by Chris Fox
Voria’s gaze rose toward the far side of the amphitheater, where Aetherius stood with a group of his sycophants. The ancient Wyrm glared hatefully at her with those fierce eyes. His hand tightened around a goblet until it crunched.
“He doesn’t seem amused.” Voria nodded respectfully to Aetherius. The gesture wasn’t returned. “I figured since an alliance is impossible at this point, I had very little to lose, and I have to admit to a certain…satisfaction in seeing that expression on his face after what he pulled.”
“You’ve done incalculable damage to his cause.” Olyssa’s smile vanished and was replaced by the calculating mask. “He dishonorably allowed you to be attacked. He can claim he had no knowledge, but we all know the truth. He allowed his pet Krox to attack you, and even if he did not order it, his was the hand ultimately delivering the blow. You stopped that blow, and you exposed him. You’ve bested him on every level, even in Kem’Hedj. Yet you’ve been nothing but gracious the entire time.”
Voria smiled, though only slightly. This wasn’t a perfect victory. “I’ve made an enemy in the process. An enemy who will outlive me by centuries, or even millennia. One with the resources of an entire dragonflight at his disposal.”
“He hates you, but his people hate the Krox,” Olyssa pointed out. “You may have personally gained an enemy, but you have also ensured that the Krox will never be welcome here. Instead, we will stay neutral in your war.”
“That’s not the worst possible outcome,” Voria allowed. “But we need allies, Olyssa. We are playing for the highest stakes. Higher than I think any of us yet realize.”
“I believe you’re right, there, but unfortunately we have other concerns.” Olyssa walked to the edge of the balcony, which overlooked the vast plain where the battle had taken place. “I don’t know what the dark substance coating the ship was, but I do know how it made me feel. Terrified.”
“Presumably it was boiled away in the nuclear blast.” Voria frowned slightly. “We’re still cleaning the ship, but I don’t think you should have anything to worry about.”
“And if you are wrong?” Olyssa challenged. “That muck rained over many kilometers, and it did so well before the detonation. If the wind carried any of it beyond the explosion it could still be out there. I don’t pretend to know what it is, and I know you don’t yet either. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps none survived. But so long as there is a chance, my focus is on eradicating any trace of it that survived.”
Voria nodded gratefully. “I’m sorry, Olyssa. That it happened. All of it. And I’m sorry for all you’ve lost recently.”
“Thank you.” Olyssa licked her lips with a forked tongue. “I have never said this before—not to anyone but a Wyrm or a god—but I consider you an equal, Major. The way you commanded that battle, even before the Spellship arrived…well I’ve never seen anything like it. Or rather, I have only seen it from my mother. You took those Krox forces apart, and turned certain death into victory. I do not envy the Krox their war against you. I suspect they have no idea what they are dealing with.”
“Let’s hope it’s enough.” Voria squinted up at the Spellship. It was powerful, of that she was sure. But it was also tainted somehow. Olyssa was right. She didn’t know what the oily substance was, or what threat it posed. And she strongly doubted getting rid of it would be as simple as wiping down the ship.
“What will happen to Aranthar?” Olyssa asked after a long moment of silence.
Voria stared out at the field, noting the small settlements spread out every twenty kilometers or so. How many of those had been in the path of the explosions when the Krox had fired their missiles?
“Hmm?” She turned back to Olyssa. “It’s so odd hearing you call him that. I believe Aran will remain aboard his ship, and that it will remain attached to mine. We have a war to fight, Wyrm Mother.”
“I see.” Olyssa cocked her head in a wholly unnatural way no human could have duplicated. “I had hoped that perhaps his sister could persuade him to stay. She’s up there now, talking with him.”
“She might, but I doubt it.” Voria smiled. He’d make the right choice. “He knows he isn’t welcome here.”
“Isn’t welcome?” Olyssa blinked her reptilian eyes. “He is a hero now. There is no Outrider with higher standing. He was chosen by Virkonna. She elevated him, and used him as her instrument to return her great work to the world.”
