She stopped on the precipice of one of the chasms that had ripped the ground asunder and peered inside yet could see no bottom. A stone kicked over the side tumbled endlessly without striking bottom, as far as she could hear. Thousands of Nebarans had plunged to their deaths within such chasms.
Taren did all this. Well, most of it, anyhow. That was like something out of the legends of great and mighty wizards. The memory of watching the destruction awed her, not the least of which was the simple fact that her friend was the one who had unleashed such powerful magic. A flush of pride filled her, for she’d watched Taren grow in power tremendously during the months she’d known him.
Now this here is a ballad waiting to be composed. She hummed a few bars to herself, wondering how such a song could go.
“Ferret!”
She looked around and saw Creel waving to her. She changed direction and ambled toward him, surprised to see dusk had fallen.
“There you are. What are you doing out here, lass? There’s a victory celebration to be had on the morrow. Everyone’s heading back to Carran to prepare.”
Ferret shrugged. “Was just thinking is all. Needed some time to myself away from all the hustle and bustle around court. All that’s for the important folks, anyway.”
Creel clapped her on the head affectionately. “You are one of the important folks now.”
“Aye, that’s what’s so queer. Me, a gutter rat, a suit of talking armor rubbing elbows with royalty and such.”
She allowed Creel to lead her back in the direction of the city. Save for the work details, most of the others were long gone. Those on corpse-disposal duty seemed to be nearly finished with their work. Wounded were still being treated in the infirmary tents. Horses and carts were arriving to transport the most grievously injured back after they were stabilized. Once the wounded were sorted, a couple hundred prisoners would follow suit, though that lot was destined for the city dungeons. The vast majority of the Nebaran army had fled or been slain, not given the chance to surrender.
“Not a suit of armor much longer, I reckon,” Creel said. “Now that the army is routed, we’ll be heading out in a day or two for parts unknown.”
“’Bout time. You think that tank will actually work and change me back?” Her greatest fear was that they’d find the damn thing and it would be destroyed or simply wouldn’t work, leaving her trapped in her metal body for the rest of her life.
“No reason it shouldn’t. The magic that changed you in the first place worked well enough. Nothing we can do now but make the trip there and start the contraption up.”
“Aye.”
Shouts drew her attention to where a man thought dead apparently wasn’t so dead after all. A healer came running.
The two left the battlefield behind, retracing their steps to the city, which was a few hours away. They didn’t have to fear losing their way, with the trampled grass and impressions worn in the ground from thousands of feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. Creel walked with her, as no horses were in sight save those hitched to carts, but her friend didn’t seem to mind the walk. He sipped from his flask, and they chatted. The hour was approaching midnight by the time they neared the city gates, and she was thinking about the big banquet Creel had mentioned, wondering if it would be possible to bow out somehow. The thought of everyone sitting around enjoying themselves, eating and getting soused, only made her jealous and depressed.
“What happened with Taren and Mira?” she asked.
“He undoubtedly used too much magic. It’s happened before.”
“Nay, between them.”
Creel quirked an eyebrow. “Something happened between them?”
“Taren was mad at her. From what I heard, she interrupted his magic when he was wreaking death on those Nebaran bastards. Now he’s unconscious, and she’s in a dejected mood.”
“That so?” Creel grunted. “Didn’t notice, but the lad’s got some power. Good thing he’s on our side.”
“She should’ve let him wipe out every last one of them.” Ferret was reminded of Enna being torn apart by a fiend and of Ammon Nor, the only home she’d ever known, put to the torch and its residents murdered in the streets. All because of those Nebaran bastards.
“They were surrendering and fleeing the field. The battle was over at that point.”
“Think they’d have done the same for us?”
He shrugged. “We aren’t the same as them. Most are probably simple sorts press-ganged into service and hoping for little more than to earn some coin and return home with their lives. Doubt very many asked to have some fiend sending them to a foreign land to rape and pillage. Many probably just want to go home to their wives and younguns and livelihoods.”
Ferret thought on that and realized he was right. Surely, sadistic, cold-blooded murderers were among their numbers, but the same was probably true for the Ketanian army as well. The majority were likely just caught up in events beyond their control, the same as everyone else. She grudgingly admitted Mira might have had the right of it.
The two of them entered the castle bailey, receiving polite greetings from the guards, who recognized the pair. The castle was still astir even at the late hour. Servants and retainers were running to and fro, and the bailey was ablaze with torchlight. Some minor ruckus was going on near the stables, which she ignored.
“So what should we do about those two?” she asked.
“We?” Creel looked amused. “They’ll figure it out. I have no plans for the moment other than a bath and bed this evening. Perhaps some food and drink at some point. If I happen to get a tad drunk, ah, well… It’ll all look better in the morn, from my perspective.”
Ferret laughed, wishing she could join him for a cup or two. She’d never been much of a drinker, but liquor did seem to have a way of putting things in perspective, at least for a time—probably just a matter of making one not give so much of a damn about life’s quibbles.
“Ah, well. Drink one for me then, Dak.”
