The kar-vessár hummed, his lips twitching into a smile. “I wonder why he puts up with you.” He leaned forward and added, almost whispering, “does he even know…?”
“Do you?” snapped the sorcerer.
Myar Mal chuckled. “I think I have an idea.”
Suddenly, he straightened up, all traces of cordiality gone. Once again, he assumed his usual pose of impeccable, impersonal authority and Tayrel Kan relaxed. Assholes he could deal with.
“Anyway,” said the commander, in a voice that left no room for arguing, “we’re attacking soon. I want you to be ready.”
Tayrel Kan scoffed, then turned on his back. “No chance. I was injured, vessár. Have you no mercy?”
“Don’t get all teary on me. With all the shit you took, you probably can’t even feel pain.”
“Maybe, but I still need rest. I’m depleted.”
“That can be remedied.”
A shiver run down the sorcerer’s spine. “No, I can’t—”
“You can,” cut in Myar Mal. “And you will.” He leaned forward again, reaching to his pouch and retrieving a bulky syringe of metal and glass, filled with gleaming blue liquid. Tayrel Kan wanted to protest, but the kar-vessár didn’t give him a chance: “A few hours ago you fought me for the right to get that magic-wielder. Now you’re bailing out?”
“I know my limits,” barked the sorcerer, “you should try to learn yours, too. I’ve heard people who suffered a heart attack before their fifteenth cycle are not likely to make it to their twentieth.”
“My life expectancy is none of your business.”
He liked being unreadable, but the slight flaring of his nostrils and tightening of the jaw betrayed him.
Tayrel Kan smirked. “Oh, I’m just worried about you,” he purred, lips stretching in a venomous smile. “I bet you don’t get a lot of this at home. Did your sweetheart sit at your side when you suffered? Did she even give you a shot?”
Before he knew it, Myar Mal was on his feet, with one hand wrapped around the sorcerer’s neck and the other raised, clenched into a fist, ready to strike.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, lips twisted into an ugly snarl.
Tayrel Kan’s smile widened. That evidently sobered the kar-vessár, who let go and stepped away, slicking his hair back.
“I don’t have time to quarrel.” Myar Mal picked up the syringe he dropped during his outburst. “You either take it yourself or I’ll give it to you.”
Tayrel Kan clenched his teeth. Usually, he could fight the kar-vessár all day, but not like this, not wounded, depleted.
Not with the ghost of Myar Mal’s hand searing his neck.
“What’s that?” he asked, resigned. “Revenge? You’re mad I opposed you and now you’re trying to punish me?”
“I believe that’s called an order.”
Tayrel Kan hated taking orders. He made no move toward the syringe. So, swifter than an attacking dryak, kar-vessár grabbed his wrist and rammed the needle in, pressing the piston much faster than recommended. Tayrel Kan felt the fire filling his veins, creeping up his arm. He tried to muster enough focus to cast a silencing spell, but before he managed, pain flooded his mind in a white hot wave.
He screamed.
Chapter 22
I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help lingering around the tent. I grew to regret it, though, when the air was pierced by an inhuman shriek. My eyes darted around. There was no doubt, the shriek was coming from Tayrel Kan’s tent. A few people around paused what they were doing, casting nervous glances towards it, but none of them moved. A part of me wanted to rush in and see what was happening, but remembering Myar Mal’s stony gaze, I couldn’t bring myself to move.
After all, there was only Tayrel Kan and Myar Mal inside, neither of whom I wanted to cross if they were doing… something they shouldn’t. And there were plenty of people around, if someone was in danger, one of them would surely react. Right?
The shriek ended abruptly, and after what felt like an eternity, the flap opened. Myar Mal stepped out, followed by a man I’ve never seen before. Dahlsi, with high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, dimpled chin, and dull gray eyes in an eerie expressionless face.
“Poor sap.”
I jerked in surprise and spun around. Saral Tal was standing beside me.
“Who is it?” I asked, trying to match the picture to anyone I knew—anyone that could be in the tent with Myar Mal and…
“Tayrel Kan.”
