Savant (The Luminether Series)

by Richard Denoncourt

  “Stand up,” he said, turning his attention to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. His plate armor made him look huge, like a walking fortress of metal.

  Leticia let the sheet slide off her body as she rose and stepped off the bed. Iolus watched her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a bright orange waterfall that fell in rippling waves around her shoulders and covered her chest. Her tail lingered upright behind her, its stinger pointed straight up.

  Iolus gave her a wicked grin. “I like the fact that you could sting me and I’d be dead in a heartbeat.”

  “Four heartbeats, actually.” She came up behind him and put her arms around his chest. “Try not to fall off your levathon when you’re up there, OK? You were never a good rider.”

  “Stop,” he said, stepping out of her arms. “I need to stay focused.”

  “Then why did you ask me to stand?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do.” She let Iolus run his gaze along her naked body. “It’s not enough that I love you. The great Iolus must turn me into a puppet as well.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Go back to bed.”

  She did as ordered, sliding into the bed with the grace of a lizard slipping beneath a leaf.

  “Come to me,” she said, slithering out from beneath the sheet’s topmost edge. “Once more before you leave.”

  Silence. She lifted her head just in time to see the door slam shut. He was gone.

  “Rats,” she said, pouting.

  The rebel forces had gathered in the forest surrounding the stone keep.

  Now that it was his, Iolus could stand over the keep’s front wall and look out at the trees, and he could almost feel the presence of all those bothersome rebel animals that had come here to die by the destructive fire of his mind. The thought excited him—Kovax had been keeping him on a short leash for far too long.

  “Let’s get this over with quickly,” he said, turning and looking at the scarred faces of men that had been with him through many battles. He caught the admiration in their eyes, that faint, moist glow in the corners. Most of these men were older than him, but it didn’t matter; they knew exactly how dangerous he was. “And then,” he said, “when the enemy is nothing but ash in the wind, let us celebrate with nectarwine and bitterbrew, and music from Valcyona’s harp!”

  Cheers rose from the gathered soldiers, so loud it filled the sky and made his ears ring. He wanted the enemy to hear it. He knew they could.

  It unnerved him, however, that he couldn’t see them in the trees. He and his men had the elevated position, and therefore the advantage, but still—something didn’t feel right.

  “Bring me Tyridius,” he said, standing with his hands on his hips, plate armor shining despite the gloomy luster in the sky.

  His most trusted captain marched forward with the levathon at his side—a skeletal black creature of the Warwing line, bred for battle. Tyridius snorted and looked at Iolus with eyes like burning asteroids.

  “As ordered, sir.”

  The man wore a long, black-and-red steel helm with spikes at the top and a faceguard that covered his nose and curved down around his chin. His name was Pertheon, and Iolus felt better having the man at his side. His mask made him look wicked, like a destroyer, someone for whom murder was sport. His suit of plate armor was the biggest among all of them, too heavy for anyone but a Sargonaut, and its black-and-red color made Iolus think of a raging volcano.

  “Pertheon, my brother, today you will make the race of Sargonauts proud.”

  “Thank you, Knight-Marshal. And if I have to follow you into the depths of the underworld, it would be but a minor sacrifice.”

  Iolus smiled. “No need. Tonight, we drink and sing the songs of our fathers.”

  He saw that Pertheon was smiling beneath the mask. He clapped the taller man’s shoulder.

  “Send the Wing Guard, first and second waves.”

  Pertheon turned, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted the order. The air stirred as two dozen soldiers on levathons took off and sailed through the air. Another two dozen Dark Acolytes followed closely behind. They circled the air above the fort, making a protective tunnel from here to the forest.

  Iolus mounted Tyridius as easily as a hand slips into a silk glove. The levathon’s wings were the same black color as its hair, so black that it was blue along the edges. He turned the levathon and rode away from the direction of the forest, then turned again and sprinted forward, ready to leap. The creature let out a deep huff as the combined weight of horse and rider lifted off its legs and was carried instead by its wings.

