It was an opening. Aimee let her shield spell drop, spun her hands through the motions of Radiance, and unleashed the beam of white light straight at the necromancer’s center of mass.
Viltas’s body snapped back towards her so quickly she heard tendons creak and muscle-fibers snap. With a gesture, he swept one of his dead into the spell’s path. It burned to ash. “Tsk,” he replied. “After the fight your teacher put up, I expected better.”
His counterattack was another contemptuous gesture. Aimee felt the incoming power, saw the ripple of air. She let herself fall back, and pulled a trick she’d last used in Port Providence: she wove a spell of blooming flames as she dropped, and unleashed it with a hard kick of her feet.
The ripple of magic surged overhead. Put a ringing dent into the metal wall ten feet behind her. And the Faceless swore in frustration as fire erupted upwards at him from below. Aimee rolled to the side, came up in a crouch, and loosed a spear of ice at his chest. The Faceless clenched Viltas’s fist and the projectile shattered in the air between them. There was a burn up the side of his face, black and red and angry. “More ruthless by far, though,” he said. “He, at least, thought he could save my poor host. You don’t seem to care.”
Aimee unleashed the Radiance again, her fury rising. This time it was stronger, brighter. The Faceless backpedaled, tried to deflect it, but the edge of the spell lashed across his shoulder, and the face of the lord shipman contorted in agony.
“You said yourself,” Aimee said, readying another spell. “He’s not here anymore.” She loosed an even brighter beam of light. “Where. Is. My. TEACHER?”
The black energy tore forth from the Faceless in response. The two pulsing bursts of magic crashed into one another, exploding in a shower of solidifying shards that tore up the floor and blasted two nearby walking corpses to dust. Aimee was lifted off her feet by the backlash, felt an impact so hard the air went out of her lungs. She slammed into the floor in front of the corpse-throne. Her world swam, and she gasped for breath.
“Oh, your little amber-dragonfly-master is aboard Tristan by now. Food for Grandfather,” the Faceless replied. He stalked lazily towards her. She couldn’t see Hakat or Belit anymore. Behind him, the necromancer’s last victims and newest thralls were moving quickly. All fifteen of the armsmen were dead. “It’s a simple ritual,” the necromancer continued. “Grandfather is old, and cunning, and doesn’t much care for worshippers or those who would use him… but he is always hungry for the agony, the lifeforce released in the moment of death. Oh – he’ll consume most of it when Iseult dies, but there will be plenty for me to snatch up. Enough to leave this body and flee this wretched firmament. I won’t be as mighty as I was in the ancient days, before the storm, before Varengard and its degenerate, modern descendants… but I remember the time before the Drifting Lands. Before the guild claimed humanity’s lifeboats as their trade ships. I have seen wars. Madness. I have seen empires rise and fall… and I have sensed what is coming. Better to flee the Eternal Sky altogether, than be made a slave when dead gods rise.”
Aimee’s hands swept up. Her mind was murky. Her breath was uneven. This thing was so far beyond her league it was laughable, but she had to do something. She had to try. She called up the spell of Radiance. The beam of light was weaker. Its light danced off Viltas’s rot-pale eyes as the Faceless summoned a shield spell of its own, and slowly pushed back against her spell. “Spirited,” he said as he slowly pressed the barrier down against her, the dissipating beam making sparks of refracting light against it. “But the world doesn’t care. Goodbye, little mage–”
Viltas’s body suddenly, violently convulsed. His chest split, and the glowing white point of Oath of Aurum punched through him, steaming blood. The necromancer’s mouth opened and closed. “Impossible…” it croaked “…took him out…”
Behind the possessed hero, Belit stood, her face set, her golden, leonine eyes filled with fury, defiance, and agonizing grief. “Forgive me, Viltas,” she said, and twisted the sword.
Realization dawned in the white eyes, and Aimee heard the necromancer curse. “Royalty. Dammit. Should’ve… remembered.”
His head jerked back. The shield spell died. Aimee’s beam of light smashed into the necromancer as she pushed her hands forward with every ounce of willpower and training she had. Light vomited from Viltas’s eyes, mouth, from his wound. She saw the terrible, writhing effigy of a translucent figure surround him, cling to his flesh. It fixed hateful eyes upon her… Then with a release of tremendous mystic force and a cacophonous bang, it ceased to be.