Saral Tal sent me a weird look, and I turned back to catch another glance of the man before he disappeared. I tried to correlate what I saw with the sorcerer I knew, but in my mind, Tayrel Kan’s face was a mass of scars, shining blue eyes, and sardonic smiles. However embarrassing it might have sounded, I didn’t even remember how it looked beneath them. This… thing… was not him.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
“Katarda.” Saral Tal said, as if this word was supposed to explain everything. He must have been used to my ignorance, because he quickly proceeded to elaborate, “it’s a drug some sorcerers shoot when they need to recharge rapidly. They say it’s like pouring pure acid into your veins, and it only gets worse the more you use it, to the point recovering from the shot may take longer than just recharging naturally. I think Myar Mal had to give him something else to get him on his feet so soon. Those two have, ah, a special relationship.”
“Relationship?” I repeated mindlessly, my thoughts immediately shooting to the conversation we held a moment ago. “You mean they’re together?”
Tayrel Kan seemed more than interested in our kar-vessár, but I thought it was only wishful thinking. Or was he messing with me again? I knew he wasn’t telling me everything…
Saral Tal tilted his head quizzically. “I meant a professional relationship.”
Or I was just an idiot over-analyzing everything. I was so transfixed on Tayrel Kan’s story—and his personality—that all I could think of concerning him were romantic relationships.
“What do you mean?” I asked, desperate to shift the attention away from my gaffe. Luckily, Saral Tal was too polite to comment on it.
“Tayrel Kan doesn’t take orders very well,” he explained. “And Myar Mal doesn’t like being disobeyed. So them two are constantly at each other’s throats.”
“But Myar Mal is kar-vessár. How can Tayrel Kan disobey him?”
Saral Tal wave-shrugged. “Have you seen him when he’s angry? Or, you know, annoyed? No sane person would stand in his way. Even now, though he technically works for Mespana, he does what he wants. No vessár would put up with him, so Myar Mal created this position just to keep him in. I’ve heard he wanted to save him for special assignments, you know, the ones you wouldn’t send anyone else on, but Tayrel Kan doesn’t really like doing anything. For better or worse, he’s often in a state in which he can’t object. And Myar Mal takes advantage of that.”
I thought about Tayrel Kan’s hazy eyes and how I never saw him without tchalka.
“You’re talking about his drug addiction?”
Saral Tal hesitated for a moment before replying, “Well, I’ve heard people swearing they’ve seen Myar Mal handing him drugs.”
“And no one does anything about it?”
“Would you like to stand between those two? Good luck, Aldait Han. And goodbye. I hope that the next vessár will be with us a while longer.”
I sent a last look after the men, but they were gone. Probably preparing for a battle.
Speaking of which…
“How is our Cohort?” I asked.
Saral Tal straightened his back and raised his hand in a mock salute. “Ready when you are, vessár.”
I nodded my head towards Laik Var’s tent and he spun around and started walking towards it. I, however, froze as my eyes fell at a figure standing nearby. Amma La. She faced the same spot I was watching a moment ago, her hair obscuring her face, arms wrapped around her torso.
Did she know? A shiver ran
down my spine. I thought I should walk to her, talk to her, offer my condolences or… something; but I couldn’t bring myself to make a step.
Saral Tal waited a few paces ahead, his head tilted. “Are you coming?”
I swallowed, nodded, and rushed after him.
* * *
As I sat back in the vessár’s chair, my eyes turned toward the cupboard filled with scrolls. With a slight pang of guilt, I realized I should probably go through Laik Var’s papers and learn as much as possible about the Seventh Cohort.
My Cohort.
But what was the point, if some of its members were already dead and more were about to die? It would be easier if they remained anonymous.
I wondered how Laik Var lived with it. How anyone could live with it? Although, it was the first time we’d lost so many people at once. Did that make it harder? Or easier, turning real people into a slew of numbers?
“A report, vessár.” I looked at Saral Tal before my eyes drifted to the scroll he handed me.
