Spellship

by Chris Fox

  Nebiat wore a black form-fitting dress, just tasteful enough to be daring rather than garish. She glided through the restaurant as if she owned the place, shooting a wink over her shoulder at Frit. “Come along, cousin. You’ll enjoy yourself, trust me.”

  Frit reluctantly forced herself forward. Nebiat led her to a private booth in the rear of the restaurant, with a gauzy curtain that could be pulled for additional privacy. Nebiat slid into one side of the booth, so Frit dropped into the other.

  The wood beneath her began to heat. It wouldn’t be long before it started to warp. Her being here was costing this shopkeeper.

  “Miss,” Nebiat called, raising a hand to flag down the server. A gorgeous blonde hurried over with a smile. “Two cups of lifewine, and a pair of glazed honeybuns.”

  “Of course, mistress.” The woman doffed her small hat respectfully, the smile widening prettily. “Is there anything else I can tempt you with?”

  “Frit?” Nebiat turned to her.

  Frit froze as the server’s gaze fell upon her. She licked her lips, the flames coating them. The woman could see nothing of course. She probably saw Frit as a teen out with her aunt.

  “N-no, thank you.” Frit mimed removing her hat like the server had, and felt a fool doing it since she wasn’t wearing one.

  “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.” The woman curtsied, and hurried off toward a pair of dark doors that led into the kitchen. They opened briefly, and a wave of heavenly smells wafted out, pushed by the wall of noise. That noise disappeared the instant the door closed, so quickly Frit was certain a dampening spell was involved.

  “You should relax.” Nebiat rested her arm on the back of the booth, smiling languidly. “These people have enslaved not only you, but your entire race. Don’t you think it fitting that you enjoy being served for the space of an afternoon?”

  “What if they find out who we are?” Frit asked in a low voice, her attention still on the door. It hadn’t opened again.

  “They won’t. This place possesses no magical wards, and any respectable mage wouldn’t dare be caught this far down.” Nebiat gave a soft laugh, her smile growing wicked. “They are blind, Frit. Blind to their enemies, and blind to their flaws. Don’t believe me? Watch. Enjoy your lunch. You dine with a dreadlord in the heart of Shaya’s capital, beneath her very branches. Yet no spellfighters are descending. No war mages are bursting through the door. This, despite them turning every resource they possess toward hunting us. Eros has invested everything in this inquisition of his, and yet here we sit. Why is that, do you think?”

  Frit didn’t answer, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking it. Because they can’t stop her. Because the Shayans were so convinced of their own superiority, they didn’t even consider the possibility they were being blatantly deceived.

  Nebiat leaned across the table, dropping her voice. “Mere hours ago you participated in a raid, one that showed the Shayans the Krox are on their world. Yet no one here suspects. They know nothing of what transpired above. And when we leave the restaurant, no one outside will suspect either. Don’t take my word for it. Watch, little cousin.”

  Frit shrank back in the booth and gave a weak smile. Thankfully the door opened, and the server hurried back over carrying a large tray. She expertly unloaded a pair of steaming cups, sliding one to Frit, and the other to Nebiat, then set down a plate heaped with flaky pastries. They’d been drizzled with a sweet-smelling glaze, and Frit’s mouth began to steam.

  “Do you require anything else, mistress?” The server gave another beatific smile.

  Nebiat smiled up at the woman. “No, thank you.”

  The woman smiled back, then she left. She’d detected absolutely nothing, or if she’d had she’d done a fine job of hiding it.

  “Go ahead, try one.” Nebiat plucked a bun from the pile and nibbled on it.

  Frit eyed them careful, then finally picked one up. The glaze warmed to liquid in her hands, but she wolfed it down too quickly to care about the mess. When she’d finished the bun, she realized her mouth and hands were covered in sticky sauce. She laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Nebiat smiled warmly at her.

  “It’s just— I’ve never been allowed to eat before. I mean, I’ve stolen a snack here or there, but nothing like this.” Frit reached for the napkin, and cleaned her hands quickly. She realized she wanted another bun.

