by T. A. Miles
The shadows continued to shift. It felt as if the ship settled with them, low creaks moaning through the space so quietly it lulled. Korsten’s eyes began to fall closed, and he opened them deliberately when he noticed, focusing briefly on the sleeping form of Sethaniel, then again on the darkening light filtering through the window.
His eyes slid closed again and he drew in slow, deep breaths. He imagined that he stirred when he heard a girl’s voice, but realized he’d been dozing after the fact when he awakened in the same leaned back position in the chair. He looked toward the door, in case Lerissa had entered, but he saw no one and submitted to the quiet darkness yet again.
Once more, he heard a girl’s voice. In brief snatches, he caught bits of dialogue and impressions of a face that belonged to Dacia. Some of the moments were plainly memory, of how he’d met the girl, in the midst of possession and the subsequent Release; of her startled awakening in the home of Irslan Treir, and of the walk through the city to her adopted mother’s house deeper within Indhovan’s complexly networking districts.
As his dream walked him through the casual alleyways and crowded avenues of Indhovan, the light that had been cast down on them shifted. The shadows grew longer, and deeper. It was as if night were descending down upon the streets, but the light overhead remained. It hovered impotently, like a glass plane over a box. Over a pit, Korsten corrected as the shadows reached into every nook and corner … over Hell’s depths.
The form of Dacia continued to move through the blackened passages ahead of him. She was colorless, like an off patch of light beneath a barren canopy of branches that gradually formed fists. The dark arms of the crone … or the blood and dirt-formed arms of the Vadryn. Serawe’s claws raked across his mind, replaying the memory of the wound he’d received on his side. Blood seeped into the dream.
In an instant, he saw Dacia in a panic, the shadow of her unnatural mother and tendrils of blood coiled around her. She struggled to push both off, then thrust her hands out to Korsten when she saw him. Instinctively, he reached for her with both hands.
Instinctively … he Reached. It was the Reach which woke him from his light sleeping, as the environment shifted around him. The close walls of the cabin on the Song of the Coast had been opened up several fold. The ceiling appeared suddenly vaulted high overhead, supported by pillars and lit with braziers. The heads of the many individuals crowded into the large space turned to look at him. Their expressions varied too widely to ascertain a tone. It seemed almost irrelevant compared to the tone set by a thunderous noise coming from beyond the walls. Not a storm….
“Master Korsten,” came the voice of Dacia Cambir.
Though he hadn’t flinched at the sound of periodic eruptions coming from outdoors, for some reason the sound of the girl’s voice staggered him. Or perhaps, it was the effect of the Reach, after the fact. He had been half asleep, after all.
He steadied himself and looked to the young woman standing nearby. When she came toward him, her manner as if he may have required assistance in the steadying, he merely held an arm out, letting his hand rest on her shoulder while he took in the room and its occupants once more. He followed their faces toward the front of the room, until he inevitably came to the familiar façade of Ersana Cambir. She met his gaze in her quiet manner, though the slightest stitch in her expression suggested she had been caught off guard by his arrival.
It was no dream. This was Indhovan, and the battle had begun.
Ersana approached Korsten with the same implacable mien as he had been introduced to the morning he brought Dacia back to her. He wondered briefly if she might ask him to leave, except that the general atmosphere of the building felt as if it were a refuge, and not anything private or exclusive. He could feel the fear, confusion, and anxiety of those around them, not in the emotional sense, but purely as a fact. The state of their physical condition indicated it; the manner in which their blood currently ran. It was a peculiar talent to have, to be able to discern one’s condition by feeling how their blood moved. It was his one permanent reason to visit Eisleth regularly, to be guided in something that Eisleth may well have been the only master of. The nature of their relationship to red was the same in the basic physicality of it, but there was a branching away at some point, where Korsten found himself in a territory that few have tread. There were no longer any guides and he now had the task of mapping the region himself. If only black had been another of his colors, but then he supposed that Eisleth would have been his life mentor rather than Ashwin if that had been the case. How differently might things have gone between him and Ashwin if it had been?
There was no time for such musings, he realized, and it was set aside immediately. Rather than wait for Ersana to reach him, he covered the remaining distance across the forum’s central aisle himself, noting that Dacia followed a step or two after the fact and hovered near his elbow.
“I … would not have expected to see you again,” Ersana said, having evidently searched for the words. “Not quite so soon, at least.”
“I might not have expected to see myself, given the nature of my departure,” Korsten replied, and left it at that for the time being. “What became of Merran? I’m presuming the crone was defeated.”
“Mother was stopped, yes,” Ersana said. “Your friend was badly injured.”
Peculiarly, Korsten felt that he froze emotionally in that instant, and it delayed his verbal response. “How badly?” he asked and teetered on the rim of the question—or of its answer—internally.
“His hand was broken severely by Mother’s grip when she fell,” Ersana explained, and the world regained its sense of presence with that, with confirmation that Merran had not been killed, and was not dying. Ersana continued, “He was taken back to your Seminary by one of your own.”
