Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  * * *

  Patrys watched the granite disappear into the ground. If his passage generated a ripple of any sort, she couldn't tell. To be honest, she was surprised that he'd escaped at all, given the skills that she had Absorbed from him. The new knowledge burned savagely in her mind, begging to be turned loose on the nearest enemy. She chuckled, the cloth of her stoma cover billowing out slightly. The look on that granite's face when he realized...

  Gaelen groaned behind her. She turned to find him pushing himself up onto his rump. "What happened?"

  That granite gave ye a knock, Patrys Whispered, then shrugged. I argued 'at it weren't wise of 'im. I think mayhap 'e agrees.

  "My thanks, Milady Mage," the amethyst said, obviously struggling to lock his eyes onto hers. "I don't think we've been properly introduced."

  I know who y'are.

  "All the same... The wind kisses the wheat," he said. Shrugging self-consciously, he added, "I'm a fool for propriety."

  The wind bears the seed to new fields, she sent, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. Patrys Goatherd, at yer service.

  "Gaelen o'Tobin, at yours. You're... a bit young, aren't you? For an Unmarked?"

  She bit her lip to keep her mirth from spreading across her face. He couldn't have been much older than herself -- nineteen summers, twenty at the outside -- and a rebel himself, and yet he seemed so innocent. She found the combination... intriguing. She decided that she liked it. Apparently, I'm old enough t' trounce a granite thrice my age.

  "Granites age slower than the rest of us," Gaelen corrected scholarly. "If he looked fifty summers old, he was likely on the far side of a hundred."

  No matter, she countered, quirking her eye brow playfully. He's totin' a whoopin' like 'is mama shoulda give 'im.

  The amethyst barked his humor, only to throw a hand up to the side of his head to keep its contents from spilling out. Patrys laughed, sympathetically if silently, and brushed a piece of grit away from a scrape near his temple. Yes, she liked him.

  * * *

  Sal's diamond eye throbbed as he cycled through his soulgems, dispatching Spawn dragons according to their weakness. He'd put a sizable dent in their number, but it was just a dent. There were just so many of them, and the power needed to kill them so great, that he found himself needing to find more creative ways to take them down than to simply overpower them. He was running out of steam. Fast.

  He cast a glance over his right shoulder. The sun was now well and truly risen, its rays breaking over the slopes of Mount Ysre almost all the way to its base. Sal switched to Emerald, and allowed himself a moment to Refresh. But just a moment.

  A blue dragon banked past the turret, screeching its bloodlust. Already holding Emerald, Sal lashed out at the beast, withering a spot on its wing and causing it to rip. The dragon's reptilian roar became a scream as it tumbled to the earth far below, hitting awkwardly and breaking its good wing.

  "Not bad, mate," Sal heard from somewhere above him. He looked up just in time to see Retzu, dropping from a passing dragon's talon. He landed beside Sal, sword in hand and dripping with gore. "But can you do the same with a proper blade?"

  "Win today, preen tomorrow," Sal answered in mock protest.

  Retzu shrugged. "Not my fault you can't fight like a man."

  "Not my fault you have to fight from the shadows."

  "Some of my best work is done in the dark."

  "Sleeping?"

  His sen'sia barked a harsh laugh, and clapped him roughly on the back. "A sport best played with a partner. And speaking of partners..."

  "Last I heard, they were boarding the ships," Sal answered Retzu's implied question. "I haven't been able to get up with Marissa since we got to the gate. Haven't had time to try. But Caravan's had plenty of time to loop around the southern coasts of Ysre. They should be on the far side of the island by now, headed north."

  "Excellent," Retzu nodded. "The shol'tuk had started to gain ground on the Rank dragons, but the granites have slowed us down a bit."

  "Yeah, I can imagine," he said, looking over the side of the turret at the narrow battlefield below. He saw two granites engaging a small clutch of Unmarked -- Kiri, Hon'as, and Jelleck, by the looks of them. Sal's lieutenants were doing a fine job of holding the granites off, but they weren't making much headway. Releasing Emerald, Sal touched Amethyst and wielded. A thick bolt of violet lightning tore open the sky between Sal and his target, hitting the granite full in the back and throwing him high into the air, only for him to fall much farther to the Mainway below. Even from high above, Sal saw how the granite landed. He wouldn't be getting back up.