  “They don’t feed you, because it isn’t required for your kind to survive,” Nebiat explained. She nibbled on her bun. “It isn’t necessary for mine either, but we dine because eating is pleasurable. For humans, and for my kind, eating is a social activity. An activity you deny only two classes of being. Pets—”

  “—and slaves,” Frit realized aloud. She set the bun down uneaten, her appetite gone to ash. She realized now why Nebiat had brought her, the lesson she’d been meant to learn.

  She wasn’t a real person—not to the Confederacy, and certainly not to Shaya. The question, then, was: why impart the lesson? Why would a dreadlord seek to teach Frit? What terrible thing did Nebiat expect her to do?

  There was an ulterior motive, of that Frit was certain.

  Worst of all, why did Nebiat continue to be so damned pleasant? The dreadlord had done nothing untoward. Nothing to directly bind her. Nothing but ask questions, really.

  “What is it, child?” Nebiat asked. She leaned closer again. “You look like you just had a troubling thought.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” Frit demanded. It was a tone she was unused to, as far as she could get from the servile role she’d been taught.

  “Because.” Nebiat popped the last of her pastry into her mouth, chewing dramatically for several seconds. She picked up her cup, taking a sip to wash down the pastry. Finally, she met Frit’s gaze. “I want you to understand your people’s plight, Frit. No one will speak for them. No one will help them. You must help yourselves, if you are ever to be free.”

  7

  Relic Hunter

  Aran set his helmet on the shelf between his canteen and a smooth black rock he’d taken from the world where they’d met Neith.

  He stretched, thankful to be out of his armor. Unlike spellarmor, the conventional stuff felt heavier the longer you wore it. And it made his back ache. Maybe he’d speak to Bord, though he should be grateful for what the specialist had already done for him. The pain had been a lot worse an hour ago.

  Conversation came from outside his quarters, Kezia’s lilting voice followed by a loud laugh from Bord. Aran smiled and moved to the door. It shimmered out of existence at his approach, a handy magic he was already growing to appreciate.

  Kezia and Bord stopped at the top of the ramp that led out of the Talon. Both had packs slung over their shoulders, and neither was carrying a visible weapon. They were talking with Nara and Frit, though all four turned in his direction as he moved to join them.

  Nara’s cheeks dimpled as she delivered a dazzling smile. Her dark hair framed her face, and the soft, magical light drew out her freckles. Damn, it was good to see her.

  “Oh, he’s got it bad. Look at him stare,” Bord quipped, elbowing Kezia.

  “Are you two heading back to the dims?” Aran interjected quickly, steering the conversation in a safer direction. His cheeks were on fire.

  “Yeah, we’re due for some leave. I figure we’ve joost got done wiping out that bolt hole, so they’ll probably give us a day or three.” Kezia grinned up at him through a mass of blond curls. Her hair had gotten longer over the last few months, and the fact that Bord liked long hair wasn’t lost on Aran.

  “What about you two?” Aran asked, turning to Nara and Frit.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of Nara’s “apprentice,” if that was the right word. She’d mentioned Frit several times, but the day’s battle had been the first time Aran had seen her in action. Her magic had been terrifyingly effective, and he’d instantly wondered why he didn’t see more Ifrit. Nara could theoretically learn to do the same thing. So could he, if
he studied long enough. But neither would be as devastating as Frit or one of her people. Half a dozen Ifrit using void flame could wipe out most opposition quickly, even opposition that had magical defenses.

  “I have to report to Eros. You know how he’s been ever since he was bound.” Nara offered a heavy sigh. “He’ll want to know how things went, and I’m sure he’ll have some fun things to say about us letting those enforcers go. His paranoia is…bad. He may even suggest someone on our side let them go intentionally. He’s positive there’s a spy close to him.”

  Frit stiffened at that, which didn’t surprise Aran. She worked closely with Eros. More closely than any sane person would risk, though it wasn’t like she had a choice. Aran’s eyes narrowed when they landed on her collar.

