The Blood Wars Trilogy Omnibus: Volumes 1 - 3

by T. A. Miles

  “I saw the odd light,” Lerissa answered. “What makes you believe it’s a ghoul?”

  “I felt as if it looked upon me with eyes lacking a soul.”

  “Without one, it would not be able to cast spells,” Lerissa reminded.

  And Vlas conceded the point with a nod. Afterward, he shrugged. “It is whatever it may be. Ghoul or not, someone is using magic. And that may compromise our plan.”

  Lerissa nodded as well. “We should proceed anyway. Their magic user will have to notice the spell before any attempts to counter it can be made. And if that happens, we’ll answer with counters of our own.”

  Vlas agreed with that strategy. He only wondered why dealing with ghouls seemed to be his calling as of late.

  The second of Morenne’s weapons had gone down similar to the first with the only important difference being that it hadn’t been under the escort of a possessed soldier. Korsten didn’t know if that meant the demon had departed, having been somehow aware of the fate of its fellow, or if there simply wasn’t one present from the start. Whichever reason may have been behind the absence, Korsten detected no Vadryn near to the weapon’s location. Sharlotte may have distrusted that situation more than Korsten, but regardless, there was nothing for either of them to do about it beyond make their report to the governor and his men so that a quick and proper response could be implemented. There was no telling whether or not Morenne had more of the devices and it would be foolish to waste the opportunity, however small, the destruction of even two allowed for.

  With that in mind, they returned to the manor. The only other mage present for the moment was Cayri. It seemed unlikely that she would be leaving the governor’s side again unless direly pressed. It came as an afterthought to Korsten that she was committing herself in this duty to his brother. It was a strange sensation that came with little emotion; it was little more than recognition of knowing something he hadn’t before. There had been no time for gaining or exploring any sentiment beyond the fact that Deitir was another child of Sethaniel’s. Though that was important in itself, Korsten’s perception was more specifically placed on the political significance of Indhovan’s leader. Deitir Tahrsel’s protection was key.

  “Activity has calmed in the harbor, but it won’t stay that way for long,” the deputy governor said to a constant audience of officers, mages, and protected guests. “By taking out their weapons that were brought ashore we’ve forced them to reevaluate their tactics, but I would count on nothing more.”

  “I agree,” Deitir replied.

  Korsten’s gaze wandered over the guests while the discussion was underway. His father appeared tired, but focused. Dacia was sat quietly in a chair along the wall, beside Irslan. The small console table between them serviced the cousins with a tray of food that neither of them seemed overly interested in at the moment.

  “And they may have more of those weapons,” another officer said, drawing Korsten’s attention back to the main table. “The work of the mages may only have caused them to hesitate in positioning them.”

  “So, we should stay,” Sharlotte determined. “If we continue to have an active presence it might delay them long enough for reinforcements to arrive.”

  “From where?” that same officer asked.

  “From Vassenleigh,” Korsten replied, taking the question as his opportunity to enact his own strategy, one which he felt aligned with Sharlotte’s, particularly as she neither interrupted nor presented a criticizing expression. He continued, “One of us should report to the Council and insist upon the participation of whatever field mages are available or can be spared from the western front.”

  “And if none can?” Fersmyn said.

  “There have to be some,” Sharlotte answered. She was decided in that. The notion that there was no one was apparently unacceptable. “We cannot be spread so thin.”

  “It was thirty years since you were last at the Seminary,” Cayri reminded, and for some reason Korsten had not anticipated that she would be the one to relate that.

  “I’ll return,” Korsten volunteered, diverting any argument that may have stemmed of the discussion.

  Both women looked at him.

  “I’ll go alone,” he said. “If this city can spare any of us, it’s only one, and it’s not Sharlotte. She, of all of us, is the most needed. Cayri has her duty as well which should not be pended, and since Lerissa and Vlas have begun a strategy, it should be seen through. I believe it will be successful, if allowed to be implemented fully. The four of you must stay.”