  The wind roared in Iolus’s ears, and he felt free of the world around him, as though it had ceased to exist and he was nothing more than a burning consciousness shooting across a vast, infinite gray space. He focused his thoughts, bringing his internal current of luminether up to the surface where he could tap into it and bring into this world a powerful magic destructive enough to decimate the lands around him. He could feel it burning inside him, like acid that the gods had injected into his bloodstream. It wasn’t painful—no, the pleasure was so great he had to hold back shouts of ecstatic laughter.

  He reached out with both arms, spread his fingertips, and let loose, in a burst of light and heat, a stream of sizzling orange energy that he directed away from himself. His riders lifted away from the stream and watched as the energy, so bright it was difficult to look at, expanded and spread out beneath them in a rippling sheet. The spray continued to shoot out from Iolus’s fingers, feeding the layer of fire beneath him until the forest could no longer be seen.

  The spray stopped, the sheet broke into a thousand different pieces, and each piece shaped itself into a pointed shaft. The missiles fell and the sound they made as they pounded into the forest, and the intense light they created as they exploded among the trees, shook the earth and pushed away the clouds.

  BOOM BOOM BUH-BOOM BOOM!

  The shocks kept coming, each one bigger than the last. It was enough to frighten the battle-trained levathons. Iolus looked up at his men, who were flying in a scattered wave back to the fort to escape the smoke. They had been instructed to do so—the smoke was poisonous and would suffocate them otherwise. It was just the thing to top off this glorious display—the frosting on the cake, so to speak. Anyone surviving the fire would have their organs turned to soup by the smoke.

  The enemy hadn’t seen it coming. They couldn’t have—Iolus’s identity had been kept a secret, and Kovax had been using weaker magical attacks against the rebels for years now, to make them feel confident in their abilities, to keep them from creating a force capable of dealing with Iolus’s talent.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed up at the patch of sky still visible through the smoke. “Take a good whiff, Maximus. It’s the smell of your downfall.”

  He was still laughing when he saw the white-winged Acolyte—was it a woman?—swoop down from the sky, wings extended like white knives. She cut easily through the smoke, unharmed by it. There was something black and ugly strapped to her face.

  “What in the gods…” Iolus started to say.

  He knew enough about human military history to identify the thing on her face. Clever. He hadn’t even considered the possibility.

  It was a gas mask. The rebels weren’t below him—they were above.

  Before he could muster his wits and cast a protective spell, or swing his levathon away, the woman’s shoulder crashed into his chest. There had been a white handkerchief in her hand, he was sure of it.

  She had slammed him off Tyridius and now both Acolyte and Savant plunged through layers of smoke toward the forest. Iolus struggled but the woman was strong. He tried to tear the mask off her face. When that failed, he tried to light himself on fire using a defensive elemental spell. But the woman was as quick as she was strong. She clamped one arm around his neck and used the other hand to smash the damp, wet handkerchief against his nose and mouth.

  He smelled chemicals. He struggled
.

  Then the world darkened as he went limp in her arms.

  Chapter 33

  Behind closed eyes, Iolus could smell wet leaves and rotting wood, the fresh smell of a living forest after rainfall. The air was cool and moist against his face, tempting him with the promise of drinking water. He had to get the taste of smoke and chemicals out of his mouth.

  He opened his eyes. The forest was shady, quiet except for the crooning of toads and insects. A swamp lay nearby; he could smell it. The place stank. No sunshine, only a dull grayness that failed to create shadows on the ground. There was no smoke in the air, which meant he was far from the battle.

  The thought jolted him upright. He had to get back to his men.

  But where was the Acolyte woman?

  There, sitting against a nearby tree, her soft-looking white wings tucked behind her like a giant pillow. When he saw her, Iolus reached forward with both hands, fingers bent into claws.

