by J. S. Morin
"How do you know he's—" Varnus began, but stopped short, his head pulled back. Faolen faded into view, a knife to Varnus's throat. It was neither a warrior's last resort, nor a sneak's tool, nor even a kitchen implement. It looked like a letter opener gone sharp, but a droplet of blood welling at the tip told that it was enough to do its job.
Varnus struggled, but Faolen pulled the knife tighter against his flesh. "Hold still, you oaf, or I'll kill you by accident. Brannis, I demand to see the warlock."
Kyrus said nothing. He regarded Faolen with much the same look that he had seen on the faces of the Society of Learned Men professors, studying an entomological specimen pinned to a display board.
"Brannis, do something," Varnus pleaded.
"No," Kyrus told them both.
"You are subject of the empire," Faolen said. "Any demand to see Warlock Rashan must be honored."
"I think you shall find that many of the rules the warlock sets have difficulty laying hand upon me," Kyrus returned. "If you would explain yourself, first release Varnus."
"They got me, too," Faolen said, still keeping tight hold of Varnus with his blade. "It was Tanner, and he had Stalyart with him. They got the boy back for Zayne."
"Any of that sound true, Varnus?" Kyrus asked.
"It wasn't Tanner. Even drunk I'd know his bladework anywhere."
"It was Stalyart that killed you, you ale-soaked buffoon!" Faolen shouted. "Some protector you turned out to be!"
"Faolen, now let Varnus go," Kyrus said.
"I want you to swear first—"
Kyrus lost his patience with the ruse. He twisted knife and wrist himself, prying Faolen away from his hostage. Faolen cried out in pain, dropping the knife before Kyrus released him. Faolen collapsed seated to the floor, leaning on the wall for support and cradling a broken wrist. Kyrus had not had to move a muscle.
"Care to start that sentence again?" Kyrus asked. When no response was forthcoming, he persisted. "What of Varnus's claim that you are spying for Rashan? What is the warlock seeking from me?"
"He's just concerned about your well-being," Faolen said. "You have so much responsibility—"
"Piss in the wind," Varnus said. "He wasn't asking after your health, he wanted to know what you've been studying, what we talked about behind wards and doors."
"Care for one last try?" Kyrus asked.
Faolen faded, melted, and flowed. The image of the effete illusionist was replaced by the youthful form of the demon warlock. "Faolen is not the only one versed in illusion, Kyrus. You should have known better," Rashan said. "I am disappointed in you. Caladris was never so easily—"
Rashan's voice cut short, his eyes bulged and darted about madly. Kyrus smirked at him.
"Come on, Rashan. I should not be that easy to hold you fast—if you really are Rashan," Kyrus said. "In fact, I think I have an idea to make sure."
"What are you thinking, Brannis?" Varnus said, grabbing him by the arm. "What if this really is Rashan?"
"I would not put the ruse past him, but Rashan was careful to avoid ever learning my real name. He did not want to be able to slip, and knowing that the real Brannis was on the other side was all the knowledge he really needed, anyway," Kyrus explained. "But I intend to see if he can escape from one of the warded cells. We are in the dungeons already, so it is the first test that comes to mind."
Kyrus felt Faolen struggle, both for freedom and for breath.
"Oh, demons have no need for breath, either, as I recall. Perhaps I should just wait a moment, and see whether you pass out," Kyrus said.
"Fine, Brannis, it's Faolen after all. What are you trying to prove?" Varnus asked.
"You said you think he might have arranged your death," Kyrus said. Varnus gave a tiny nod, eyes grim. "We know he has kidnapped a twinborn boy in both worlds, and tried to take him for his own. You said he has been spying on me for Rashan, which he has so artfully refuted." Kyrus indicated the false Rashan before them. "And not two moments ago, he had a knife to your throat. What am I trying to prove? Nothing but that he belongs in one of those cells regardless. Go on back to your duties. I am truly sorry for the loss of Zellisan. I will tell Soria."
Kyrus clapped the burly guard captain on the shoulder, and sent him on his way. Varnus's shoulders still slumped as he departed the dungeons, but he held his head a bit higher.