  “But your qualifications with the Vadryn themselves,” Cayri pointed out.

  “Unfortunately, my qualifications might well be as much detriment as aid, given the nature of the circumstances. The compliment to my talents is currently unable to be present, and I should take the time to reconnect with him as well. With any luck, he will be in a condition to join us. Whatever the situation, the Council will be fully informed and advised of what the state of affairs are at this front. They will do as they are able, I’m certain.”

  “Will you be coming back?”

  Though it had been Lady Ilayna who asked, Korsten looked to his father, on whose behalf he believed the question had been issued, and said, “I hope to.”

  Sethaniel’s response was silent, and Korsten settled himself to leave at that, but then he watched his father begin to rise with some effort from his chair. Ilayna, in going immediately over to him, nearly insisted that he stay in his seat. Naturally, Sethaniel protested with an incoherent grumble and by bringing himself to a stand in spite of her and in spite of himself. Secretly, Korsten was glad of that. As much as he’d been convinced of Sethaniel’s tyranny and wrongly expressed strength, he loathed to see him weak now. Yes, his father was prideful, but its basis was in caring for his family at this stage, for what remained of it. A daughter who had stayed near but grown distant, an adopted son who addressed Sethaniel’s age first, a son estranged by circumstance Korsten knew little of, and a son who had returned from an absence that may as well have been the grave to a father left uninformed on the far shores of Edrinor.

  It was only when Sethaniel began to take steps away from the table that Korsten decided to meet him half way.

  In that small measure of privacy, Sethaniel looked Korsten in the eye, though he seemed emotionally strained doing so. “When all of this has come to an end,” the elder said. “Return to my library. It has always been your place.”

  Korsten nodded. “I will, Father.” As he was speaking, Sethaniel took his hand in both of his own. He held on for a moment and when they slipped away they had left something in Korsten’s grasp. It appeared a small pendant. Crafted of a pale gold, it was heavily wrought in pattern, so ornate that it was nearly as looking upon chaos. Yet, there was an order to the wending branches of gold. In the moments Korsten stared upon its complicated beauty, he began to believe that he knew its purpose.

  Sethaniel’s voice interrupted. “That was your mother’s. Though she left it silently, I feel strongly that she left it to you. It’s taken me this long to let it go.”

  To that Korsten could only say, “Perhaps she meant it for both of us.”

  Sethaniel looked at him again, tears in his old dark eyes.

  And Korsten hugged him. He put his arms around his father and received no protest, and so held him for a long moment. “I love you, Father,” he said for the second time since a very small child. “It was a terrible lie that ever made either of us doubt that.”

  Sethaniel’s withered hand patted Korsten’s back and settled warmly beneath his hair. “You’re my son,” the elder said. “In so many ways. And in so many ways, you are your mother’s child. You are our legacy, Korsten.”

  While the words were delivered, Korsten opened his hand to look at the heirloom from his mother, then closed his fingers over it again and withdrew from his father’s embrace. It took a maximum effort to
turn from Sethaniel and perform the Reach spell.

  A mist collected along the slope in such a swift and encompassing manner that it unsettled some of Gairel’s own men. Vlas did his best to instill calm in those within range and instructed the captain to do the same, and to spread assurance throughout their forces. When Lerissa’s casting had swelled to a palpable curtain, Vlas performed a Wind spell, just enough to usher the mist toward the arbalests and the oncoming enemy. There was enough warm air from the bodies and their torches that the mist was reluctant to fully settle too far down the wall, but it lingered thickly around the middle area, which was precisely where the first arbalests were positioned. When the time was proper, the soldiers were given the signal to begin their work, and they did so with alacrity.

  The creaking of wood and metal and the ensuing sing of bolts through the air became as tangible as the fog surrounding them. The projectiles from the arbalests were stout enough and sent with enough force that they penetrated the heavy atmosphere. The sounds of them knocking wetly into various marks, paired with the pained cries of men was a morbid and gruesome serenade in the acoustics of the enshrouded slope. Undoubtedly, some of those marks were only the earth, but many of them were flesh.

