Sal shook his head in agreement, but didn't take the time to commiserate with the commander. He made to thumb his sapphire earring, but paused. He needed as much intelligence as he could get, and sometimes, what a person thought didn't make it into what they said.
Instead, he touched Sapphire. His diamond eye took on an azure tint as he wielded. Athnae, I need to know what's going on with the dragons.
The water serpent's response was tense, guarded, as if he were a stranger rather than an ally. Sal, I'm in the middle of---
We're in the middle of getting our butts kicked, Athnae, he snapped. And a lot of that is because the dragons are not engaging. I need to know why!
The dragon was silent for a long moment, but when she responded, Sal felt a dramatic difference in her sending. Far from the distant stranger that she had been a moment before, now he could feel the sheer weight of her emotions, how incredibly torn she was with horror and grief.
The Rank is using the Prideful Spawn against us, she Whispered.
Who---?
Before Sal could finish asking the question, his mind was flooded with images, thoughts, concepts. Faster and faster the sending poured in, almost as if Athnae were downloading the entire history of the dragon race directly into his brain. As the random-seeming pieces fell into place, the reality of their situation became clear to Sal. The Prideful Spawn were their children, the animalistic result of dragon mating with dragon.
Dragons were a hybrid race, and as such it was necessary for them to take human mates -- as Eshira had taken Menkal -- in order to produce an intelligent spawn. Their culture had long since evolved to account for this necessity, but occasionally a draconian couple would, in their pride, mate with one another.
As Athnae had with Aplos, apparently.
Sometimes, a draconian couple produced intelligent offspring. Sometimes. Most often, though, such a pairing would lead to a semi-intelligent beast, an animal, barely self-aware but still possessing all the most powerful traits of their draconian parents.
The Prideful Spawn were so named for their parents' arrogance, and their shame. And it was that shame, as much as their draconian traits, that the Rank had weaponized in using the Spawn against them.
Sal was stunned silent for a moment as he assimilated all this. How could he ask the dragons -- their allies -- to kill their own children? In Athnae's case, she could quite literally be fighting her own child. It wasn't as if the Spawn understood the complexities of their existence. All they knew was what their owners expected, and like any good pet, they were eager to please. They simply saw the rebel dragons as the enemy because their masters saw them as the enemy. In their rudimentary minds, they were in the right! How could Sal ask the rebel dragons to kill their kin, simply because they didn't know any better?
But... wasn't that what the rebels had been doing all along? Fighting to the death with people who were simply misled? Killing soldiers who were under the impression that tyranny was just and the Highest was righteous?
Sal hadn't grown up in this world, so the Cause's fight was merely one that he had adopted as his own. It wasn't core to who he was. But that was not to say that he didn't fundamentally identify with it. In his world, it had been the Civil War and the American Revolution. Brother fighting against brother, father against son, men -- and women -- dying at the hands of those they loved, for an ideal that they held as more important than life itself.
It could be argued that the North and South fought over slaves, and that the Colonies and the Crown fought over taxation, but in the end, those wars, like all wars, were fought by people who had the choice not to fight, but fought anyway. Whatever reasons history might ascribe to the wars, the only reasons that actually mattered were those reasons that each individual soldier died for.
Holding that thought firmly in his mind, Sal returned to Athnae what she had given him -- a litany of images and concepts, his argument for fighting the Prideful Spawn, all boxed up and delivered with every emotion that he had on the subject. She would feel his sympathy for her plight, and his resolve to continue to fight with or without her. As he had felt her love for the Spawn, she would feel the dread acceptance of him following in his forefathers' footsteps, killing those he would rather live in peace with, because to surrender would be far worse. History would look on this battle as it always did, in this world as in his, and it would ascribe right and wrong according to whatever abstract the historian chose. But history would judge him tomorrow. Right now, Sal wanted to survive the day.
Whisper sent, Sal sighed and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. He didn't wait to see how Athnae would respond. Releasing Sapphire, he grabbed Amethyst and Lifted himself to the top of the turret. "Lets do this," he said to nobody in particular as he chose his first target and the appropriate soulgem to unleash upon him.
* * *
Retzu peered down the black shaft of his arrow, marking a spot just to the left of its point. His breathing was slow, deliberate, as he waited for the perfect moment. Hold... Hold...
The Rank dragon, a galvanic, stretched its maw wide, shrieking in an almost birdlike fashion. Retzu loosed. His arrow flew straight and true, plunging deep into the dragon's upper palate. The lavender beast fell to the earth almost at once, like a puppet with its strings cut.
It worked! Retzu whooped his victory, thrusting his fist skyward in triumph. "Aim for the roof of the mouth," he shouted through his sapphire chip to any shol'tuk who might be listening.
He honestly didn't know if anybody would be able to hear him, save those on the battlements nearby. In theory, he imagined that his Whispers would only go out to those shol'tuk fighting on the walls in Bastion, but it was just as likely that every assassin in the world could hear him! He'd never tried to Whisper to so many people at once. It wasn't as if he'd had opportunity to consult the Heads of Order and Guild about the possible uses of his sapphire chip after he stupidly, stupidly used it in their presence. Assassins lived and died by the secrets that they kept. He prayed the Crafter's mercy that his revelation would not come back to haunt him.