"As for you ..." Kyrus took Faolen in tow, allowing him just enough leeway to breathe. The warded cells were one level lower, and Kyrus said not another word on the way down. The corridor looked just as Kyrus had remembered it from his last venture down. There was a furrow across from where a cell once was that turned into a hole across the way—one he had made himself to escape from one of those same cells.
The doors of the remaining cells were all ajar. Kyrus picked the last one of the line, and dumped Faolen inside. He reverted back to his own form, looking up at Kyrus from hands and knees.
"When Rashan comes for me, I'll tell him about all this," Faolen warned. "Don't leave me in here."
Kyrus glared down at the illusionist. Liar. Kidnapper. Spy. He threatened Varnus's life to worm his way free, probably killed him in Tellurak.
"Tell Rashan? I think not," Kyrus said. With a sharp tug, Faolen's Source was emptied of its aether. The little bit was nothing to the yawning maw of Kyrus's own Source, just a morsel to be tucked away. Kyrus guided the body as it fell, draping it against the inside of the door as he closed it.
When Kyrus activated the cell, the deed was complete. Anyone who came and found Faolen would assume the cell had emptied his Source.
Rashan suspects, but is not certain. Perhaps this buys another day or more. If nothing else, I shall cast one fewer shadow where I go.
* * * * * * * *
The double doors of the dining hall burst open, and a Sixth Circle stumbled through. Every head present turned at the sound. The messenger had a scrap of paper in hand and his head swiveled about, eyes searching the room.
"Warlock Rashan?" the sorcerer called out.
"Quiet, lad," Fenris scolded, "we are in the middle of an important—"
"What is it?" Rashan interrupted. The table of sketched security arrangements for the wedding was scratched gladly from his memory by the prospect of something more exciting—which included anything not related to festival planning.
"Warlock, can this wait? We need to be certain of our plans, considering the last wedding we had," Celia said. Half the Inner Circle was gathered, along with several of the guard captains of the various noble houses attending.
"Give it here, Sorcerer Kirkan," Rashan said, meeting the Sixth Circle sorcerer halfway, hand extended to receive the note.
They’ve breached Wellspring holding at third floor. Send aid.
"Inner Circle, follow me to the gardens," Rashan ordered. "NOW!" The dining hall was only separated from the gardens by a wall of large glass doors and a terrace. Rashan was already halfway to those doors before the first of his Inner Circle rose from their seats.
"What's going on?" Aloisha demanded, following nonetheless.
"Whitefield is under attack this very moment," Rashan called back, not slowing. He thrust open the doors and jogged across the terrace to the grassy lawn, then turned. He did not wait for everyone to catch up, or catch their breath, but began explaining. "I am going there now, via transference. Any volunteers to join me?"
Silence.
"I thought not. Instead I order you to stand your ground, ready to receive whatever comes back. I will try to keep yet another stone out of Megrenn hands," Rashan said.
"What do you think might—" Fenris began asking, but abandoned his question by the roadside as Rashan was already enveloped in a sphere of aether.
* * * * * * * *
The sphere of his transference spell vanished, leaving him in a chamber of yellowed marble with a circle of well-tended lawn at its center. Rashan had time to register that, and no more, as runes carved all about the walls erupted in lances of ice. He was stabbed throug
h a dozen times even after the first several had wasted themselves against his shields. No blood poured from those wounds, of course, but Rashan was aware of the chill that seeped in. His muscles slowed and rime encrusted him, spreading over the whole of his body.
The ceiling of the chamber was rent asunder and a cascade of water poured over him, freezing as it touched. In seconds he was encased in a slovenly prison of ice, resembling nothing so much as a splash suspended in time.
* * * * * * * *
Jinzan rushed into the speaking stone chamber, amazed at the calmness he felt despite victory being so close at hand. His hands did not shake, nor did his heart race. Truly, he had gained mastery over his physical body.
His trap had worked perfectly. The demon, Rashan Solaran, was impaled and frozen solid. Jinzan took the Staff of Gehlen in both hands and pressed the squared wings of the head against the icy prison. Jinzan commanded it to draw, to crush the living Source from the demon from just a handsbreadth of ice away. He felt a cyclone of aether whirling into him, filling him, filling the staff—but none came from the demon. Even grasped by ice and held immobile, those demon eyes seemed to taunt him.
