Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  Sal had shot straight up, mouth agape. He wanted to tell Eshira what he was thinking, but he was afraid that she'd tell him it was impossible. Before he had time to tell himself the same, he said, "I need a lift."

  * * *

  Sal balanced precariously on Eshira's snout as she raised him high against the sheer side of the Granite Spire -- not an easy feat, with her beating her wings as she was. Her head bobbed and weaved on a neck stretched out far enough to give her wings clearance, but curved enough to mitigate a larger part of her movement. Not enough to give Sal any confidence in his perch, of course.

  They couldn't put the arrowslits any lower, could they? Oh, no...

  "Just a little closer," he urged, leaning out as far as he dared. "A little closer... There!" He reached both hands into the arrowslit window, grasping the frame on either side. Quickly he propped his feet against the wall, pushing back to grant him purchase.

  Eshira fell away to give him room to work, but stayed close enough to catch him if he screwed up. "It probably would've been easier for you to get up here by wielding Amethyst, milord Prism," she teased.

  "Yeah, I didn't think about it," he replied wryly. "I was kinda preoccupied with how stupid this idea is."

  "Well, what's the worst that could happen? Emerald denying your request?"

  "No. Emerald turning me into a puddle of goo."

  "Hmph. There is that," she conceded.

  Sal didn't allow himself another moment to second-think things. Touching Emerald, he wielded, pulling his body into the arrowslit. Into the arrowslit.

  At first, it didn't seem like his plan would work, but then he felt his body give -- his skull crushing in upon itself, his shoulders butting against the frame of the murder hole, only to fold back as he continued to pull. First head, then shoulders, then torso, Sal slithered his way into the Spire. With one last heave, he fell onto the wooden floor within, the impact making a sound that was more fffump than thump. "Alright, I'm in," he shouted over his shoulder.

  "Good! A little help, please?"

  Sal turned back to the narrow window to see what Eshira had in mind. Already, her scales had taken on a much thinner profile. She's changing? Is she out of her mind? He switched from Emerald to Amethyst just as she began to struggle to hold herself aloft. Wielding, he caught her in mid-fall.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, lifting her closer to the arrowslit.

  "I may not be able to batter down the walls of this place," she said, reaching both hands through the window and latching onto the frame where it tapered inward from the hole. "But I may be able to pull them out. You might go on about your business. This could take a while," she added, hissing through clenched jaws as her fingers -- her talons -- greened and expanded, filling the slit to its full. In seconds, the caducean dragon roared her effort, claws straining against the unbreakable stone. A loud snap resounded through the room as the barest sliver crumbled beneath her grasp. Sal couldn't help but stare in awe as he retreated, eager to watch the spectacle, but just as eager to get away from the painful huffs and puffs of a dragon growing to full size in a confined space.

  Looking around, he found that he was in a storage room. Wooden crates and woven sacks were stacked along the walls with a care that seemed almost unnecessary. Flipping quickly through his soulgems, he scanned the area. No life, no disturbances, no heat signatures indicating any life besides him and Eshira. Finally settling on Amethyst, he found no auras either. Save for the soft white of the Spire's inexplicable aura, that is.

  It was all around him, in fact, permeating every feature in the room and filling every crack. As outside the Spire, the aura pulsated slowly, growing in strength and then dying back, growing and dying, regularly, as if by machinery.

  Outside the room, it was even brighter. He found himself in a long hall, following the curve of the Spire. He glanced into rooms as he went, finding more of the same -- store rooms, as well as the occasional bathroom or janitorial closet. But not the first office, library, or even bedroom. Not surprising. It made sense that the warehouses would be as close to ground level as possible, leaving the upper floors available for sleeping quarters and administration.

  Hallways broke the curvature of the perimeter hall at regular intervals, like spokes on a wagon wheel. Hooking inward at one of the openings, Sal found even more rooms, all packed to the gills with crates or boxes or sacks or furniture with tarps over them. The end of the hallway led to a circular landing, with a wide spiraling staircase in the center. Obviously, this served any mundanes the granites happened to allow in. Like Prau. Here the aura that permeated everything was even more evident, running up and down the empty shaft of the spiral staircase like an axle. What the...?