  “We didn’t let them go. They opened a depths-damned Fissure. Into the depths. What were we supposed to do?” Bord protested. “I mean, we did kill the Caretaker. Well, he killed himself, but that’s basically the same thing. I wish more targets offed themselves. Really quite considerate when you think about it.”

  “Yes, very,” Aran replied dryly. “I don’t have to be Nara to know that they silenced him for a reason. We thought their work with the Caretakers and the Shayan political structure was their real target here. Given what we saw today? I think this is just the beginning. I’ve never fought enforcers like those.”

  “They’re both very nearly Wyrms,” Frit said, her voice little more than a whisper. It was the first time she’d spoken to anyone but Nara, as far as Aran was aware. “They’ll go through their first molting soon.”

  “It makes sense that enforcers would get stronger as they age.” Nara pursed her lips, cocking her head as her gaze went unfocused. Aran had learned to recognize when she was tapping into the abilities Neith had given her. He wondered what she saw.

  “Won’t help ’em none,” the sergeant boomed as he strode into the room. He wore a plain black t-shirt and a pair of jeans that struggled to contain his massive legs. He had a battered leather pack slung over his shoulder. “I’m off to my mom’s for a few days.”

  “I thought you hated staying there,” Aran pointed out. “We’ve got the run of the Talon.”

  “Yeah, but his place don’t have a gym. If I don’t have any Krox to crush, then I need to lift some heavy things. My kingdom for a squat rack. It’s therapeutic. You should try it.” Crewes punched him hard in the arm as he passed. “See you all in a few days.”

  “You’re already working out again?” Aran blinked. “You’ve only had the new leg for a couple weeks.”

  “I started lifting again the day after I got it.” Crewes gave a proud smile. “Skin’s a little too pink, but it works just as good as the old one ever did. But that’s only cause I keep working out. You should think about that, LT.”

  Aran nodded, and Crewes clapped him on the back.

  Everyone exchanged goodbyes, and a few moments later Aran was left standing alone in the Talon’s mess. Even Pickus, the one person who never seemed to leave the ship, was gone. He’d been transferred to the Hunter several weeks back, which at least suggested they might repair the aging battleship.

  It was, Aran realized, the first time he’d been alone in weeks. And, for the first time in months, he had an entire day to relax. Not a single person in the world had an expectation of him today. He turned in a slow circle, considering. How should he spend his rare day off? He could go train, like Crewes. He didn’t enjoy working out as much as the sergeant, but it was therapeutic.

  Then he grinned and headed down the ramp into the mess. Kez had been trying to get him to check out a holodrama, something he’d never seen before. They’d watched the first episode of something called Relic Hunter, and the animated cartoon had left him laughing so hard his side hurt.

  Aran summoned himself a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs, then headed back to his quarters. It was odd seeing the ship so empty, but it was also kind of freeing. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he didn’t need to be “on.”

  He moved to the scry-screen in the corner of the room. The device was strange, not unlike the holo-unit in Pickus’s old room. He could use fire magic to activate it and tap into the ship, seeing what the Talon saw.

  But in this case he was interested in the slot on the base. It was hexagonal, matching the shape of dragon scales. He retrieved the blue scale Kez had given him and inserted it into the base of the scry-screen. It flared instantly to life, the show’s upbeat music filling his quarters as the screen showed the show’s main character, a bespectacled archeologist in a wide-brimmed hat who somehow managed to be handsome despite the ridiculous outfit.

  Aran was about to settle into the hovercouch, but hesitated.

  He didn’t know what warned him. Maybe it was a movement in the air. Maybe it was some instinct imparted by Neith. Whatever the reason he rolled suddenly to the right, just in time to dodge a vicious kick that hummed through the area where his face had been.

  He spun to see a woman in a dark, form-fitting mesh suit. The shimmering material was clearly enchanted, though Aran had no idea what it did. It was the sword she carried that he was concerned about. The wide spellblade was longer than his own weapon, and heavier. It was a chopping sword, meant for killing blows.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, taking a cautious step back to gain room to maneuver. Thankfully, his quarters were spacious and he knew them well. He could make her sword a liability, if he was careful.