Aimee rolled onto her side, aching. Head clearing. She blinked. No concussion. Her breath recovered. She rolled onto her belly, pushed herself on her arms, and stumble-dashed across the blood-slick floor to where the black knight lay. Reaching him she dropped to her knees and checked his pulse. Strong. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. She closed her eyes, breathed out the relief of a deep, frightening pain leaving her chest. Her fingers fisted against his armor.
“Elias,” she half-sobbed. “Elias!”
Green eyes opened. He blinked. His gaze settled on her in recognition, then realization, and genuine surprise. “I’m not dead?”
A choking laugh escaped her, half euphoric. Half relieved. “No, you’re not. Thank the gods. Can you stand?”
“I think so,” he said, taking her hand and pulling himself into a sitting position. “Viltas?” he asked.
“Not long now,” Belit said, behind them.
Relief turned to grief, as Aimee turned. The swordswoman knelt on the floor. The lord shipman’s head was cradled in her lap, his face pale, his breathing irregular and rattling. “Forgive me, Viltas,” Belit whispered. “Forgive me.”
The lord shipman stirred. He coughed, and blood leaked out the corner of his mouth. Aimee moved to his other side. Elias followed. “There is nothing to forgive,” Viltas whispered, weak. “He’s gone. After all these years. I never thought I would be myself again.”
“Can you help him?” Belit asked. The would-be captain’s eyes were wet at their corners, grief naked upon her dark face.
Aimee looked down at the wound, red and pulsing, in the center of the old hero’s chest. That, plus the damage done by the wicked thing that had inhabited him for so long, the spell he’d been hit with, his advanced age…
“I’m sorry,” Aimee said.
“It’s alright,” Viltas whispered. “It’s alright. After everything. This is better.”
Abruptly he reached out and seized Aimee’s arm. “Harkon,” he said, “is in the metadrive chamber of Tristan. The Faceless knew his power would act as a beacon, to lure Grandfather out. The ship is already dead. So sorry. I should’ve fought… harder. Too old. Too slow. Too angry. I don’t think the gods will take me.”
“There are a thousand of them,” Belit said quietly. “You’ll not arrive as a beggar.”
Aimee closed her eyes, suddenly dizzy at the implications. Her teacher was alive… but in so much more danger than she’d ever guessed. But Viltas wasn’t done. His grip on her arm tightened. “He sent the other dead away. A last mission, to wake the others… there are many more in the depths. You have to stop them. They will try to take the wheelhouse. Aimee… I’ve seen things. Things in his mind. He did not lie. Something is coming, something worse. He was… afraid. Be… ready.”
He shuddered. “Viltas,” Belit pleaded.
“Take care of Vallus,” the lord shipman said. He clutched Belit’s arm. “Tell him I am proud. And sorry.”
“I will,” Belit said. “On my word of honor.”
Viltas’s eyes closed. His body relaxed. “I will tell your father what you’ve become.”
A shudder passed through him, and the last of Amut’s companions was gone.
Aimee slowly rose. There was no time to grieve, nor even to process anything more than the information most relevant to now. They sailed into the arms of a monster, and her teacher – though alive – was in mortal peril. She looked a
bout. Of the war party that had entered the cult chamber, only the three of them remained alive. Hakat’s body lay a short distance away, pierced by a dozen cuts.
“I have to get to the wheelhouse,” Belit said, rising. “They have to be warned. And the metadrive chamber has to be protected. I need your help, Aimee. You and your crew.”
Aimee stared helplessly back at the warrior woman. “You heard him,” she said. “Harkon is aboard Tristan, in its metadrive chamber. I have to go. I have to save him.”
There was a sudden discharge of magic energy behind them, and turning, Aimee watched as Elias pulled the glowing blade of Oath of Aurum from the center of the dead knight’s corpse. “That takes care of any echo of him that might remain,” the black knight said. The look in his eyes was tired, but resolute. “Belit is right,” he said. “You’re needed here. You’re a portalmage, you know how to fight these things. When she takes the wheelhouse, she’ll need you.”