  Vlas waited through the initial barrage, the locations of the outmost arbalests marked in his mind. When enough time had passed and still there came no sounds of the clashing of metal that would indicate the enemy had pushed passed the arbalests, he cast another minor Wind spell, directing more of the mist toward the line, creating an opaque wall of air between them and their opponents and clearing visibility for their side.

  Gairel followed according to plan, reorganizing his men, moving them into a shield formation at first, though if the arbalest assault held longer, they would carry out a charge. In effect, they would be cutting through the Mist as if the bolts from the arbalests had become soldiers.

  It was then that a dull green glow pulsed beneath the Mist, tumbling erratically throughout it, like ill-colored lightning. It came with no thunder, performing its dismal dance with no apparent purpose behind it. Vlas glanced over his shoulder, toward Lerissa, who appeared equally disturbed and puzzled by the phenomenon.

  A man shrieked nearby, drawing Vlas’ gaze urgently in that direction. He located the soldier in the moment the man had fallen to the ground writhing. The ill light was trailing around and over him. With his screams, more lights joined in, drawn like fish to prey writhing on the surface of a lake. Another soldier became caught in the frenzy while others were clearing away.

  “What are they?” Lerissa’s question came at his shoulder as she had come down to join him.

  Vlas was in the process of trying to descry that answer for himself when Lerissa found the small crossbow slung to her belt, positioned a bolt, and took aim. She fired what was little more than a silver dart toward the fallen soldiers and their assailants. It caught one of the green smears of energy, which inspired the manifestation of a whole form, that of a demon.

  “They’re the Vadryn,” Lerissa stated, undaunted by the incorporeal form of the beast, looming over the soldiers, glaring now in their direction. The narrow bolt that passed through it left a sagging gap in its attempt to hold a face together. A second shot disrupted the creature further, expunging it.

  It was an unusual method for the demons, but they remained the same at their core. Vlas drew his sword and moved in the direction of the small swarm. “Stay clear of them,” he said to Gairel’s men, enforcing that they had taken the better action by not engaging the Vadryn. “Focus on the soldiers.”

  The disrupted unit collected itself somewhat haphazardly and joined their fellows. Gairel ordered a charge. Heavy, uniform footfall and a rush of motion saturated Vlas’ senses. He forced it back with effort and concentrated on the task before him. The glowing shapes of the Vadryn continued to dance around their first victims, whetting their appetites for more blood, something they had likely just been fed, courtesy of the arbalest assault. Bringing down the enemy was perhaps more boon to Morenne than detriment. Killing men meant unleashing demons.

  Vlas hurried to cut back one of the demons before it immersed itself into one of the incapacitated men. A second beast tried to dash through and over him as it had the soldiers, but it was knocked back by another swipe of his sword. The lit form separated along the cut he made, curling around to reform, but ultimately finding no purchase as the channeling power of the weapon’s craft and material disrupted the current of the creature’s own tainted essence, disallowing cohesion.

  A third Vadryn looped around him, dousing him temporarily in its unnatural glow. The feeling of its probing, clutching presence was strange and uncomfortable, but it found nothing to latch on to—with thanks to Zesyl—and therefore no invitation to attempt an entrance into Vlas. A vessel with no apparent meal source was of no value to a demon. It was the mage’s advantage. Unfortunately, there were only two mages present on the current battlefield and there were scores of men and women with souls exposed for the taking.

  When the creature slid away from Vlas, Lerissa did him the service of shooting it. These were demons more interested in feeding than fighting, a deliberate two on the enemy’s part for draining the life, or at least the strength out of their opponents. Vlas and Lerissa managed to eradicate the small swarm with no further losses, but it had sufficiently distracted them from the rest of the battle. Nevertheless, Gairel’s men seemed to be holding Morenne against ascending the wall for the time present.

  “I see no more lights,” Lerissa announced.