Jinzan paused, realizing he was drawing nothing but whiffs of aether. All that had been readily at hand he had taken already. He knew he needed some other plan. Loramar's technique for removing a Source was not working on Rashan Solaran.
“Hakvea golotanu dexjahi ecalamu,” Jinzan whispered, mindful that the demon had reacted to his spells by their sound once before. He cupped his hands together, holding the Staff of Gehlen in the crook of his arm. Between his hands, an orb of swirling energy formed. It grew, and Jinzan forced more and more aether into it. The more tightly he restrained it, the more powerful it became. It grew only when he was unable to contain it in a smaller vessel—and grow it did.
When the sphere became wide as his own chest, he unleashed it. It flew towards the icy prison where Rashan Solaran—was no longer trapped! The orb tore through the empty prison and the far wall of the speaking stone chamber, annihilating all in its path.
Jinzan shrieked in rage as the demon resumed his corporeal form, a pace from where the orb had passed. That shriek—a pained, wheezing, hiss—died quickly upon the realization that the demon was drawing his sword.
"Well, it looks like I was expected," Rashan quipped. The demon bore an insouciant smile, mocking the gravity of their encounter.
Jinzan tried once more, free of the barrier of ice that separated them, to extract the demon's Source. The Staff of Gehlen gave every sign of compliance, but delivered no result; it shook in his hand from the effort.
Rashan just clucked his tongue and watched. "Bite into an apple, and you might suck its juices dry. But you bite into stone, Councilor Fehr, and you merely break teeth. I knew a man once, long ago, who thought like you did."
"Loramar," Jinzan furnished the name. "I am his heir." His mind struggled to form a plan while the demon parlayed. If there was to be an advantage gained, it would be from the demon's own hubris. He took a single step back, and Rashan did not follow.
"Loramar may have been many things, but a father ... I think not," Rashan joked. "As you may have surmised, I am here for that staff, which you have no rightful claim to."
"And to kill me, no doubt?" Jinzan offered, hoping to draw a soliloquy from his adversary. He kept a slow and steady draw, hoping to keep below the demon's threshold for alarm.
"Kill you? KILL you? My dear Councilor Fehr, I could not kill you if I wanted to—you are already dead." Rashan spoke the last in the tone of an elder, trying to scare small children with fireside stories. Jinzan was not amused.
"You think yourself amusing, demon?"
"I do." Rashan chuckled.
"I am master of death, Grand Necromancer, student of Loramar's works," Jinzan proclaimed.
"And dead as soon as you run out of aether," Rashan replied. "You are student of a select set of Loramar's works. My nephew told me of them. You were meant to find the tomb—not you specifically, but whatever ambitious would-be necromancer came along. All Loramar's works were destroyed, save a scant few, enough to lead some great threat to the Kadrin Empire down a path of doom instead. I imagine that without that staff you might have expired fully already."
"You need more plausible lies, demon," Jizan said. "I am my Source, my body a mere vessel."
"Ah, Loramar's philosophy boiled down to a novice's understanding," Rashan observed. The demon took a step in his direction, a casual step, but carrying the weight of threat by reputation. There was no unthreatening action for an avowed foe of Rashan Solaran. Jinzan took a step back to match, but found the demon's advance continued. He kept backing away. "And you know, I pay you the respect of name and title; you call me 'demon.' Even Loramar had better manners."
Rashan leapt for Jinzan, catching him unawares despite having seen the sudden change in his demeanor in battle once before. Heavens Cry slammed against Jinzan's shielding magic—once, twice, a dozen times. Jinzan drew more aether in to reinforce it, but knew that it was not a plan for a long engagement. He thrust out his hand and shot from it a bolt of pure aether.
Rashan was thrown to the wall, narrowing missing the doorway to the ruined speaking stone chamber. He crumbled to the ground, Heavens Cry clattering free of his hand. He gave a feeble effort to rise, and collapsed once more.
"This is the end of you demon—here, today. Just as it is for those back in Kadris, helpless without you there to defend them from my apprentices, and the dead they created from your sorcerers who guarded this place," Jinzan boasted.
