Kastori Devastations (The Kastori Chronicles Book 2)

by Stephen Allan

  “Can you answer my question, please? It’s rather rude to keep your host waiting.”

  Mykos put a hand to the floor and punched it in frustration. It sent tensing pain through his knuckles and wrist, but not nearly as much as what Typhos had done to him so far.

  “To restore the glory of Emperor Orthran.”

  “Ahhh, of course, the noble redemption of humanity to Monda,” Typhos said, who stood up and placed his hand on top of Mykos for support, bringing severe pain to the man’s neck and back as all the weight of the taller man shifted to him. “It would make for a great story, wouldn’t it? One for the history books. But you missed the part of the story where I killed your emperor. You remember, don’t you… Mykos?”

  Typhos said his name slowly and, Mykos figured, with an evil smile.

  “Tell me what happened that day. I know from your memories you were there.”

  Mykos went back to his mute state, and Typhos lifted him up with magic, bringing him face to face.

  “I will tell you,” Typhos said, and all of the sarcasm in his voice vanished in favor of unbridled anger. “I paraded your emperor through the streets of your city in nothing but rags, letting the Kastori jeer your fallen leader and your people take pity. I took him inside, killed him, and threw his corpse out onto the streets for all to see what happens to those who oppose me. Your redemption story doesn’t even have an opening page, Mykos, because I killed the author before it ever began.”

  Mykos, gasping for air, let out a cry.

  “There are others!”

  “Who? Like his children? The cowards that fled this planet, leaving others like you to suffer? Is that who you want leading your people? Kids who are too scared to stay and support their home planet?”

  No. They had to. They had to run.

  Did they? Only one ship made it. What made them so special?

  That they survived.

  And left us to suffer and die.

  “You should feel grateful that I am leading this planet. You hate me. You hate my race, refusing to call them Kastori. And yet, for all of the animosity you have to me, the only one to have killed anyone this night is you. You murdered two of my Kastori with your knife, giving them a rather painful death. I have simply chosen to interrogate you so far. Who is the sadistic one now, Mykos? Which of our races is the murderous one?”

  “You!” Mykos yelled, partially to push the doubts entering his mind as far away as possible. “Shut up! Shut up!”

  Typhos, to the surprise of Mykos, did, in fact, go silent. He crossed his arms, and tilted his head slightly with a shoulder shrug, waiting for Mykos to speak.

  “Your race murdered many of us over the years. Why? Why?”

  “I have my reasons, truth be told, the origin of which had nothing to do with you,” Typhos said. “But that does not matter.”

  Mykos, with bones broken in both legs, a sore neck and breathing problems, didn’t have the energy for a follow-up question.

  “You know, Mykos, the real tragedy for you, in this case, is that had you waited just a bit longer, you could have claimed this temple while I was gone. I was either going to go to a new planet and absorb its magic, or I would have returned home to avenge a death and, shall we say, annihilate my enemies. My pathetic, terrible, traitorous enemies.”

  The breathing from Typhos became heavier, and then a prolonged, calming sigh came from behind the mask.

  “Hypocrites, liars, fools, they are,” he said, his voice disturbingly calm. “The only question I have is whether I should kill them in overwhelming fashion for my own satisfaction, or prolong their death and feast on the pain they have, so they can know what I have gone through.”

  As if suddenly remembering the presence of Mykos, Typhos shook his head, turned his attention to the soldier, and flipped him upside down.

  “You have gotten me off topic, Mykos. I need to know a few things from you, and since you are unwilling to cooperate and be a courteous guest, I will find out myself.”

  The bony hand wrapped around Mykos’ head, its fingers resting on the man’s nose and eyes with painful intensity.

  “You could not have come here without the help of someone. Your race fears me and the magic I’ve covered this temple in too much. Who sent you?”

  Who sent me? I just came myself. It was instinct. Don’t say anything.

  “I know someone helped you, Mykos. No one storms this place without the goading of a Kastori.”

  I… no, there is no one. Typhos.