  Another loud crack echoed down the corridors behind him, followed by a cry of victory and a redoubling of strained effort. Sal snickered. It wouldn't be long before an army could fly through the whole in the store room. Mounting the stairs, Sal went to see what the upper levels had to offer.

  * * *

  Mik wended his way through the underbrush on a ridge that ran along side the highroad, doing what he could to stay out of sight of the massive army. Not that he expected to be spotted anyway.

  But supposing they did spot him, what then? What? One old man, trailing along side one of the largest Earthen Rank mobilizations in centuries? He'd be a curiosity, less than a curiosity, completely beneath the consideration of anybody important.

  All of which worked to his advantage, of course. Still, he wasn't as young as he used to be. He grew bored with his para'qur, leaping over fallen trees and diving silently through haitberry bushes with their damnable thorny tendrils. Scathing oaths burned on his lips, only to die there breathlessly for the sake of stealth. This was pointless. He needed to insert himself into the army somehow.

  He'd been following them this way for the past couple days, delaying his pursuit only long enough to briefly meet with Duffer. The innkeeper hadn't been too keen on the idea of spying for Retzu. He had a history with Mik, and through him, a history with Reit. He had shared many adventures with the two, back when Retzu had made his home with D'prox in Bastion, or in Deitrich, or any of a number of other places, chasing his own heart. Duffer's entire relationship with the Cause had been predicated on his friendships with Mik and Reit. Now with one gone to the embrace of the Crafter, and the other likely to be hidden amongst the enemy, Duffer would be forced to risk his neck for a man he barely knew. Sure, Retzu was Mik's protege and Reit's twin, but he was his own man. He always had been his own man, with his own thoughts and his own agendas. That made him unpredictable. That made him dangerous.

  At least, that was Duffer's argument. And Mik could see the sense in it. The innkeeper didn't know Retzu like he did, didn't know the steel core of integrity that the boy had. Mik probably knew the gold-hilted assassin better than the young man knew himself. He knew that Retzu would come around, that he'd do right by Duffer.

  Not that his confidence did anything to convince his old friend. The rotund barkeep nearly swallowed his tongue in apprehension.

  The things I do for those boys, Mik thought sardonically, diving through a tangle of branches that otherwise blocked his path. He tucked and rolled soundlessly to the forest floor, popping back up and continuing his pursuit. So silent was his travel that he was almost upon a doe and her fawn before their ears even perked up. They bounded deeper into the woods, white tails flicking upward as Mik stole past them. Their retreat sounded like cannons in his ears. Blasted beasts are gonna get me caught, he scowled, and once more his mind drifted back to the army just down the hill from his path. He had to find a way into that army.

  And just like that, an opportunity presented itself.

  A peasant stood just inside the treeline, harvesting haitberry bushes a hundred yards or so from Mik. He was a youngish man, mid-twenties or so, prematurely greying and wrinkling from the hard life of a serf. There was a large leather sack hanging from his neck, and every few seconds, he'd shove
a handful of haitberries into it, likely for use by the cooks or alchemists or whomever might have need of them.

  He was facing west, totally oblivious to whatever danger the world might present him at any given moment. Mik crept up on him from the east as that moment came. Couldn't be easier.

  The young man stiffened as cold steel licked his neck. "Uh uh uh, don'tcha turn around, me lad," Mik cooed softly.

  To his credit, the terrified peasant only shivered in response.

  "Lemme tell ye how this is gonna work. I'ma pull me sword back, and yer gonna turn around, and we're gonna have ourselves a chat. What say?"

  "A-a-aye, m-milord," the peasant answered shakily.

