nearly succeeded, I might add,” Flumere said. “It’s foolishness to expect any straight answers from her. And impossible besides.”

  “It might have been both except for two key facts.” Arivana held up a finger. “One. We have dire need of her knowledge, and she’s in no position to deny us answers. Two.” She held up another, wiggling it towards Tassariel. “We have you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Flumere’s charm might be enough to get us into the dungeons, but not enough to get us out undetected. With your aid, I’m confident we can do both.”

  “I’ve never broken into a prison before. What makes you think I’ll be any use?”

  The queen smiled. “You’re older than my grandmother, you know. Lots of ­people have heard of you. It didn’t take much asking around to find out about your Calling.”

  Tassariel raised an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “If the accounts are true, you’re well versed in all manner of martial arts. Including Phelupari stalking and subduction techniques. I’ve every confidence that, ­coupled with detailed information about guard locations, patrols, and schedules, you can get us into and out of the dungeon without doing any permanent harm to my dutiful jailers. And, failing that, there’s always your magic.”

  Tassariel sighed. She let her eyes glaze over, looking inwards. If you’ve got any wisdom for me, Elos, now would be a good time to impart it.

  But her god kept his lips shut, churning with frosty fury. She knew he couldn’t hear her thoughts, but it still irked her to have to make this decision on her own.

  Peering at the girl across from her, it wasn’t hard to see how great a woman—­and queen—­she would someday become.

  The ice inside seemed to spike as she spoke. “Well, I did promise you my aid, did I not? I can’t very well back out now.”

  Arivana smiled. Flumere threw her hands into the air.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Where did it go?”

  Mevon lifted his head at the question, blinking quickly to adjust his view outwards to the bare hillside they trekked. He’d been staring at his feet again. Their quarry had scarcely veered from the trail the entire time they’d been following it. Draevenus had far better skills at tracking and was far more motivated. Mevon hadn’t done much the past week except drag himself along.

  The scene from the village in the trees kept repeating over and over in his mind.

  “I can’t find it anywhere,” Draevenus said, insistently. “Did you see where the abyss-­taken thing got to?”

  “Sorry,” Mevon said. “Wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “Of course you weren’t. It’s not like this is the most important thing I’ve ever done in my considerably long life.”

  “Sorry,” Mevon repeated.

  The mierothi released an exasperated sigh. “Forget it. Just help me find the trail, would you? It has to be around here somewhere.”

  Mevon didn’t even know where to start. The dark creature had stopped bleeding from its wound days past, and they’d been forced to use more subtle markers to guide their path. More accurately, Draevenus had. Mevon wandered in a rough arc opposite the assassin, eyes darting along the ground as if he knew what he was looking for.

  The soft soil was indeed pitted by myriad tracks, from beasts in every shape imaginable. Some very well might have belonged to the one they hunted, but he could barely tell talons from claws, much less which were fresh.

  Mevon sighed, trying to pretend competence while his mind kept drifting to memories. They’d passed three more villages nearly identical to the first one, and each time had witnessed the same gut-­wrenching scene. The enormous pack always seemed a step ahead of them, migrating from place to place to collect their grisly tithes. He wouldn’t call it luck that they’d avoided direct contact; despite his vows to abstain from homicide, Mevon kept wishing for the chance to unleash the storm against them.

  “I think I found something,” Draevenus called. “Come take a look.”

  Mevon gazed over at his friend, who was crouched, peering into a deep cleft beneath the roots of a gnarled, ancient tree. He began shuffling towards the assassin. Only a few steps in, however, a shadow caught his eye.

  A familiar shape, falling in an awkward spiral from the naked branches.

  One good wing, and a single remaining talon, were all the beast needed to enact its revenge.

  Draevenus fell, spraying black blood from a cut across his back.

  The bird-­thing screeched in triumph.

  Mevon sprang forward, all lethargy forgotten as he raced to his companion’s defense, finding—­at last—­a reason to unleash the storm. The distance between them closed like a falling wave, but the creature merely craned its head sideways, loosing a mocking twitter, then darted into the cleft. It disappeared in a beat.

  Mevon skidded to a halt, blades now in hand, regretting that he didn’t have a chance to finish off the wretched thing. He looked down at his friend. Draevenus struggled to lift himself, groaning with each twitch. The wound on his back just oozed for now but still looked deep enough to need stitches. Lots of them.

  Mevon knew his way around a thread and needle. But this?

  This is gonna take a while.

  He didn’t bother asking how Draevenus felt, for at that moment the mierothi slumped, exhaling heavily, and closed his eyes. Mevon knelt, checking pulse and breathing, and pressed a spare rag to the wound. Setting down his pack
, he yanked open the flap with his free hand and rummaged around for the sewing kit, which, of course, was buried somewhere near the bottom.

  “Hang on, my friend. I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  He had the thing half unpacked when he heard the first howl.

  East. Ahead of their direction of travel. Half a klick away at best.

  Gotta hurry.

  Just as Mevon finally laid fingers on the object of his search, echoing cries rang out from the north, and again from the south. A mark later, all three repeated, obviously much closer this time.

  The only clear direction was west. Back the way they’d come. Fighting the creatures off would be one thing, but trying to do it while keeping them away from his companion would be impossible. That left but one choice, even though making it grated against his pride.

  Mevon restuffed his pack, strapped in . . . then picked up Draevenus and ran.

  “So you’re saying Ruul isn’t a god?” Jasside asked.

  “No, no,” Vashodia said. “Aren’t you listening? I’m saying the world’s definition of a ‘god’ is inherently flawed.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly argue with that.”

  “Of course you can’t. You’re a convert to that antiquated Ragremon religion.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’d not have taken you on as apprentice if I didn’t know more about you than you know about yourself. Suffice it to say, I find your beliefs . . . quaint.”

  “Well, I find them reassuring.”

  “Faith that disregards the evidence? I don’t know what’s so reassuring about that.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of faith? Besides, the evidence is all around us. In the trees and the soil. The sun and the stars. In all living creatures. You, who’ve seen things few others have, who understands things most can’t even fathom—­I would’ve thought you’d be more . . . open-­minded.”