  A quick punch came from Typhos to Mykos’ ribs, breaking them and making it even harder to breathe.

  “You are effective at distracting me with your thoughts. I would expect nothing less from one of the emperor’s greatest soldiers. But I have power unlike anything you can comprehend.”

  The grip tightened and Mykos groaned in pain, the pressure on his nose threatening to break the cartilage inside. We will come for you, we will kill you. Someone will.

  “Save your thoughts,” Typhos said, but his voice sounded frustrated.

  Curious, Mykos dug through his own thoughts. But strangely, he couldn’t think of anything from the past week. He could think of old faces, like his commander, his emperor and his family, but discussions, work, ideas from the past week…

  “How?” Typhos said, his voice rising in volume. “How?!?”

  This is it. I did what I could.

  Mykos thought of the emperor as Typhos’ rage increased. Typhos’ grip became so tight that the man’s skull was starting to crack, but Mykos became determined not to die screaming. He bit his lip so hard it began to bleed, and just thought “Die, Typhos,” over and over again, in the hopes that it would distract him from his mind reading.

  “Traitors!” Typhos yelled.

  Mykos bit down even harder as limbs began tearing from his body. It went by quickly, and Mykos stared intently at Typhos as he lost consciousness and his life.

  3

  Blood splattered from the body of the pathetic human, covering Typhos’ robes in a fresh coat. He relished the smell for a second, and let the body drop to the ground. With his fury still rising, he incinerated the body in front of him and shoved the still-burning parts off to the side with a loud roar.

  He looked at his guardians before him. Only they had the capability of erasing the mind of a human. No one else on Monda had such power. Someone has betrayed me. Someone is going to die a very painful, slow death.

  Someone actually dared to defy me!

  “One of you thinks it’s funny to sympathize with humans,” Typhos said, his voice an angry growl as he looked from left to right. “One of you—or, maybe several of you—want to kill me. You seemed to fail to recognize that sending a human against a god would end exactly as that did. You should be executed for your incompetence as much as your betrayal!”

  He walked in front of the first guardian with red stripes. None of the other guardians dared raise their face. Typhos squatted in front of the red-striped guardian, and tilted his head to the side, analyzing his current target.

  “Tell me, Gaius,” he said. “You have the power to read minds. Do you have the power to erase minds?”

  Gaius looked up slowly. Typhos leaned his head forward, and the two were inches apart, close enough to hit the other with their mask if they leaned their head upward.

  “I do,” Gaius said.

  “And did you think it was a good idea to do this?”

  “No. I did not do this, my Lord.”

  Typhos stared intently at Gaius, and placed his hand tightly on Gaius’ skull, drawing a cry from his guardian. He parsed every detail he could see in the mind of Gaius, and examined every memory of the last six months in rapid-fire succession. But never once in his examination did Mykos or discussions of betrayal come up. When he spoke to humans, he tortured them. Clean. He went to the next one, also in red stripes.

  “Carticus. Did you do this?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  Typhos read him as well, and again he
was clean. He went through everyone, coming up with nothing, and came to the last one in line, a guardian with white magic named Atius.

  “Atius, perhaps you thought I would go in order and you could come up with a good story.”

  Atius noticeably trembled, and Typhos didn’t even wait for a response. This time, he put his hand on the guardian’s head and delved into his mind.

  He doesn’t even leave this temple. Worthless.

  Typhos removed his hand quickly and rose back up, taking a few feet back and overlooking his supposedly loyal guardians. I don’t really need them. Any of them. Someone’s still somehow hiding something from me.

  But they do my dirty work quite well.

  “I know one of you is a traitor—a rather terrible one at that, I might add. There will come a time when I will figure out who tried to sell me out, and when I find the one, I will kill him in front of all of you.”

  What if I’m wrong? What if a human sent him? There’s only…

  Only that one could have the persuasiveness to push a human. But would they?

  Can’t let them think I’m having doubts.

  “In the meantime, I want the humans from his camp interrogated. Torture, kill, do whatever you can to find out if any humans had a role in this soldier’s ‘mission.’”