  A series of clanks as something held him back by the wrists and neck. He had been stripped of his armor and wore only the simple uniform of the emperor’s army. There were metal cuffs on his wrists, legs, and neck. Looking behind his shoulder, he saw that he had been chained to a large boulder not originally from this forest.

  “Don’t struggle,” she said. “It’s Tiberian steel. Oh, and your magic won’t work in this forest, in case you were thinking of lifting the boulder.” She looked up at the overhanging branches and leaves. They shushed quietly, without a care in the world. She had brought him to Okki Forest, which was supposedly haunted, though of course Iolus did not believe in such things—unless low magic was involved. But she had brought him here for a reason, and now his curiosity was greater than his anger. He settled back against the rock and took a moment to admire the woman’s beauty.

  She wore a simple suit of pale leather, Garshlocon hide probably—strong but light enough for an Acolyte about to embark on a long flight. The leather had been shaped to hug her body, and Iolus wondered if the woman had purchased the set from the woodwingers living in the northern forests of D’Aliara.

  Hair the color of chestnuts streamed down over her shoulders, slightly twisted as if she had just loosened it out of the tight bun from before. Her face tapered down to a narrow chin from a set of eyes that seemed larger than normal. They were a soft brown color, and the lashes were dark and thick, adding an aristocratic fineness to her features. Her body was no less impressive—shapely and strong. This woman could have been a beauty queen in Theus just as easily as a sprinter in the Athalon Trials.

  “Who are you, woman?”

  She smiled but there was no mirth in the expression. “I’ve never seen your face, and so I’m not surprised you’ve not seen mine. The difference is, I know exactly who you are.”

  “Wait.” He jerked his arms forward, making a loud clanking noise with the chains. “I know who you are. Zandra, daughter of Aliara, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  Her voice was high and melodic, like that of a theater actor. Standing tall, she looked down at him with scorn, wings expanding behind her shoulders. She stretched them to their widest length.

  No Acolyte would have been able to match her wingspan. She was truly the daughter of Aliara—a demigoddess.

  Iolus would have risen, but the chains around his ankles held him back. He clenched his teeth and curled his fingers into claws.

  “I’m going to get you, woman. I swear it on the blood of the five gods.”

  There came a rustling of leaves from above, followed by the snapping of branches as something landed between them with a loud thump. It was a man in armor, and with all the grace of a seasoned acrobat, he rose into a standing position and tipped his head back. His armor was black plate speckled with red, like burning lava coursing down the side of a black volcano. His spiked black-and-red helmet made him look like a demon.

  “Pertheon,” Iolus said. “Thank the gods! Kill the woman and get me out of these chains, quick!”

  Pertheon stood at full height, shoulders as broad and straight as the blade of a sword. He was tall, even for a Sargonaut. He pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them aside. His skin was light brown from training long hours in the sun. From here, Iolus could make out every tendon and vein in the man’s neck, which seemed to be as thick as a pillar. A rush of confidence and affection surged inside him. Pertheon, his best friend—his brother!—was here to rescue him.

  Instead of attacking the woman, Pertheon peered down at Iolus through the mask. “This is going to sting.”

  Iolus could only gaze up at him in confusion.

  “What…”

  Pertheon removed his helmet, revealing the square jaw and serious features of the man Iolus had trusted for years. He looked down at the helmet in disgust and tossed it aside.

  “I hope I never have to wear that thing again,” he said.

  He turned and looked at Zandra. A smile spread across the Acolyte woman’s face. She ran toward Pertheon and draped her arms around his neck, having to rise on her toes to meet his stature. Their lips met and the kiss was a hungry one.

  “There will be more of those later,” she said.

  Iolus balled his hands into fists. “You’re not Pertheon. You’re not the man I once called brother. No, you’re something else. A traitor. A liar and a cheat. Yes, it comes so easily, doesn’t it? I saw you lie with women in my keep. I gave them to you by the dozens. I watched you dishonor your wife again and again, roaring with pleasure.”