Aimee felt the frustration tear at her. The dual obligations. “Harkon–”
“I owe him a debt too,” Elias said. “Let me repay it. I’ll take Elysium, and one or two others to Tristan, and bring him back.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Noble and Brave, Gentle and Kind
He’d never gone into battle feeling worse. The necromancer’s attack had hit him harder than Malfenshir’s sword, than any weapon or fist that had ever gotten past his defenses. What had followed had been darkness that was broken only when he’d awoken to find himself staring up at Aimee’s worried face. Now his head ached, his body was shaky and his skin tingled as if a tight piece of clothing had been suddenly ripped away.
He stood on the bridge of Elysium, one hand clutching Oath of Aurum to fortify himself, and remembered that people were counting on him. He knew necromancy well enough to understand that the hit had been from a spell designed to simply end up draining every ounce of his essence away.
What he didn’t understand is why it hadn’t killed him.
Rachim handed him a pile of papers. “These are the maps of Tristan,” he said with a grunt. “They weren’t easy to come by. You’ll want to make your landing somewhere amidships, not on the top level, if you’re going to have a chance of reaching its core metadrive chamber quickly. Don’t get diverted. As you’ve more than likely seen, every behemoth is unique, and each is a complete nightmare of tunnels, corridors, and side passages… but this bay here–” he pointed to a spot on the ship’s flank “–will help you reach it quickly.”
“That’s why I’m going,” Vant said, doing a final check aboard the bridge. “Past a certain point, a grid is a grid is a grid. Show me a power conduit, and I can find my way to the damn chamber.” The engineer had a fierce look on his face as he rolled up the proffered maps and stuffed them under his arm. “Take my boss hostage to feed to some sort of sky-horror? I’ll get him back, you abominable sons of bitches. You fucking watch me.”
Clutch flipped a number of switches, checking the wheel and her pilot station one last time before she looked over her shoulder at Elias. “Good to go,” she said. “Just say the word.”
Behind Elias, Bjorn had donned his armor once more, and was decked out in weapons. “Ready,” he grunted. “Time to bring him home.”
“One more thing,” Aimee said, striding onto the bridge. She’d recovered somewhat from her battle with the Faceless, but there was an unsettled, rattled look on her pale face. The blue eyes were shaken in a way they’d never seemed before. She gestured, and two of Rachim’s armsmen dropped one of the mystic energy projectors onto the bridge. “We know from reports in the downlevels that these things can destroy the dead. Best if whomever goes aboard Tristan with you also has the ability to fight back without being overwhelmed.”
Elias nodded. “Thank you,” he said, turning towards her. “And thank you for trusting me.”
“I was the first,” she replied, the ghost of a smile on her face. “Not about to stop now.”
“Be fast,” Rachim said. “Tristan will hit the wall of the maelstrom in three hours. If Iseult doesn’t pull short before then, we may never get out.”
“That’s the idea,” Elias answered. “Vlana staying behind too?”
“Yes,” Aimee said. “Her skills will be useful in the wheelhouse. And that leaves two of us here.”
Vant jogged past, headed down to the engine room. A few moments later there was a rumble, and Elias felt the thrum of Elysium’s metadrive awakening.
“Time to fly,” he said.
“Bring him back,” Aimee said.
“I promise,” Elias answered. She nodded, and started down the hall with Rachim.
“Aimee,” he said after her. She turned, looking over her shoulder.
“Don’t die,” he said.
She smiled, then the door to the bridge closed. A few seconds later the communication came up to the bridge. “We’re off.”
Clutch turned the wheel, and Elias felt the deck shift beneath him as the silver bird rose into the heavens.
The vision beyond the landing pad arrested the breath in his lungs. Finally visible, past the running lights of Elysium and the idle fog and light clouds that surrounded her top levels, was a vast, unending wall of black storm clouds riddled with flashes bigger than a behemoth. It was a small comfort to Elias that the gasps heard from the rest of the bridge weren’t his.
“I’ve heard the stories,” Bjorn said behind him, “but they don’t come close to the real thing. It’s… huge.”
Elias knew only an ancient verse that he’d heard Roland murmur in the darkness of that ship as a frightened boy, all those years ago. It came to his lips unbidden.