“Good,” Korsten said, feeling the beating of relief in his heart. The weight of it was both burdening and strengthening. “Thank the gods. I’ll know where to find him, then. What of the other mages who were here with us? Do you know anything more?”
“It was they and one of your ancients who deflected the wave,” Ersana explained. “We assisted as much as we were able. The ancient one left with Master Merran. The other two remained here. Your Mage Vlas has reconnected Dacia with her blood family, Irslan, who has been assisting the governor’s son, as I’m told.”
“The governor’s son?” Korsten inquired, overlooking the prick of curiosity that came with hearing of Dacia and Irslan’s blood connection.
“The governor himself had fallen ill,” Ersana said. “As a result, his son has taken over.”
The governor’s son, Korsten reiterated to himself in silence. Sethaniel’s son. His brother. “I must go to the governor’s manor and let my fellows know that I’ve returned and offer what assistance I am able.”
“The battle is underway,” Ersana told him before he had fully turned to leave. It was difficult to tell if it was in reminder or warning.
Korsten issued her a nod, then directed himself toward the doors. Turning about faced him with Dacia, whose arm he touched lightly. He wanted to inquire of her well-being, but as she continued to appear untouched by events of the immediate past, he determined to leave her health to her mother.
“Stay here,” he instructed, because he felt it necessary after the dream. And then he stepped around her and made his way through those who had convened for prayer or shelter, or both.
The forum offered the shelter of solid walls and a deep space, but it remained open to the outside. That would not pose a problem until the enemy made way into the city itself. The air was darkening beyond the archways leading out to the street, though whatever caused the eruptions lit the sky sporadically, like lightning, but again, it was no storm. It reminded Korsten more of Blast, but with a far greater magnitude, one that moved through buildings.
At the entryway, Korsten halted to look at the sky, to see it striated wit
h columns of smoke. A pair of constables arrived, one of them stopping near him. The man lowered a sizeable bag off of his shoulder, unwrapping items Korsten didn’t look at until one was offered to him. He looked at the sword with some mild confusion at the fact that it was being presented, glancing over his shoulder at the man’s fellow, who was summoning the attention of others, whom he selectively offered weapons to.
“Take it,” the constable beside Korsten instructed, evidently taking his silence for hesitation or refusal. “It may come to all of us to defend the city.”
“No,” Korsten said, then looked at him again. “No, thank you. I’m equipped.”
The man’s expression appeared to argue, but then he must have actually looked at Korsten, for he frowned in a somewhat abashed manner and withdrew the sword on offer. “Spells, then?”
“Among other tools,” Korsten replied, stepping away from the gentleman before the moment could become anymore awkward for him.
The exchange was instantly forgotten by Korsten as he emerged into the open air, which felt warm with friction, alive with conflict that appeared to be coming from the direction of the harbor. So, they had come by sea, after all. And not alone….
Looking toward the water, watching a blast of some weapon or spell trace smoke and a thin layer of clouds with light, he could see the silhouette of something more. His mind immediately wanted to make it a horde of demons taken flight, but that wasn’t it at all. What he saw may not have been tangible in any sense, but only the projection of what he could feel … an imagined manifestation of presence, not only of the Vadryn, but of a Master.
Not Serawe, he argued at once. Unconsciously, he was taking steps in the direction of the docks. He’d left her out at sea. She had dissipated in the current, been pulled like threads from fabric, left to drift in an energy that was more powerful than her. She could not have escaped it so soon—if she even could at all. She could not have manifested a new cohesive form so soon. He refused to believe it.
“They have a fleet of at least twenty ships” Fersmyn reported, a frown that appeared both vexed and dismayed on his aging features. He returned to the central table after an exchange of words—presumably of information—at the doorway with a soldier. “Nine came into our harbor initially with more than twice as many looming in the distance, their attack pending, I assure you.”
Deitir cast his own perturbed expression down at the map that had been lain across the table since the first crucial assault on Indhovan had occurred. It served little purpose now, Cayri imagined. The time for planning had passed and now only actions would determine whether or not the city survived.
“I don’t like how quickly the lead ships sailed in,” Deitir finally said, lifting his gaze to Fersmyn. “It was reckless.”
“Almost suicidal,” Firard put in from his position beside the now closed office doors.
“You think that they were aware of the fire trap,” Deitir said, more as a statement of concurrence than a question seeking confirmation.
The two looked at one another across the room, seeming to silently come to terms with what appeared a fact.
Cayri’s disappointment over the fire trap’s potential compromising was lessened by the prior conversation she and Vlas had had. She was prepared for it to have far less impact than they had originally been relying on. Fortunately, their entire defense was not reliant on its success.
“But the men on the ships….” Ilayna said, approaching the table and her son.
Cayri looked over at the lady. “Perhaps no longer men.”
What she had suggested with that comment set a momentary silence upon the room’s occupants.
“So, the notion of physical death would not have daunted them,” Deitir surmised.
“No,” Cayri confirmed.
“All three of their lead ships were downed,” Alledar reminded, seeming out of breath in his discomfort, perhaps physically as well as mentally and emotionally. The war had formally arrived. There was no promise that it would not manifest in the very room they all stood.