“So, just like that, he goes from pariah to hero?” Voria snorted. “He’s going to love that.”
58
Goodbyes
Aran stared out the scry-screen set into his quarters. It currently acted as a window, showing the hangar outside. The Blood of Nefarius was gone, save for black streaks on some of the walls. Those hadn’t been there a few hours ago, which underscored just how quickly this stuff grew.
It also raised a great many troubling questions. He hadn’t yet told anyone else what the substance was, because he’d needed time to consider. Virkonna had disabled his armor, because she’d said it was tainted by Nefarius. That meant it might be related to the blood, and that carried some damned scary implications.
Apparently Krox wasn’t their only enemy.
“Little brother?” Astria’s hesitant voice came from the doorway. She dropped her gaze when Aran looked at her, and raised a hand to brush dark hair back over her ear. She still wore her suit, but the mask was clutched in one of her hands.
Why was she suddenly so timid? He wasn’t really sure what to do. What would a brother do?
“Listen, I know this is awkward. I really don’t know how to…be around you.” Aran crossed the space between them and offered a hug. Astria seemed surprised, but she relaxed into his grip. For a few moments at least. Then she disengaged. Aran took a step back to give her space. He smiled at her. “I’ve got a friend named Kazon that likes hugs. I’m still not sure how I feel about them.”
“I find the ritual odd.” Astria cocked her head. “But I am glad you are alive, little brother.”
Aran adjusted Narlifex on his belt and the blade vibrated contentedly. He struggled to break the silence, finally settling on an inane question. “So how did you get up here? Dragon?”
“Nara brought me back with her when she returned from the Hunter,” Astria explained. Her face turned down into a disapproving frown. Whatever she’d been about to say vanished. Her eyes blazed but she said nothing.
Aran followed her gaze…to his bed. Rhea rested there. The corrupted Outrider still hadn’t woken, and Aran wasn’t sure when she would. Or even if she should. She’d been absorbing that stuff, intentionally from the sound of it, for years.
“Her name is Rhea,” Aran explained. He couldn’t help but be amused. After all they’d been through, his sister was angry he might be sleeping with someone? It seemed so trivial in the face of the events around them. “She’s an Outrider, Astria. From a theoretical future. A place only the gods could have reached. She watched the death of her entire world. Her entire people. She was the very last survivor.”
“Virkonna’s Blessing,” Astria whispered. She moved to the bed, and adjusted the blankets to cover the girl more fully. “I’m…sorry I leapt to conclusions. So she was on the ship when you found it?”
“She was the last survivor.” Aran moved to join Astria. “We don’t know much yet beyond her name, but that will come in time. She was in that blood for a long time, and it…changes you.”
“I think it does more than that,” Nara said from the doorway.
Aran whirled, then crossed his quarters in three steps. He picked Nara up and spun her in a circle. She squealed, but she was smiling. He set her down. “Gods, but it is good to see you.”
“You were saying?” Astria asked Nara, though she was eyeing Aran curiously.
“The blood. Pickus and I have done a little theory crafting.” Nara smiled up at Aran, and he’d never wanted to be alone with anyone so badly. She took a step away from him, but shot him a wink he hoped his sister didn’t see. “We’ll kn
ow more soon.” Her smile faded. “We’re pretty sure it comes from the Umbral Depths.”
Those two words did more than a cold shower ever could to bring Aran back to the moment. “It corrupts people, though the process seems to take a long time. And we rained it all over the countryside below.” He considered adding that Rhea had called it the Blood of Nefarius, but held back for some reason.
“We’ll deal with it,” Astria said. She folded her arms. “We’re aware of it, at least. Olyssa has already dispatched anyone with void flame to help dispose of it, and we have flame readers to locate outbreaks. The situation is in hand.”
“I’m glad. That means I can leave with a clean conscience, at least.” Aran shook his head sadly. “Definitely not the homecoming I was hoping for.”