  Mik eased back a hair to give the young man his space, and the other turned slowly around. The man's eyes, already wide, doubled in size when he glimpsed Mik's sword. Mik nodded inwardly. It was only his tanto blade -- he'd left his katana with Duffer for safe keeping -- but a peasant wouldn't know the difference. And really, in Mik's hands, there was no difference between the two. He was just as lethal with either blade. Or no blade at all.

  Side track. Get back on target, Mik...

  "Ye see what I gots," he said, and the young man nodded. "Ye knows what I am." Nod. "Gonna have any trouble from ye?" The peasant shook his head -- a little too enthusiastically for Mik's taste, but he believed him.

  "Good," he said, squatting down on his hunkers to a chorus of pops and creaks. He propped up on his elbows, the tanto held out loosely before him. With the blade point, he indicated the peasant take his ease as well. This could take a minute or three.

  "So tell me, lad. Anybody in that army out there know yer family?"

  * * *

  It wasn't long before Denis warmed up to Mik. The old man wasn't too surprised -- he always did have a way with the impoverished and underappreciated. A few kind words was generally all it took. That, and a few haitberries, which Mik had offered from Denis' own pouch, and Denis was quite literally eating out of his hand.

  Turned out, Denis was all alone in this man's army. He was born into a farming family, a rather poor one that worked a land lease just south of Ten League. He'd come to Schel Veylin looking for a way out of his serfdom, only to end up begging on the streets before finally finding meager work as an errand boy for the Rank. That's what he was doing with this contingent. He wasn't here out of any love for the Highest. He was just tired of being hungry and homeless. So when Mik suggested that he pass as Denis' elderly uncle, the peasant was all too eager to please.

  Less than an hour later, and loaded down once more with haitberries, Mik and his newfound nephew made their way back to the Rank army, now almost a league ahead of them on the highroad. So enamoured was Denis with the thought of having something resembling family, that he never questioned Mik on what he'd done with the tanto.

  Thinking of the blade made Mik itch. He reached under his tunic and scratched the spot where the leather tassel, with its silver and granite ornaments, protruded from his armpit, then quickly covered the spot up again before Denis could cast another dopey, giddy look his way.

  * * *

  Retzu spent the afternoon squeezing what information he could out of D'prox, which didn't amount to a whole lot. He didn't get much more out of the still-recovering shol'tuk adherents, the survivors of this invisible attacker. They all shared one commonality between them -- that being, they had almost nothing in common. They represented every race, and every skill range. Rawhide hilt, brass, linen, copper, with affinities for bow, spear, bo staff, shuriken, sai, sling -- there was no single common element between them, save only for their Fellowship and their sword. And as varied as the shol'tuk survivors were, their rescuers -- victims themselves -- were just as diverse. They were young, old, rich, poor, male, female, educated, ignorant, Ysrean, Onatae, Mandiblean... nothing to tie any two victims to each other.

  Retzu despaired that he'd ever find a solid lead, until one shol'tuk made the off-handed comment, "The next thing I remember was Tove Jor'ash, holding a dagger under my nose to see if I was alive. That presumptuous barrel of dragon scat is lucky his dagger didn't wind up in his---"

  "Wait. Tove? You woke up outside the Cooper's Horde?"

  "Yeah. What of it?"

  Retzu quickly revisited the others, making note of where they either lost time or awoke. He drew a rough map of Bastion, marking little more than the walls and where the thoroughfares crossed, and then added the Cooper's Horde. Every location the shol'tuk gave him, he then marked on the map. None of the victims lost time or awoke in the same places, but in moments, he had a rough circle in the northwest quadrant of the city.

  His mouth opened slightly in revelation. The rooftop where he'd first engaged Fila... that was there, in the southern section of the circle. As was the alley where Sal and his Unmarked had been ambushed. And the alley where that Unmarked sapphire, Patrys, had almost lost her life.

  He crumpled the map in a triumphant fist, and strode from the guildhouse with purpose. He might not yet know who the assailant was or why he was attacking people, both civilians and shol'tuk alike, but he at least knew where to start looking.

  In the alley behind the house, he stooped to activate the magic in his boots... and he stopped.

  Magic.