  He looked over his men. Whom could he trust the most?

  Gaius. He could read anyone’s mind, and had red power beyond all but one person he had known in his lifetime. Carticus was the other.

  “Go to his camp. You know what you need to do.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” they both said, bowing their heads. They stood up and quickly walked out, with Typhos clearing the void and allowing them to leave. But before they left, he sent a message to each guardian.

  “Keep an eye on your partner. I have strong suspicions that he betrayed us. If he is the traitor, bring him to me, and I shall handsomely reward you.”

  He looked out on the rest of the guardians. His focus had become clear. Talking about what had happened on Anatolus had enraged him and brought up old, painful memories he had managed to suppress for so long. He didn’t need more power so much as he craved it, but he needed to wipe out Anatolus and everyone on there.

  You know what’s waiting for you there. You know it will hurt. You’d better destroy everything in sight before you fail like you did the last time.

  Typhos let out an exasperated, sad sigh. Just go, get it over with. Have someone else finish the job if you can’t bring yourself to do it. But you will. You’re a god. They are weak. Kill them all.

  “Leave,” Typhos commanded to his guardians, wanting to be alone. “When the others return, prepare to go to Anatolus. And prepare to destroy everything.”

  4

  “Promise you won’t make this easy, Erda.”

  Cyrus held down the last pole of the last tent in his hand and struggled against the tension. With his sister and his budding romantic interest watching, he had no desire to rely on supernatural assistance—especially of his own. He held the pole in, struggling to push it down, but could not do so without feeling like the other side of the tent would shoot out of the ground. That would require a dreaded second hand.

  Hey, beats the hell out of struggling against Calypsius or setting up tents hundreds of feet below the surface. Although those did help me get closer…

  After a few seconds, he muttered, “just hit it,” and slammed the wooden oak into the ground as hard as he could. Much to his pleasant surprise, the other side of the tent did not shoot out of the ground.

  “Haha!” he yelled in triumph. He looked at Celeste and Crystil and flexed, drawing good-natured eye rolls from each woman. He turned to Erda, who wore a guilty smile.

  “You better not have supplied any magic there, I’m gonna tell everyone that I did this myself.”

  “You can tell them that,” Erda said with a smile impossible for Cyrus to interpret.

  “I… ugh, you know what, I have no way of knowing,” he said with unintentional exaggeration on the last four words. “So I’m just gonna say I did it myself unless you decide to ruin my parade.”

  “No one’s stopping it, Cyrus,” she said with a nod and a gentle hand on the shoulder as she passed him and headed toward the rest of the Kastori tents.

  He turned back to Celeste and Crystil, each with bored faces. Celeste’s shoulders remained tension-free, an ever-present smile curved on her face, and her eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation of a promising future.

  Crystil, on the other hand, didn’t smile, crossed her arms, and narrowed her eyes. It’s like she’s still expecting a battle to come.

  I wish she’d just give it up. She could be so fun to hang around—no, she is so fun to be around. I see it, I know it when we’re together. But every time I look at her from afar… I wish I could help. I wish I could be with her, just… just together. No secrets. No lies. No walking out or kidney punches.

  “Ladies,” he said, puffing up his chest and shoulders to look bigger. “I truly appreciate all of the support that I got from you. I’d like to give an acceptance speech and thank the two of you for supporting me in my quest for ‘Best Tent Pitcher.’”

  “I’m sorry, but who went and helped grab an ursus to celebrate our new home?” Celeste asked, poking her brother in the chest. “Who’s the one that ensured that after your heavy blood, sweat, and tears, that you could eat some meat to refuel yourself?”

  Cyrus let a grin form, and he could see Celeste’s smile narrow and her eyes go wide in anticipation of a smart response.

  “The Kastori?”

  Celeste bit her lip, knowing she—they—could not say everything truthful.

  “Teamwork, Cyrus,” Crystil said gently as she walked over to the two siblings. “We’re all in this together.”

  “True,” Cyrus said, drawing out the word as he turned to the tent for dramatic effect and back. “Except for this one tent. In that case, my hands were in this together.”