It was a simple list, one Dahlsian hundred names divided neatly into twelve dozens. Occasional green rings with numbers inside denoted sorcerers and their magic potential. Some names were crossed out; others were merely darkened to signify injuries.
Malyn Tol-Syne.
Argan Am-Trever.
I wrested my eyes from the scroll.
“We need to disband the last two dozen.” The words came from my mouth, but it felt like it was someone else talking. “Distribute their members across the others, fill in the blanks.”
We didn’t get any official word from Myar Mal about what to do with empty spaces in our ranks. I guess we all were too afraid to ask—as if the act somehow made it more real.
“Yes, vessár.”
I exhaled heavily. My eyes fell on the scroll again.
“You probably knew them all.”
I wasn’t sure where it came from. They say a hundred people was the perfect size for one’s social group, but I couldn’t remember if they meant decimal hundred or dozenal. Well, my social group consisted of one, so it didn’t make any difference.
Saral Tal hesitated. “I was familiar with most, yes, but I can’t say I really knew them.”
“Some?”
Another moment of hesitance. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“It’s all right, vessár. It’s… in the job description.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
He didn’t answer, and for a moment we sat in silence.
“How are you holding up?” he asked unexpectedly.
I shuddered, not expecting this question and my mind instantly went blank. When I collected myself enough to speak, I only managed to stammer, “could be better.”
“Could be better.”
“Yeah. You could be kar-vessár.”
I flinched back and stared at him, stumped. He grinned, though it was paler than his usual smile.“Just kidding.” He knew me well enough to clarify. “I know we’re in a pretty deep shit, but at least you’re vessár now. That must be nice.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but snapped it shut. Truth is, until then, I didn’t even stop to think about that. It all happened too quickly. One Dahlsian day ago I was in the middle of Sorox, with my greatest dream being a full bath. Since then I was promoted, passed on, arrested for attempted murder, cleared, and promoted again.
And the man I trusted with my life has died.
But amid all that chaos… I was promoted. I earned enough trust to be put in this position, even though both of my superiors had other motives.
“Weird,” I admitted finally. “I mean, I think we all know I’m the worst possible person for that job.”
A nervous chuckle escaped my lips, and I raised my hand to stop it.
“You’re not that bad.” He leaned forward to give my arm a friendly punch. “You just need a bit of confidence.”
The dark veil clouding my thoughts lifted a bit and despite everything, I smiled. A bit of confidence. Like it wasn’t the hardest thing in the world!
Chapter 23
We submitted our reports and a plan was drawn. The only thing left to do was suit up.
Mespanian uniforms weren’t unlike everyday Dahlsian clothing—a single-piece, skin-tight costume covering the whole body. The only difference was plates of tertium inserted over vital areas. Tertium was too brittle to offer physical protection, but unlike steel, it could be saturated with protective spells. Enough to stop malignant magic and change the trajectory of physical weapons; just a couple of inches, but that was usually enough to pass by vital organs.
The boots were the only thingw resembling proper armor. Knee-tall and reinforced with steel, they were made to ensure we survived stepping on camouflaged predators. Those things were surprisingly common for the cluster with limited merging and little to no animal life.
Then there was a utility belt, or, more accurately, a medicine belt. Adrenaline shots, painkillers, vaka, healing clay, everything we needed to keep a soldier going. Below it, a wand holster sat on the left thigh, and on the right was a scabbard with a telescopic sword.
On top of it all was the helmet; its visor made of reinforced glass, with a thought-controlled display capable of switching to night-vision, infra-vision, and spell detection. A telepathic link connected me to all the other members of the Cohort. And, of course, it had a built-in air filter.
All in all, it was the perfect suit for a Mespanian. It kept away toxins and allergens, protected from extreme temperatures, pressure changes, wild magic, acid rains, and alkali lakes. It prevented animals from getting enough purchase to do real damage. If I fell off the mountain, it would make sure I wouldn’t scrape my knee.
I had no idea how it would do against swords and crossbows.