He grinned at her. “Right you are, lass. And don’t even think about skipping out on the banquet tomorrow. There’s bound to be all sorts of topics for juicy gossip and opportunities for scandal, especially given the attendees. Besides, I’ll probably be in need of a cupbearer.”
She smacked him hard on the arm, making him wince. But his good humor was infectious, and she found herself smiling inwardly as she sought her chamber. She frowned when she realized she was covered in dried blood.
Won’t hurt to wash this blood off and get a clean change of clothes. Then we’ll see about this victory feast.
Chapter 28
Following her army’s resounding defeat, conflicting emotions warred inside Nesnys. These ranged from anger at her own carelessness in allowing herself to be provoked into a hasty and ill-advised battle, to awe and respect for Taren’s surprising magical puissance, to a healthy dose of fear over displeasing her master.
Her anger couldn’t easily be defused, since she was the one responsible. My failure—I underestimated the mortals. Never again. I shall crush them like the insects they are.
Her only consolation was that Elyas was leading her second host up from the south. She had originally intended to overwhelm Carran and destroy it before sweeping north and razing every city to the northern mountains. But now with less than half her force remaining, she would have a tough time of it against the allied forces of the Ketanians, elves, and dwarves.
Damn those nettlesome mortals.
She swallowed the remainder of her wine before hurling the goblet aside, feeling a minor satisfaction as it shattered. Her assortment of wounds sent lances of pain stabbing through her when she rose, but they were already on the mend as her body regenerated the damage. She stalked outside her newest tent—the replacement was less grandiose than the previous, which had burned to ashes during the raid.
The remnants of her host had been straggling back to her camp since the previous day—a demoralized and fearful lot. Barely more than a thousand of her
troops remained, while an equal or perhaps even greater number had already deserted. An estimated twelve thousand who had marched north in her army the prior morning were now providing a feast for the scavengers. The survivors remaining were those in fairly good shape—relatively uninjured men positioned at the tail end of the host who had been the first to flee the battlefield. Those who had been farther up in formation or wounded enough to hamper their movement speed hadn’t escaped Taren’s fire.
The physical combat had been hard fought, and the automatons had given her the edge until the moment Taren unleashed his devastating magic. Her forces simply couldn’t hope to stand up to such might. Even she was hesitant to challenge him directly, for his powers were fearsome. She had dramatically underestimated the strength of the boy’s talent and his skill in wielding it. I must eliminate him from meddling in my plans… yet Lord Shaol requires him. But how to capture the elusive bastard? He is the single greatest threat to our plans.
She pondered a strategy similar to the one she had used in the failed attempt to capture Sianna months earlier, but she dismissed it at once for having little chance. I think it likely he will grow overconfident after this victory, a situation that I must take advantage of. Subtleties weren’t Nesnys’s strong suit, but she had her cunning ways if the situation dictated.
I must think on this matter.
Soldiers clapped their fists to their chests in salute as she walked through the pitiful camp, bowing and keeping their eyes averted lest they draw her attention, which in her current disposition could be a fatal error.
She barely noticed them, thoughts a bleak turmoil of anger and unsated bloodlust.
***
Nesnys found herself back in the Abyss when she closed her eyes for a brief moment of rest. She was not in her home of Achronia. Instead, she stood before the Shard—Shaol’s demesne—the pinnacle of the Abyss. The crystalline ebon walls of her lord’s palace soared upward, a towering spire above a bottomless chasm descending through the various levels of the Abyss. The Shard’s walls seemed to pulse with life as glowing veins of magma ran through them, making the palace appear alive, as though formed of flesh and blood.
Somewhere in the distance, a great gong pealed, the sound’s deep reverberations felt in her bones. The air was heavy, filled with an electric intensity that made her skin prickle.
She kept her back straight and, without further delay, approached the structure. Nailed to its great doors with cold iron spikes were the carcasses of those who had failed her lord. The creatures were turned nearly inside out—hides had been peeled back, carapaces cracked open, skin flensed away—revealing glistening innards slick with ichor. Some of the beings were of species not even Nesnys recognized. Bulbous white flies wallowed in the creatures’ juices, their wings rubbing together with a rasping sound as they fed and rutted and laid their eggs.
A bloodshot eyeball rolled to track her progress as she walked past the pathetic beings, while another creature wheezed and huffed, its pinkish flesh twitching repulsively. She forced down the unnerving thought that she too could soon be displayed there in such a manner if she continued to fail her lord and master.
The rare sensation of fear clutched at her belly, but she quickly mastered it as she stepped across the threshold into the edifice of her master. A cavernous hall opened before her, its reaches lost in shadows where terrible things crawled and undulated just out of sight.
The gong pealed again, much louder this time. A shudder ran down her spine at the sound, a swift and violent spasm. It was gone in a heartbeat, but in that brief instant, she found herself elsewhere.
Shaol himself sat upon a great throne of obsidian atop a dais. The room was encircled by a slot carved in the floor through which hellfire flared in roiling hunger.
Nesnys immediately prostrated herself on the floor. “My lord.”
After allowing her to lie there a few moments, Shaol rose from his throne and strode languidly down the thirteen steps. The air was electric and smelled of brimstone, yet the hellfire was strangely silent. Shaol’s angelskin robes rustled with their subtly depraved melody. His footsteps stopped, and he stood over her, but she dared not look upon his magnificence without invitation.