  The man who was not Pertheon looked at Zandra. Her smile widened.

  “I know, my love,” the woman said. “I received word from our agents. It was your celibacy and honor that helped you rise to your position. It was the reason Iolus loved you so much. Because you were nothing like him.” She looked at Iolus. “My husband is a real man, not the shadow of one. I hope you learned something from your time together.”

  Iolus felt the skin around his eyes go tight with rage. His jaw clenched. It was true; Pertheon had been a man of prayer and dignity who had spent most of his time training with the sword and reading books on military strategy. The man had never even been drunk.

  Iolus closed his eyes and turned away from the married couple.

  How had he never noticed? How could he have been so stupid?

  This was a new kind of pain. Part of him wanted to throw his arms around Pertheon and beg him not to do this. At the same time, Iolus wanted to break the man’s face into pieces for making him feel this vulnerable. He pushed the pain down into the deepest part of him and looked up, his face as hard and cold as a steel plate.

  “Maximus,” he said. “I knew I would meet you someday. I truly thought I would be the one to kill you, not the other way around.”

  Maximus, son of Sargos, approached Iolus, got down on one knee, and rested a heavily muscled arm on the other. He sighed.

  “I don’t like this any more than you do, Iolus. I’ve spent the past six years living a lie so I could get close to you. I barely saw my wife, and I had to fake my own death so as not to risk any of my own men turning coat and exposing me. And now…”

  “Save the lecture,” Iolus hissed, doing so with such venom that Zandra was forced back a step.

  “It’s OK,” Maximus told his wife. “He’s afraid.”

  “You don’t know what fear is.” Iolus glared at Maximus from beneath eyebrows that hung heavy with rage. “Go ahead and kill me. You can’t do much else. The people want our rule. They want to be slaves.”

  Maximus shook his head. “I’m not going to make a martyr out of you. Instead, I’m going to reason with you. I’m going to show you why you should fight alongside me, and continue to be my brother.”

  Iolus looked away. He didn’t want to admit how good the words made him feel. The thought of having Pertheon as his friend and brother again—

  “Never,” he said, swinging his head up in order to give the man his most vile look. “I would rather be burned at the stake and sent down into the deepes
t, darkest pits of the underworld.”

  Maximus gave him a smile full of pity.

  “You don’t want to die,” he said. “You just want to be loved.”

  Energy sizzled from the web Kovax had spent the past fifteen minutes weaving. It hung flat against the air like a network of white scars against an invisible body. Basher thought it looked flimsy and fragile, but he knew the opposite was probably true. It was always that way with dark magic.

  “So, what happened?” Basher said, leaning forward. He sat cross-legged on the ground, not caring how childish he might look. Coscoros stood against a nearby tree, draped in shadow, arms crossed as if he wasn’t interested. And yet he stole glances at Leticia every few seconds.

  The spell lit one half of the woman’s face. The other half was dark, except for the small orange half-moon of her eye. It glowed with the intensity of a burning bit of coal.

  “He was never the same after that,” she said.

  Coscoros uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his hips. “I take it they imprisoned him? Even Maximus wouldn’t have been foolish enough to try and change Iolus.”

  “No. They put him in a prison cell deep inside a mountain, and there he stayed for six years, in solitary confinement. Didn’t speak a word to anyone. Maximus gave him the opportunity to negotiate, but Iolus would spit in his face each time. He was brave. When King Corgos disbanded the rebels and exiled Maximus and Zandra, Kovax broke him out of his mountain cell.” Leticia’s eyebrows drew down in the middle and her lips parted, forming an expression of profound confusion. “I was with him after that, but only for a short while. That’s how I know what happened. But he”—she closed her eyes against the memory—“he was a different man after that. A violent man. Cruel.”

  There was a pause during which the three of them watched Kovax spin his web of energy. The low mage was in a trance, and they could hear arcane chants falling from his lips. A grinding, lisping sound, almost like a snake gargling rocks.