He nocked another arrow and pulled, scanning the battlefield above and before him. Most of the dragons in the Rank flight fought without direction, seemingly attacking of their own accord, but there were a few with riders, flying back and forth behind the flight, almost like shepherds tending a herd. Retzu picked a likely candidate and let fly, catching the rider just below the cheekbone and throwing his helmet backward off his head. The man slumped backward in his saddle, dead before he even slipped from his perch. Without direction from its rider, the now riderless dragon launched itself into the fray, and the dragons it had been tending grew erratic.
Retzu reached to his quiver for another shaft, but found it empty. He felt no need to curse the inconvenience -- the dealing of death was fraught with the unexpected. Instead, he tapped the small lump behind his ear. "Take out the riders. They're controlling the Rank dragons," he commanded through Sapphire. He didn't wait to see if his command was effective. He just tossed his bow to the side and dropped to his knees, barely long enough to stroke his bejeweled boots and start for the nearest turret.
A pair of dragons crashed against the parapet, but Retzu's boots allowed him to keep his feet when those around him stumbled. Pulling a shuriken from his sleeve, he threw for the Rank dragon's eye as he passed. The beast bellowing in pain and anger let him know that he'd struck home. Retzu smiled. It may not have been a killing shot, but it would make somebody's life a whole lot easier. "West sections three and four! Caducean, blind on the left side," he shouted. To his gratification, he saw a iron hilt not too far ahead of him shift his bow around and take aim at the handicapped dragon, loosing as Retzu sprinted past.
Drawing close to the turret, Retzu bounded with both feet, catching the tower almost halfway up. He planted one foot and shoved backwards, launching out over the bescaled melee. He landed lightly on the back of a Cause dragon, touching down only long enough to push off again. This time, his angle car
ried him directly toward one of the Rank dragons. He pulled his katana just as he came within range, the keen edge of his blade catching slightly as it parted the beast's underbelly.
The scaly cut shifted his momentum, and he pinwheeled awkwardly. Below him, a Rank dragon beat its wings to gain altitude against the city wall. Retzu twisted his body around until his feet were below him. He landed on the dragon's shoulder and crouched, timing his jump to leap in concert with the wing's upswing. His sword was in the wrong hand to deal a killing blow to the dragon, so he swept the blade outward as he flew, parting a thin section of the dragon's wing just above the knuckle. His now flightless perch tumbled backward below him as he soared higher.
He reached the top of his arc and flipped, shifting his momentum. He landed atop the turret, amongst other shol'tuk in various stages of attack and assessment. He turned and scanned the battlements. He found Sal on the roof of the next turret, lobbing magics specifically chosen for his targets -- ice for fire wyrms, lightning for caduceans, what have you. Out over the field in front of Sal, it looked like some of the Cause dragons were finally engaging. He could see Menkal and Eshira, throwing ice and spitting acid at whatever target presented itself. Not a moment too soon.
Even those dragons who were not directly engaging were doing a fine job of keeping the Rank on the outside of the city wall. Enemies who tried to fly over or around were batted back, either bodily or with their draconian blasts from the defenders. On the battlement below, the Cause took advantage of this pooling, concentrating their efforts on those dragons unfortunate enough to be caught within range of arrow or spear or spell.
Retzu nodded his satisfaction. Things were less dire than he expected, considering the Rank had had the element of surprise. Sheathing his steel-hilted katana, he stretched his back, his joints singing out as they settled back into place.
Back at it, Sticks. You can rest when you're dead, he thought to himself as he planted his feet and launched himself skyward.
* * *
Gaelen punched the sky, howling as he wielded. Thunder clapped as a wrist-thick bolt of lavender lightning arced from his outstretched fist, catching a nearby caducean full in the chest. The concussion from the blast knocked the verdant beast from the sky. Spying another green dragon in the corner of his right eye, the Mandiblean mage wheeled and punched, roaring again as he loosed his amethyst magics.
Absently, he realized how foolish it was, that hollering. It added nothing to his wielding. It charged his spells with no more power. It didn't even strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. Salts, he could barely even hear it himself above the din of battle! But, Crafter take it, he could do nothing to stop it. It just came out of its own accord.
How undignified, he berated himself. Where's your scholarly detachment?
He answered himself with a mental shrug and a bloodcurdling cry, wielding again.
To be honest, he hadn't completely abandoned scholarship, even in the heat of battle. To the contrary, he was in the throes of instruction even now, both as student to the battle and as teacher to those around him. He found that although the dragons were not magical themselves, they had similar strengths and weaknesses as mages of corresponding colors. Caduceans, like emeralds, were weak to amethyst magic, whereas galvanics, like amethysts, were fairly strong to it. Water serpents, like sapphires, had the tendency to channel electricity to nearby targets rather than absorb it themselves. All of these factors came into play as Gaelen selected his targets.