  Vlas nodded, confirming what she said and that he also did not see any more of the Vadryn. None cast in an eerie glow, at least. He suspected that had something to do with the ghoulish magic user who had accompanied the Morennish soldiers.

  “We’ll have to face that one sooner or later,” Lerissa said, as if Vlas had shared his thought with her.

  “Yes,” Vlas knew. “Yes, we will.”

  It was Merran’s room that Korsten reached to. The room secondarily to the individual occupying it. After all that had happened, in light of the urgency of the hour, Korsten realized in the process of performing the spell that what he really desired was to see his dear friend once again. No, they had not been separated for long, but the nature of their separation was straining. And the events that had passed seemed to have encompassed months, over hours or days.

  Korsten stood in the doorway, observing the loneliness of the room for the moment. No one else was present. Merran was the only occupant, and he was currently asleep. Crossing the room, Korsten half considered getting into Merran’s bed with him, and simply lying by his side. Once at the bedside, he stood over his friend and looked upon his sedate features. Visually, he traced the shape of Merran’s mouth, the strong line of his jaw, the set of his brow, and the gentle shapes of his eyelids. Eventually, he knelt down and leaned over to kiss those eyelids. They did not so much as flutter, which might have alarmed Korsten, except that he had suspected upon entering that Merran’s sleep was induced by spell. He was far too still and the bedding around him far too ordered. When naturally unconscious, Merran preferred to make a mess of things.

  Sighing, Korsten began the task of looking his friend and lover over more closely for sign of injury. He knew the most prominent damage anyone had mentioned had been to Merran’s hand, but he saved looking at that for last. A part of him disbelieved that such an injury would require this. The rest of him feared that, for Merran’s role, such an injury might have been the absolute most dire, beyond one that was literally a threat to his very life.

  Finally, Korsten’s eyes found Merran’s bandaged hand, and he simply looked at it. He recalled a moment years ago, the back of Merran’s hand lit in circular patterns while Korsten bemoaned the superficial damage to the skin Merran was already Healing. I don’t begrudge you your lack of patience back then, my dearest friend.

  He placed his fingertips on the bandaging ging
erly, and a sting of tears assailed the edges of his eyes while it struck him that Merran’s state might well have been very severe, emotionally, for Merran. What if his ability to perform as a mage had been compromised beyond repair?

  Gods….

  Korsten’s fingers began to slide around Merran’s, and then the sensation of presence in the doorway drew his gaze over his shoulder. The figure of resplendence, stood there in the gloomy light of a room barely occupied, captured Korsten’s breath for more reasons than one and none which allowed themselves to be isolated in the moment.

  “Ashwin,” he said quietly, and nearly cried again just for having spoken the name. He felt a renewed sensation of helplessness and simultaneously of elation, as he hadn’t felt in years, and it was absurd.

  “I never tire of your entrances, my dear,” the Mage-Superior said with the lightest of smiles.

  In spite of the immense reconnection Korsten had felt with his return to Cenily and to his father, being once again within the walls of the Seminary reminded him where home had come to be for him. He belonged at Vassenleigh, among the ranks of its mages.

  The spectral invitations from his mother attempted to immediately contradict that thought by drifting back to the foreground of his mental landscape. It replayed several recent moments for him, rapidly and effectively enough that he almost began to doubt his having come to the Seminary, which was naturally ridiculous. It may have been in regards to these frequent visions that he was especially justified in returning to Vassenleigh, and to his mentor.

  “I anticipate that you have much to talk about,” Ashwin said while they walked, and aptly. The Mage-Superior did not anticipate; he knew. He knew because he was an empath of his highest rank among those mages whose talents fell to green on the spectrum. And he also knew because he was as adept at detecting Korsten’s mental and emotional shifts, with or without his talents, as was anyone who knew Korsten well. Thirdly, Korsten at times wondered whether or not their initial spell touch had remained active all these years and if that didn’t assist the depth and precision of Ashwin’s insights.