But, what I realized, not without certain amusement, was that at this moment I probably had more spells on me than most warlocks. With zero point eighty-nine on the Kevar scale. Suck on that, natural talent!
“Line up!” I shouted and watched as my Cohort formed rows of twelve people each. Except for the last one; that only had eleven. And a hole.
A big, human-sized hole.
“Count to twelve.”
We put so much work into organizing dozens just to ignore them. But we couldn’t fight in groups; we weren’t trained for that. We fought as individuals. And for such we planned.
“Remember your number; there’s a chance we’ll have to split. In that case, I will command you as numbers—ones, twos, threes. Understood?”
“Yes, vessár!”
“Good. Now mount.”
The Seventh Cohort was meant to be a part of the first wave. Our job was to breach the walls and neutralize or otherwise engage the crossbowmen, clearing the way for the main forces. The Fourth Cohort, or what was left of it, provided aerial support, while the Second stayed behind to guard the camp with the sorcerers doing their best to keep us all alive. Some vessár-ai opted to stay as well. Not me.
I could feel the curious gazes of my colleagues—my subordinates—wondering what I was going to do. But there was only one thing to do, right?
I mounted my bike. I leaned forward, almost resting my chest on the seat, and the magic shield automatically unfolded around me. No spell could stop iron bolts, but the tingling of magic all over my skin gave me a sense of security.
I picked up the telepathic signal from Myar Mal and passed it to my soldiers.
With a predatory growl, my bike came to life. We set out.
Very quickly, I spotted bright orange shapes taking lead. Ssothians were too heavy for bikes, but fast on their feet. I sent a quick order; we had to hold the line.
Tarvissi probably noticed us bustling around the camp, so now a group of crossbowmen took up position right in the middle of the way. They must have been ready to die, because there was no way they would make it back to the mansion. I whispered a magnifying spell and saw them up close, cocking their weapons. Arbalests, I realized, not regular
crossbows. Enough power to shatter rocks, but not great speed. They raised them in unison, prepared…
And shot.
For a moment, it was like a wall of darkness rushing at us. And then it fell… right on the illusion proceeding our forces. The images dispelled, and the bolts hit the ground a few paces before the first bikes. With the magnifying spell, I saw shock and fear painted on our enemies’ faces. No chance they would be able to draw their weapons again. I smirked, then dispelled the magnification.
“Evens dismount, odds carry on.”
Ignoring my own words, I pushed on, straight into the line of crossbowmen, twisting my bike sideways seconds before impact and jumping off. I rolled and sprung to my feet in no time, reaching for my weapons.
“Fours, eights, and twelves at defense, the rest on the attack.”
The dozenal system had its advantages. While half of my Cohort dismounted to take care of the crossbowmen, I could further divide it into pairs, making one person responsible for defense—in this case, summoning a wall of fire—while another attacked. Simple and efficient.
The first strike came from above. I parried the opponent’s ax and kicked him in the chest before my brain caught up with my muscles, and I raised my wand. A flash of light and he was dead. Another enemy ran toward me. I killed him before he got close. A third one was kneeling, his eyes wide in shock, bloodied hands still clutched the hilt of the sword protruding from a Mespanian’s chest. Anger rushed through me and I cast the killing spell.
Only instinct saved me from the next one. I jerked to the left and the sword brushed my ribs, clinking on the tertium plates. I twisted and lifted my own weapon, just in time to block her next charge. She was good; fast and clever, coming at me with quick, sharp thrusts that left me no time to even think about using my wand. She feigned an attack to my right, and when I focused on blocking it, pain exploded in my knee. My leg buckled, and I hit the ground. Instinctively, I rolled aside, barely avoiding being pinned like a bug. But the movement gave me the seconds I needed. On my back again, I shot.
I jumped to my feet but the fight was over. I should probably feel bad about killing my own. The girl I’d just slain was tall and lanky, with dark hair with the slightest hint of red, and large, green eyes staring lifelessly at the sky. She could be my sister.
The Outworlder Page 17