“Your progress is beginning to disappoint me.” Shaol didn’t raise his rich voice, yet it effortlessly filled his throne room nonetheless. “An entire army squandered at the hands of Neratiri’s whelp and these foolish mortals, yet you have nothing to show for the loss. The boy is not in your custody, nor have you delivered me the Tellurian Engine.”
“The Tellurian Engine is nearly within my grasp, and the boy shall not evade me for long, my lord,” she dared reply without looking up.
“Perhaps. Your saving grace is the chaos and bloodshed you’ve sown as I asked, more souls delivered to me.” His footsteps sounded as he circled her, his angelskin robes murmuring a soft dirge. “I see the discovery of the Tellurian Engine in your thoughts. I, too, wish to see such a magnificent machine put into action. Secure this control rod, and if the boy is not yet captured by then, activate the Tellurian Engine with haste. The Nexus of the Planes can wash away in the wake of glorious chaos.” Shaol’s robes resonated as he turned away from her.
“My lord, do you still wish to have the boy once I capture him?”
“My patience grows thin. If he is not delivered in a week’s time, then you will activate the machine. After that, you may do as you wish with the boy if he falls into your hands—kill him, make him suffer. Have your fun with him. But do not fail me again.” The weight of his presence crushed the breath from her lungs when he turned back to her, and her side blazed with an icy-hot agony, the old corruption within threatening to claim her. “You know the price of failure.”
She bit down on her pain as the corruption raced through her veins, clutching her heart and clawing through her head until she couldn’t take any more.
Nesnys lurched out of her bed with a strangled cry, casting the blanket aside as she surged to her feet. She felt as if a sword had been plunged into her side. In her nakedness, she saw in a moment of panic the old scarred wound bubbling with fresh ichor, a throbbing ache and black veins of corruption covering her flank and running across her chest and up her neck.
“Do not fail me, Nesnys.” The voice filled her head, feeling as if the pressure would crack her skull like an eggshell. After a long moment during which she could only clench her teeth and ball her fists, trembling and helpless, the pain finally subsided.
When she dared look at her side again, the white scar was returned, the corruption held at bay once more.
That is what awaits me if I fail again. She shuddered involuntarily, both ashamed and furious at her impotence brought on by the pain and fear of the old wound. Her throat had gone dry, and she cast about seeking wine to alleviate her thirst.
“Warlord, do you have need of anything? I heard you call out…” The youthful servant pushed aside the flap to her private chamber, eyes widening as he took in her nakedness. He seemed to remember himself and cast his eyes down at the floor, giving her a belated salute.
She was on him in three strides. With a sharp thrust, her talons pierced the youth’s eyes. He shrieked in agony, body trembling as he threatened to collapse, but she held him upright, her talons lodged against his eye sockets. He beat at her with his fists as he convulsed. She ignored his clumsy strikes and buried her teeth in his neck, tearing through flesh and gristle. Hot blood spurted into her mouth, and she drank deeply for a moment.
But then the dying youth’s bladder loosed, soiling the rug underfoot. She cursed and cast him away in disgust.
More servants appeared at a barked order, this lot saluting instantly and averting their eyes.
“Get this out of here at once,” she snapped. She spat out the taste of coward’s blood and took a long drink from her wine chalice, calming her tempestuous thoughts.
Secure that damned rod and start the Tellurian Engine. That cannot be rushed. And the cursed boy yet eludes me f
or the time being, although I know his whereabouts.
An idea came to her then, and she laughed. Her lord’s touch seemed to have cleared up her jumbled thoughts, for now she saw clearly what must be done—her path to victory, narrower than before, but certainly achievable. I must issue new orders to Elyas. But first…
She threw the tent flap aside, not caring about her nakedness on display, and shouted for a guard’s attention then issued her command.
Chapter 29
The grand victory feast commenced the evening of the day following the battle, the great hall filled nearly to bursting, tables packed with roughly a thousand guests. The thousands of troops who wouldn’t fit inside were being served food and drink in the park outside the castle walls.
Inside the great hall, tables were heavily laden with an extravagance of food and drink, benches crowded with humans, elves, and dwarves all celebrating the great victory won the past day. The Ketanians and Free Kingdoms had united in common cause and routed the Nebaran army, in large part because of Taren’s impressive display of magic.
At the high table, Sianna carried on with Lord Lanthas and his wife, the elven King Nardual and Queen Shalaera, as well as King Rukk and Queen Sioned of the dwarves. Before the battle, the conclave had been a tense and often contentious affair, yet there was nothing like victory to establish camaraderie and blur the differences among the allies.
Despite the celebratory atmosphere, Taren remained in a pensive mood. He sat at the first of the lower tables placed just below the high table, populated by a number of nobles and officers—important people, most of whom he didn’t know. Fortunately, he and his friends were seated in a group at one end: Mira, Creel, Ferret, Kulnor, Harbek, Rafe, and Iris. Aninyel was around somewhere, though she was seated with her fellow elves. She had stopped by earlier to congratulate him on their victory.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 24