“Are you certain you won’t stay?” Astria asked suddenly. “There’s a place for you here, little brother. You’ve proven yourself—not simply to me, but to our entire world. Even Aetherius respects you. We could help Olyssa solidify control of the flights, and we could be there to help the Confederacy when the time comes.”
That last got his attention. So did the prospect of actually having a family, and a past to ground himself in. He’d been running from crisis to crisis for literally the entirety of his memory. This was a chance to claim a place for himself. To be with someone who loved him, and shared the same blood flowing through his veins. And there was still so much to learn about Virkon, and his people. Not just his past, but his history and legacy.
“It means the sector to me that you’d make a place for me here. I still don’t understand why I’m suddenly a hero instead of a dragonslayer, but it’s nice knowing I can go to sleep without worrying about you sticking a knife in my kidney.” He stuck his tongue out.
Astria looked outraged, but Nara laughed. After a moment Astria smiled, then began to laugh as well. “I’m proud of you, little brother. If you cannot stay, I know the reason must be of great import. I wish you well in the war against the Krox.”
“And I wish you luck in helping Olyssa gain control here. I’m definitely rooting for you.” Aran meant it, too. If Aetherius regained control, he had a feeling he could expect a lot more assassins. “I do have a final favor to ask.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“We’re at war, all the time. That’s no place for a recovering patient.” He nodded at Rhea. “I was hoping, since she’s an Outrider, you’d allow her to stay.”
Astria stared sadly at Rhea. She refused to meet Aran’s gaze when she spoke. “I can’t, Aran. There’s a chance she’s contaminated, and if she is…Olyssa would have her put to death without a second thought. She isn’t safe here.”
Nara shuddered. “That’s horrifyingly pragmatic.”
“The Wyrm Mother so often is.” Astria sighed. “I’m going to miss you, brother. I feel like I still don’t know the man you’ve become.”
“I have a feeling you’ll be seeing me again.” Aran smiled affectionately at her. “The Krox haven’t found a way to kill me yet.”
“And I pray they never do.” She smiled faintly and vanished.
“I hate it when she does that,” Nara whispered as she moved to stand with Aran. She wrapped an arm around his waist, and his strong arm slid over her shoulder.
“Seriously?” Aran chuckled. “Invisibility is one of your favorite spells.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like it when other people do it.” She laughed and delivered him another wink. “So I can’t help but notice that your bed is occupied. I’m pretty beat. I was going to go lay down for a nap.” She walked to the doorway and slowly grinned over her shoulder. “Do you want to join me?”
59
Nightmare
Nara recognized immediately that she was dreaming. The high-ceilinged corridors, with their glittering magical circuitry, had the sort of ephemeral quality one only found in a dream. Yet there was a clarity most dreams lacked. A magical clarity. This was no normal dream.
She wasn’t in control of the body she inhabited, whoever it was. He or she wore spellarmor, and crept along the ceiling of the corridor, passing silently over many sentries. Having recently seen the Spellship for the first time, Nara was fairly certain that’s where she was.
But this version was different. The dark streaks on the wall were entirely gone, and now glowed with pristine power. The empty halls were filled with olive-uniformed men and women going about the urgent business of war. That suggested Ternus was in charge of the vessel. She didn’t see a confederate uniform anywhere.
She moved deliberately, sticking to the ceiling as she maneuvered up and down long hallways. Not a single person looked up, though she suspected if they had they’d still not have seen anything. The body she was riding along in pulsed with familiar magic. An invisibility sphere and several other, more powerful spells. Those were unfamiliar, and stronger than she could currently cast. Some sort of third level illusion spell, or spells.
The body finally reached a narrow corridor that led into the officer’s quarters, a row of narrow doorways stretching into the distance. Almost all the doorways on this level were dark, save for one. A warm, orange glow came from that room, and Nara’s body made for it.
Inside, Voria sat at a desk, brushing her hair with long, even strokes. She wore a simple nightgown, and appeared to be readying herself for bed. Nara’s body paused outside the room, and raised a single armored hand.