Jinzan approached slowly, wary of the demon's tricks. He shot another bolt of aether, and the body splayed against the wall, back broken and twisted. Jinzan allowed himself a smile. Best destroy him entirely. Let those who wish to claim he still lives be the ones to offer proof. Jinzan nodded to himself.
He stood above the body, marveling at how such a small creature could have been the cause of such misery and destruction. The youthful face was still twisted up in malevolent glee, eyes manic, staring blankly. It was poetry itself that the teachings of a long-dead nemesis were the key to his undoing. Without Loramar's aid, Jinzan would never have had the strength of body to withstand the forces his mind could channel. He never would have had the fortitude to stand up to all the hardship of endless days and nights of study, to defend the last of the Megrenn Alliance while there was something left to save.
"Halatu dunaxi tukaso ..." Jinzan began, but a twitch and a twist shattered his concentration. Rashan's body snapped around, the broken spine realigning itself as Rashan lunged for the Staff of Gehlen. Rashan only got one hand around it, but that was enough.
Jinzan flailed about, seeking to dislodge the demon. Rashan Solaran was ferociously strong, but light enough that even Jinzan could thrash him about like a game hare. Jinzan loosed another bolt of aether, but a shield sprang into existence around his foe just in time to absorb its impact. Jinzan began to panic, mind abuzz with conflicting thoughts of what to do next.
"You rely too much on a few simple tricks," Rashan observed, still clinging stubbornly to the staff. Jinzan continued to swing him about, battering the demon into walls and off the marble floor. "That trap was a stroke of brilliance, but you had nothing to fall back on when it was not enough on its own."
"Shut up, monster," Jinzan snarled.
"Make me, corpse," Rashan countered.
Jinzan reached out with a spell of telekinesis, and tore two door-sized chunks from the walls. He brought them together to crush the demon in between. As he had once before, Rashan turned himself incorporeal just before impact.
Incorporeal hands cannot grasp.
Jinzan had the staff free once more, and began drawing aether for a renewed assault. Rashan reached out behind him, and his sword leapt into his hand.
"Well done. Much better plan," Rashan said, giving a slight bow.
"You think this is a game?" Jinzan asked.
"You think it not?" Rashan retorted. "Play
at chess, and wonder at what those pieces represent. It is a war, this—all this about us—rendered in miniature. But this is the true game. Unlike chess, these sides are not equal; you are nothing but an obstacle, not a threat."
"So you think," Jinzan replied. He raised the Staff of Gehlen, prepared to unleash a spell from aether stored within.
Rashan was quicker. He raised a hand and a shock of lightning arced between the two men. Jinzan bore the brunt with his shielding spell, but was lifted off his feet and thrown the length of the corridor. The corridor ended in a 'T' intersection; Jinzan was driven clear through the wall, making it an 'X.'
Jinzan had broken ribs—he knew this in the manner of a physician examining a patient, not as one feeling the sensation of pain. His shielding spell was worn eggshell thin, but that was a secondary concern. The first was freefall.
The corridor had turned because the Wellspire ended there, and Jinzan had been blasted out into the city beyond. He fell not far, but splashed into one of the aqueducts that ran from the Wellspire. He bumped against the bottom of the channel and bobbed back to the surface, swept along by chest-deep waters.
Jinzan craned his neck, and saw that Rashan Solaran was standing in the hole through which he had been jettisoned. Knowing that he had little time to prepare himself, Jinzan struggled to get his feet beneath him. The current flowed at a walking pace, and Jinzan found he could hold himself against it, once he stopped himself being carried along and found firm footing.
Rashan hopped down from the Wellspire, falling two stories to land deftly upon the side wall of the aqueduct. He scurried along the maintenance walkway, comfortably wide enough to keep thoughts of an error of balance or a gust of wind out of Jinzan's hopes. Jinzan instead tried to create his own misfortune for the demon.
A simple telekinetic shove was all it should have taken, but Jinzan found that the demon's Source was too slick to keep a hold on. In trying, he lost valuable time—all the while, the demon closing in.
"I think I owe you this," Rashan called out, still well out of the range where that wicked sword of his could be brought to bear.