“Day to night
Hope to fright
The Righteous scarred
Forever marred
Within the maelstrom.”
Bjorn gave him a sideways look.
“My former master,” Elias said, “was obsessed with this place.”
“This is the closest I’ve ever been,” Clutch murmured as she urged the ship forward. “And the last time I wasn’t flying towards it.”
In the distance, looking small before the vastness of the wall of the storm, another set of lights could be seen – engine trails – flaring from the rear of an immense ship hurtling full throttle towards a place that haunted skyfarers’ nightmares.
Tristan.
“There she is,” Elias said. “Go.”
“Already on it,” Clutch said. “Vant, hard burn.”
The rumble became a roar, and Elysium shot forward through the sky, rippling through the heavens towards the wall of the storm.
A moment later the wind hit them. Clutch grabbed the wheel, bracing the vessel against the sudden force that made its whole length shudder. “Abyss take it all,” she snapped, then hit several switches. “Stabilizers are gonna be working overtime in this damn hurricane. Alright, hold on to your pants, kids. This is gonna be a rough flight.”
Elias had just enough time to grab a nearby brass railing for support before the ship started shaking violently up and down. Bjorn let out a wild laugh as they shuddered and bucked, and Elias heard Clutch whooping and hollering as she moved the wheel with the deft skill of a master painter.
Through the viewport ahead, Tristan’s lights grew brighter. A pelting, vicious rain began to fall. The ship was in exponentially worse shape than Iseult. The lamps on the upper deck were mostly doused, the towers shattered and broken, interspersed with perforated domes and blasted top-level architecture.
“Gods,” Bjorn breathed. “Damn thing looks like a warzone.”
“It’s what Iseult almost was,” Elias said, as they approached. He picked up one of the exterior maps Vant had put down, quickly trying to identify the bay Rachim had mentioned. There. He found it. Pulling himself forward, he showed it to Clutch. “There. We need to find this spot to put down. Rear-facing!”
He saw Clutch’s eyes dart across the sky as they neared the other behemoth. “That one?” she shouted, gesturing with
her hand to a dimly lit aperture halfway down the side of the exterior hull.
“That’s the one!” Elias shouted.
“You do realize that will have us flying backwards,” she deadpanned, “into this horrible wind?”
Elias flashed his best grin.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. And for future reference? That grin only works on Aimee. I got my pretty-boy immunizations a long time ago. Now hold on, kids, or you might just end up pasted to the ceiling.”
Elias managed to grab another rail, then the whole ship spun. His already-aching head thundered with the pulse of blood through his ears, and he held on for dear life as the direction of the ship abruptly reversed. “Hang on!” he heard the pilot shout.
He saw the walls of the bay suddenly close around them as the ship shot backwards through the aperture. Clutch’s fingers flew over the controls and the ship came to an abrupt, complete stop. There was a loud thump as the landing gear came down, and the ship settled.
“Go,” Clutch said over her shoulder. “I’ll hold down the fort, but I can only do that for so long. You get Hark, and you bring him back.”
Elias and Bjorn jogged down the spine of the ship. The bay door slammed down, and Vant caught up with them, the mystic energy projector now in his hands. They dashed into a dark landing bay lit by the still-glowing exhaust vents of Elysium’s engines and the flickering overhead lamps.
Elias drew his sword. The blade glowed in the darkness. He stretched out with his senses, reaching for the familiar pull that a metadrive exerted on anyone with magic abilities.
He and Vant turned at the same moment, towards a battered doorway at the far end of the bay. Here and there blood was splattered across the floor in abstract patterns, or palm-printed onto the walls. “That way,” the engineer confirmed, then they were moving.
The lights were intermittent, at best. The darkness of the savaged ship’s interior emphasized the half-sounds of the remaining systems fighting to maintain their functioning. Somewhere far away, the indistinct echoes of what might have been voices or groaning supports wailed in the shadows. Elias struggled to fortify himself against the oppressive fear that hung in the air like a stink. A plague, the rumors had said. Then the dead must have risen. When the end came to Tristan’s people, it must have been quick, explosive, and violent.
Dragon Road Page 31