Thunder boomed repeatedly as lightning leapt from his hands. Each bolt found a target -- sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly through water serpents -- but each new casting took its toll. Now minutes -- or hours? -- into the battle, Gaelen was starting to feel the effect. His ears had started ringing, and his head had started pounding. Sweat dripped from his brow as fatigue slowly crept in.
He wasn't used to this kind of thing. He was no warrior. He was a priest, a scroll-rider. In another life, he might've continued his more ministerial pursuits, all the way up to Shepherd if el Willed it to be so. But here he was, side by side with warriors and soldiers and assassins, dealing death as efficiently as any---
The flagstone beneath his foot bulged, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled forward into the parapet. As he righted himself, a wicked talon landed on the low stone wall mere inches from his own hand.
A monstrous crimson head rose above the parapet, acrid smoke trailing in thin wisps from its snout. A low, deep rumble emanated from the fire wyrm -- not so much a growl as the tumbling of a dozen boulders against one another.
Sparks crackled at Gaelen's fingertips as he readied another spell. But before he could cast it, the battlement heaved under him again. He stumbled to the side and clawed at the parapet, barely able to keep his footing. The fire wyrm shrieked. It drew its head back and opened its mouth, ready to strike.
Gaelen saw stars as something crashed into him. He cast eyes about as he tumbled to the ground, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever had hit him, but there was nothing. Oh, there was something there, alright. He was certain. He'd felt it. But for the life of him, he couldn't see it.
The fire wyrm shrieked again, but as it opened its maw, a thick spear of ice appeared out of thin air and drove deep into the roof of the dragon's mouth. Blood spurted, and the wyrm shook its head violently, but even in its struggle, Gaelen could tell that it was fruitless. The dragon's eyes had already started to lose a bit of their luster as its talons lost their grip on the parapet. It's cry of rage took on a vacant, hollow sound as the beast tumbled to the ground far below. Gaelen guessed it was dead before it hit.
Gaelen propped himself up with one hand, and held the other to the side of his still ringing head. He scanned the area, and scanned it again, searching for the source of the icy spear, but to no avail.
Again, the cut stone bulged under his hand, even more insistently than the last. Now, with a moment to assess, Gaelen realized what it was.
Jaeda? he tapped out in drum code.
It's about time, Gaelen!
I'm sorry, he said, rueful that their code couldn't convey any hint of snark or sarcasm. I was trying to keep from getting eaten.
That's bad, but here's worse. You've got a granite army coming your way.
They're already here, he tapped.
No, not the dragons, his sister pulsed. Granites. Coming up beh---
That was all the warning that Gaelen got before Jaeda's warning became reality.
* * *
A rainbow of color streaked across Glyn's field of vision as he sped through the earth under the streets of Bastion, trailing a massive body of granites behind him. Though he could see nothing beyond the varied patterns making up the soil he was Merged with, he could feel the souls in the city above him, and they gave him a sense of position and direction. The tapestry of souls was a varied and brilliant one, made up of both magical auras and of indistinct shadows that he knew to be mundanes.
As he neared area surrounding Bastion's north gate, the writhing blob of sensations started to separate, becoming individual combatants which Glyn marked on the battlefield taking shape in his mind. Each aura had a specific... flavor was the only word that Glyn could use to describe it, but the term was woefully inadequate. Emeralds had a fresh, vibrant feel to them, moving even when they were completely still. Amethysts were similar but different, their auras more exhilarating, and filling him with exhilaration simply for making contact with it. Sapphire auras were calm, peaceful, implacable, and rubies felt driven, passionate. Every Tile had nuances, specific qualities that made them stand out from the rest.
While granites could not delve or manipulate these auras the way amethysts could, the granite soulgem allowed them to Sample an aura, to taste it after a fashion. This Sampling allowed granites to learn a mage by their auric nuances as surely as a person with natural sight were able to tell people apart by their faces.
Most often, this ability was to the granite's benefit, but Sampling required that a grani
te partake in another mage's aura, their projected essence, and with such a mass of strange auras, twisting and turning and casting and absorbing with such intensity, the Sampling was overwhelming.
Glyn sent out a pulse of granite magic, conveying the pattern and order of his thoughts. Be mindful, he sent. Keep your wits about you. Many of you have never been in pitched battle, and it would not do for you to be lulled by Sapphire or consumed with Ruby-born zeal.
All around him, granites pulsed their assent. Some responses tasted of uncertainty, but all were eager to engage. Glyn was a bit giddy himself. He'd never been content to sit back and let his subordinates do all the fighting, as other commanders had. In his mind, a good leader emulated his ideal follower, and he was just as driven as they were to give himself purpose through bringing order to the chaos of battle.
A moment later, their wishes were granted.
The body of granites splintering as it reached the north gate, with each Guard picking out a target. Glyn scanned the auras above, feeling about for a likely candidate. Reaching out, he sensed a tower, ahead and to the left. The floors within were stacked with the dim auras of mages not casting their magics, barely holding enough mana to be noticeable. The top of the tower was alight with magic, spells of every kind being cast.
Glyn was about to turn his attention elsewhere when he noticed that the greatest concentration of spells came from one corner of the turret. The spells from that spot tasted of various magics, and yet, they all seemed to have a common spice to them...
Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2) Page 37