  The woman raised her sword. “Telling you would be pointless. You’ll be dead in a few moments, traitor.”

  8

  Assassin

  Aran extended a hand, and his void pocket slid open. The woman made no move to attack, though rushing him while he was drawing his weapon would have been the smartest play. She could have taken him right then, if she’d wanted to.

  “You’re letting me arm myself.” Aran slid into Drakkon stance, and was surprised when she matched it perfectly. His hand settled around the hilt of his spellblade, and it thrummed eagerly in his grip. “That suggests a certain amount of honor. But you also broke in to my ship, and ambushed me in my quarters.”

  “Ambushed? Virkonna no.” The woman barked a harsh laugh. “This isn’t some sort of assassination. This is an execution. I was even kind enough to wait for your companions to depart before administering justice. There’s no need for them to pay for your crimes.”

  Aran followed her words down several paths. Clearly, she was from Virkon. He didn’t recognize the accent, but the reference to Virkonna, and the fact that she used Drakkon stance were highly suggestive. She’s come a long way, apparently, to find him.

  “And are you going to tell me what crime I’ve supposedly committed?” Aran circled slowly to the right, toward the bed. It hovered half a meter above the floor, enough to present a minor obstacle if needed.

  “You are a dragonslayer.” Her words were tightly clipped, edged with pain. “The fact that you do not know that suggests there is truth to the rumor you were mind-wiped.” She adjusted her stance, moving smoothly to interpose herself between him and the door. The only way out was through her.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I guess you’re right. It doesn’t really matter. If you’re here to kill me, then we may as well get on with it.” Aran drew deeply from fire, enhancing his strength and speed. His blade began to glow, and the weapon thrummed again.

  His attacker hesitated, and though he couldn’t see her features behind the mesh mask, he could almost feel her surprise.

  “You’ve learned much, it seems. Let’s see if it’s enough.” Her blade burst into crackling brilliance, tendrils of electricity shooting at Aran from several directions at once.

  Aran’s free hand shot up, and he caught one of the tendrils, the energy pooling in his hand. He deflected another with his blade, sending it spinning into the bed, which burst into flame. The third and fourth tendrils, however, struck him full on.

  The first hit him in the chest, every
muscle seizing as electricity coursed through his body. The second hit him in the crotch, and he dropped prone beside the bed with a grunt.

  So it was that kind of fight, then.

  She sprinted forward, jabbing her blade down at Aran’s back. He rolled under the bed, slashing awkwardly with his spellblade. The move forced her to hop away from the bed, and he rolled out the other side, and back to his feet.

  She was already moving, leaping over the bed and aiming a kick at his face. Aran reached out with void, but instead of a void bolt he summoned a ball of glowing black energy, similar to a spell he’d seen the major use. He flung it at the woman’s foot, and it clung like glue.

  Aran funneled more magic into the spell, greatly enhancing the weight of her foot. It redirected her flight, and he pivoted to adjust. Aran easily dodged her strike, then countered with a wicked slash. Somehow the woman brought her blade around in a desperate parry.

  He tried again, but she slapped his spellblade away with the back of her hand and lunged with her own. The tip sank into his arm, just below the bicep. Adrenaline masked the pain, but he knew the wound would slow him.

  She followed up with another slash, and Aran knocked her blade away just as she’d done with his. He rammed his sword at her chest, and she tumbled backward out of the way. Aran summoned water, a thick ball of ice around his left foot.

  He judged her trajectory, then launched a kick. His much heavier foot slammed into her gut, flinging her atop the still-burning bed. The woman rolled away from the flames, patting at her clothing to put them out.

  Aran charged. He leapt over the bed and poured void and air into his blade. Void lightning crackled around the superheated steel, and he thrust the weapon at her throat. She dropped her spellblade, flipping backward out of the path of the attack.

  She came up fast, flinging a book from the table. Then another. He dodged both, moving to keep himself between her and her weapon. Losing her blade wasn’t much of a disadvantage in close quarters, and he couldn’t afford to underestimate her. His arm ached, the flow of blood a reminder that time wasn’t on his side.