  It was what gave his boots the ability to carry him so lightly from rooftop to rooftop. It was how D'prox had spoken to Mik from half a world away. Sal had used it on his attacker, to encourage him to forget him.

  And it was one of the few things that put a shol'tuk adherent at a disadvantage.

  The assailant was a mage, and skilled enough to bring a copper hilt to his knees. Perhaps even skilled enough to bring down a gold.

  Retzu set his chin in determination. D'prox's praise of him was justified -- he was among the best in the Fellowship. But he didn't get to be that way by accident. Any rawhide could learn how to part head from shoulders. To survive long in this life, a shol'tuk needed far more than brute skill -- he needed wits enough to out-think his mark.

  Nodding, he stroked the gems, and his boots lightened with magic. Launching in to the air, Retzu bounded from window to window, catching the roof on the far side of the alley, but rather than heading northwest, he hooked south.

  Chapter 14

  "Well, yeah, it's just like the inner lining of a waterskin," Sal Whispered through Sapphire as he laid his shoulder into the big oak door. The iron hinges creaked as the door slowly eased open, its rolling bark loud enough to rival Eshira's efforts, many floors below. "All you gotta do is tweak the rune that shapes the field."

  That sounds too easy, Marissa protested thinly from Sal's earring.

  "The most revolutionary ideas usually are. I mean, a nuclear power plant is basically just a big steam engine, and the difference between fireworks and dynamite is---"

  Sal...

  "Yeah?"

  Idioms.

  "Oh, yeah. Right. Anyway, have fun."

  You too. I love you.

  Sal pushed himself off the stubborn door to take in the room that it now revealed. He stood there silently for a moment, marveling at his discovery, before offering an almost breathless "I love you, too."

  The expansive room stretched far enough in either direction that he could see the curvature of the Spire's outer wall, and was chock full of neatly arranged books and papers and bric-a-brac. A desk sat across the room from him, conspicuously clear of debris, with the few papers remaining stacked and angled precisely with the corners of the desk. The wall beyond sported a slotted window that reminded him of shutter shades from the 80s, with narrow granite bars packed closely together, and angled to allow an observer to look out while hiding him from those outside wanting to look in.

  The library -- or office, maybe? that of the Spire's commander? -- easily held as much accumulated knowledge as any room in the Archives. The secrets within represented an incredible find for the Cause, and would certainly give them insight into the upper levels of the Earthen Rank, to include any weaknesses they or the
Highest himself might have.

  But that was supposed to be here. Sal had expected as much. That's not what caught his eye.

  Rather, it was the placard that hung above the slotted window, and the sword set that hung affixed to it.

  The blades were obviously shol'tuk, as evidenced by the slight curvature of the single edged weapons, but they weren't the typical katana and tanto that he was used to. It seemed as if on both swords, the blade, handguard, and hilt were of a single piece, rather than the wooden handle that the shol'tuk weapons normally sported. Also, there were no windings on the hilt. Instead, the steel handgrip was intricately designed, and laden throughout with tiny soulgem chips, held in place with silver settings. It was truly a breathtaking set.

  So breathtaking, in fact, that he never realized that he was no longer alone.

  "Probably the most orderly library I've ever seen," Eshira said, startling Sal nearly out of his boots. If the dragon girl noticed, she never let on. She just fingered a stray lock of green hair back behind her scaled and pointed ear, her eyebrow quirking slightly as she scanned the room. She seemed almost impressed. Almost. "Humans are typically so... chaotic."

  Sal huffed noncommittally, doing his best to shake off his surprise, and moved toward the sword set. The hilts were oddly warm to the touch, as if they'd been recently held, even though the light sprinkle of dust on the blades said otherwise. Looking closer, he found that the tanto had an additional adornment -- a single leather tassel, divided by a strip of silver with embedded granite chips.

  He squinted as he drew the tassel within inches of his face, his breath quickening as he did so. The markings on the silver were too small to make out, but he knew what they were, regardless. They were runes.

  Granite runes.