  “Oh, whatever,” Celeste said. “You had the easy part. Pitching a tent, oooh.”

  “It’s not exactly hunting wildlife,” Crystil deadpanned, a calming smile on her face. “Pitching a tent sounds about as hard as climbing a tree.”

  “Hey, when you’ve got an angry woman chasing after you, trust me, it becomes the easiest thing in the world.”

  “And how often does—”

  Erda interrupted their banter by calling their names near the center of the outpost. Around them, about a dozen tents stood, including the red one Cyrus had just raised and Erda’s golden tent at the back between the two rows of red, white and black tents. It looked similar in structure to their refugee camp underground, but the context felt like the difference between the slums of Capitol City and the Imperial Palace.

  “We’ve prepared the ursus. I trust—”

  “See you guys there!” Cyrus said, about to sprint when he felt two stronger-than-expected hands stopping him. He turned to see both Celeste and Crystil holding him back, at which he mockingly pouted.

  “Wait,” Celeste said.

  “I trust you guys to share equally,” Erda said, shooting an amused look at Cyrus.

  Cyrus turned back, and each woman shook her head no. Cyrus threw his hands up, only to see the two women sprint ahead of him. Cyrus ran to catch them, but they had gotten such a head start that they easily beat him to Pagus, who was slicing the meat with his magic.

  “All right, pretty ladies get first dibs. Y’all want the shoulder? That’s the meatiest part.”

  “Please,” Crystil said, more insistent than polite.

  Pagus smiled and dropped the piece in Crystil’s hands.

  “Pretty lady,” he said to Celeste. “How are you?”

  “Doing well, thank you,” she said as she hugged Pagus, much to the chagrin of Cyrus. Of all people, she winds up hugging Pagus. I mean, granted, not a lot of options for her here, and really only one good one for me, but still. Pagus? Really?

  Pagus dropped a slightly
larger piece onto her hands, and Celeste joined Crystil out in the field, about halfway between the remains of Omega One and the tent Cyrus had pitched.

  “And my brother,” Pagus said as the two exchanged hugs. “I hear you are the greatest tent pitcher on Anatolus.”

  “It’s a title I take great pride in,” he said. “Give me the biggest piece of meat you got.”

  “Well, unfortunately, your sister and your dream girl got that already.”

  “She’s… you know what, just give me whatever,” Cyrus said, drawing a hearty, short laugh from Pagus.

  Cyrus took his cut from the ribs of the beast and sat down with the two girls. Their expressions reflected what they looked like after Cyrus’ tent pitch—and really, what they looked like most of the time. Celeste is happy, cheerful, and best in peace. Crystil is tense, unsure and looking for excitement.

  “Oh, so good,” Cyrus said to fill the silence as he took a bite of the food, not bothering to wait until he swallowed the food.

  Celeste started to scold him but stopped. She knows I am who I am!

  “It’s not quite as good as Dad’s cooking,” she said with a nostalgic smile.

  “You’re nice, Celeste,” Cyrus said, having finished his bite. “But even Pops would disagree with you.”

  “What if we combined Dad’s cooking and an ursus?”

  “Then I could die happy since I’d be back on Monda,” Cyrus said laughing.

  But he cut short his chuckling when he looked over at Crystil. Her eyes were focused on her food, but she wasn’t laughing or even smiling. Talk of Pops. Monda. Death. It’s probably all reminding her what she’s lost. We should stop.

  “But I’m good on Anatolus,” Cyrus said, but it didn’t seem to help, as Crystil remained focused on her food.

  She finished before the siblings had even finished half of their meat, and she stood up.

  “I’m gonna go rest a bit in the ship,” she said. “Come find me if you need anything.”

  You’re always resting on the ship. Come rest with us.

  Come rest with me.

  He liked her and had images in mind, but in that moment, Cyrus just wanted to comfort his commander. If nothing else, he’d learned that a lifetime soldier didn’t handle peace well. She needed to find a new purpose—one that had yet to show itself.