“That leaves six in the harbor,” Fersmyn said, “barraging us with a much more proficient example of the fire tactics.”
“They’ve had longer to prepare,” Deitir reminded him, a note of impatience toward Fersmyn’s pessimism was detectable. “Months, or years, perhaps.”
Fersmyn continued with an air of concession to Deitir’s determination. He was also unprepared to surrender so quickly, but he clearly found it both frustrating and disheartening that such a significant portion of their strategy had been so swiftly undermined. “The outermost parts of the city have been evacuated. The loss of citizens should be small, but our defenses on the water are not holding against the assault.”
“Our military is insufficient, I agree, but we’ll find a way. We must.” Deitir braced his hands against the edge of the table, drawing in a breath before issuing his next command. “Let’s prepare the ground troops for defense against the enemy coming ashore.”
“Right,” Constable Rahl responded. “We have fewer men, but it will be more risk for them to penetrate the city. They’ll have arrows coming down at them out of windows.”
“Yes,” Alledar said somewhat sardonically, “and probably the means to avert some of that risk by decimating whatever stands too high before they even come ashore.”
“They don’t have that kind of range,” Rahl insisted. He then glanced about at the others, as if for some support or confirmation that what he had said was true.
“We’re, all of us, hoping not, I’m sure,” Alledar said, his nervousness in the face of stress—another invasion so close on the heels of the wave—manifesting an air of antagonism.
One which Fersmyn was the first to protest. “Your tone is less than moralizing. Perhaps you’d like to negotiate our surrender.”
“That’s enough,” Deitir interrupted, before an argument could truly begin. “We’ll not be quarreling amongst ourselves as well.” He looked from one officer to the other, then said to all of them. “There’s work to be done. See to it.”
“Governor,” Rahl said on his way out.
Deitir straightened from the table and approached Cayri, speaking low enough to keep the conversation between them while others set about their duties. “What do you make of the three advance ships?”
“I’m not a tactical expert,” Cayri replied. “But I believe that the first ship, at least, was a sacrifice, deliberately driven into the fire trap.”
Deitir nodded, acknowledging the sense of such a theory. “So, they did not care that they lost it. But what of the two with it?”
“Perhaps they did not anticipate just how much material had been laid out on the skiffs.” Cayri could only guess at this stage, as accurately or as poorly as any of them.
“They followed too closely and were unable to compensate,” Deitir surmised. “It stands to reason that we did do some damage to them, then.”
“Some,” Cayri conceded. “Likely not enough.”
Deitir’s brow drew together, but didn’t commit to the frown they had started. “You aren’t abandoning hope now, are you?”
She looked at him, reading ‘hope’ to have been substituted for him. “No,” she said, on both counts. “I’m not.”
Glancing past him, Cayri noticed Ilayna observing without hearing. She recalled enough of her own mother to not doubt maternal intuition, and took no offense at the knowing and somewhat concerned expression on Ilayna’s features. Under less urgent circumstances, she would have taken the time to assure Ilayna that Deitir’s and Indhovan’s best interests were her priority, and that she had no designs on encouraging his admiration out of context. She was a mage who had helped his family and would remain that well after this battle had passed. The circumstances fed Deitir’s sentimentality. She felt confident that that was the extent of it, and once the urgency of the hour had passed, the
focus of his sentiment would drift.
Truthfully the sentimental developments Cayri was most concerned with were those which Vlas had demonstrated. Her fellow mage had been affected by at least two souls in this city, if not three. It was not beyond Vlas’ capabilities, but it was not common for him. She hoped that there would be time for him to overcome his trauma regarding the death of Vaelyx Treir. She also hoped that the sudden friendship between Irslan and Vlas would not be further traumatizing for either of them, since each of them seemed to be defying or denying a loss. As to Imris … it was peculiar of Vlas to be lured to romantic notions by a shared traumatic experience, but regardless of that, there was no denying the actuality of his attraction to the constable.
The thoughts were pushed aside in favor of considerations that were much more dire. There were nine ships in the harbor, at least three of them casting explosive projectiles at the city and their own makeshift battleships. Those following likely carried troops and supplies, perhaps more than enough to sustain Morenne to the battle’s end in their favor. Indhovan was not without supplies, and not without numbers, but many of its numbers were the untrained population. As it occurred to her, she said, “The civilian population may have to assist in defending its home.”
“Yes,” Deitir agreed. “Fersmyn has already suggested the distribution of weapons at the designated shelters throughout the city. I intend to implement that plan. In fact, it’s already underway.”
Cayri nodded approval, looking out toward the harbor. “I should go down to the water.”
Deitir’s presence seemed to leap a little in panic at the idea. “What do you mean? Why?”
“We don’t know what the sacrificed ship was actually carrying,” Cayri explained. “If it was meant to stage demons, even if only one of the Vadryn, that danger will have to be extinguished as quickly as possible. I’m the only one present who is qualified to do so.”
Deitir frowned openly now. “I realize that, but no one can go near to that assault. Not even a mage could survive being struck by such a force, surely.”