That armor had an oily sheen to it, and after a moment Nara recognized it. It was the same metal that Aran’s new armor used. Nara’s hand began to deftly sketch sigils, and she realized that she was unraveling an incredibly complex ward set just outside Voria’s quarters.
The speed and skill she used were…impressive. The ward was powerful, one of Voria’s best. At her current skill level Nara didn’t think she could duplicate the feat, though she was curious enough that she’d have been willing to give it a try.
Only then did the implications pour down her spine like icy rain. This person, whoever they were, had come to kill the major. Voria was at her most vulnerable, relaxed and unaware in the heart of her stronghold. This assassin—it couldn’t be anything else—had slowly and steadily carved through every layer of her defenses, in order to catch her like this.
Voria believed herself safe, as evidenced by the soft humming while she brushed her hair. Nara longed to warn her, but as is the case with dreams she found herself unable to utter a word.
The assassin finished the work on the ward, and it puffed out of existence. Voria glanced up suddenly, the brush frozen mid-stroke. She peered up at the space the ward had occupied, and after a moment rose to her feet and wrapped a hand around Ikadra.
There was a moment of vertigo, and then Nara’s perspective shifted. The assassin had blinked across the room, made possible now that the ward was gone. She was behind Voria, attached to the shadowy corner of the ceiling.
The assassin’s feet stuck to the wall there, and her hands came together, fingers interlocking. She aimed both fists at Voria’s unprotected back, and a torrent of void magic rolled through her. The disintegrate shot from her hands, lancing into Voria’s back, right where the heart would be.
The spell cored an awful hole through the major’s chest, and the woman slumped to her knees. Only her grip on Ikadra kept her up.
“W-who are you?” the major somehow managed.
“You know who I am,” a cold voice answered from Nara’s throat. She dropped to the ground and willed the armor to show her face. The metal flowed down her neck, pooling around her shoulders.
“Nara?” Voria’s eyes widened. She gasped once, and then collapsed to the floor.
Nara reached for Ikadra, wrenching the staff from Voria’s grip, without a care for the major’s final moments. She turned to face the mirror where Voria had been sitting, and to her horror, saw her own face staring back at her.
She’d just killed the major, and taken Ikadra. Why would she do that? There’s no way she would do that. Horror burst up in he
r, a frantic need to be anywhere else. This was a dream, and she needed to wake up.
60
Compromised
Nara’s eyes snapped open. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she was coated in sweat. She drank in deep, frantic breaths, trying to banish the dream. It had been so real. Too real.
She disentangled herself from Aran’s sleeping form, and took a moment to appreciate the curve of his shoulders as he settled back into the blankets. Was this some sort of post-combat issue? Maybe she couldn’t relax because she was so used to being threatened.
“No,” rumbled a deep voice from the shadowed corner of the room, “in this you are right to trust your instincts.”
Whatever it was sat on her hovercouch. She had the impression of thick legs, bigger even than the sergeant’s. Everything else was lost in shadow.
“Do not rise,” the voice said, “or attempt to cast. My work will be swift.”
His hand came up, and he began to sketch. The light from the sigils illuminated his face, giving her the first glimpse of whoever—or whatever—had invaded her quarters. She caught the impression of a broad forehead and thick, recessed eyes. His skin was a mottled grey, of a species Nara didn’t recognize. Then the spell completed, and his face was shrouded in darkness once more.
There had been an entire flood of them, of every color. All eight aspects had mingled, and they’d done so with impossible alacrity. No mortal caster could do something like that. She wasn’t even certain all gods could.
Nara raised her hand instinctively to cast, and was amazed when nothing happened. She sketched in the air, but she might as well have been a child playing. No magic responded to her call. No sigils appeared.
The creature in the corner had no such difficulty. It sketched a second spell, and again the complexity baffled Nara. It all happened so fast, layer after layer of sigils. Nara had no idea what level the spell was, but it was higher than the major could cast. Maybe even higher than Nebiat could cast.