  The attack took his partner by surprise. The granite jerked his head around, looking for the source of the lightning. When he did, Jelleck swung for the granite's neck, neatly parting his windpipe. It was a killing blow, but the granite would have died even if it hadn't been. The magic from Jelleck's cut spread at once, and the granite jerked violently. He threw his head back as he convulsed, his face going from red to purple to black as he stood. Finally, he stopped twitching and fell backward, his body exploding in a puddle of noxious goo across the battlement. Kiri jumped back from the splatters, complaining loudly, while Hon'as raucously cheered his emerald brother.

  "I taught him that," Sal told Retzu proudly. "That one's all me."

  Retzu looked on a moment longer and gave a half-shrug. "Cheat. A shol'tuk is lethal without resorting to magic."

  "I'll remember that the next time you use your boots to..." Sal lost his train of thought as he watched a Spawn dragon wheel abruptly for the plains to their north, followed by a second, then a third, and finally the whole flight of them. The outnumbered Cause dragons roared their victory -- or their relief, Sal couldn't tell which -- and the fighters on the ground added their voices to the triumphant chorus.

  But Sal didn't join in. He followed the Spawn with his eyes, watched them come down less than a mile away, not even a quarter of the way to the ruined fortress that Menkal had established as a base of operations for the dragonriders. They weren't retreating. They were regrouping.

  Sal touched Sapphire. "Look alive, guys," he said, his current soulgem carrying his words to every rebel on or near the battlements. "They ain't running, so don't get cocky. They've already caught us with our pants down once today -- twice if you count the granites. We can't afford another."

  Murmurs of assent rose from the battlements as once-cheering celebrants started wiping blades, restocking arrows, and running down emeralds for healing -- doing what they could to be ready for the next wave of attacks.

  "What do you think they have in mind?" Sal asked.

  Retzu shook his head slowly. "I'm an assassin, mate, not a general. It's all I can do to get my fellas to see their targets as enemies instead of marks."

  "Well..." Sal drawled as he analyzed the situation. "They used the Spawn to throw our dragons off kilter. And they brought the granites in from behind, probably hoping to wipe us out in the confusion. Didn't happen. I mean, we took a beating, but we're still here, and they don't like it. If it's me, I'm probably looking to combine my granites and dragons, maybe use their granite ability to become one with things to make the Spawn harder to hit."

  "Well, whatever their plan is, it ain't good for us," Retzu said.

  "You're a lot of help there, Captain Obvious."

  Retzu quirked an eyebrow. "Sarcasm?"

  "Sarcasm."

  "So what do you wanna do about it?"

  Reaching out to Emerald, Sal wielded, and felt the tickle of frayed cloth as the skin of his back poked through the slits cut in his undershirt. "Whatever their plan is, I say we don't give them the chance to put it in motion."

  * * *

  Mik pushed through the canvas flap backward, drawing General du'Chapin's breakfast tray behind him. He squinted against the torchlight within, standing in brilliant contrast to the still darkened campways wending between the Rank tents.

  Entering the pavilion proper, he took his place in
line with the other servants, each bearing breakfast plates tailored to their respective master's tastes. In the center of the pavilion stood a large table, about which the leaders of the encampment, du'Chapin included, took meals and discussed the matters of the day.

  "I should have heard from him by now," said the granite that sat at the head of the table. The only granite in the entire detachment, in fact -- High Commander Heramis Veis, son of the former Chief General Nestor Veis. A high value target, if Mik had the opportunity.

  "Perhaps he's still engaged. Sir," said du'Chapin, hastily adding the honorific. He twisted his mouth slightly, as if at something distasteful. Mik couldn't imagine what. It seemed perfectly reasonable for the general to render respect to a superior who, according to his rank, should have been his subordinate.

  Mik carefully schooled his face against the hilarity of it all.

  "Against a band of rebels?" Veis retorted incredulously. "Insurrectionists? We're mere moments from Watchbreak ourselves, halfway across the Mainland, which means that he's had hours -- hours, du'Chapin -- to bring that rabble to heel."

  "I respectfully remind you, High Commander, that he is engaged with the same rabble that defeated and captured your father. Sir."

  Veis' face darkened, like a thundercloud gathering its strength. When he spoke, his words were almost inaudible, but his fury resounded in its silence. "Nestor Veis is a traitor, a heretic, and no father of mine. He didn't fall to that upstart du'Nograh -- he sacrificed his brethren on du'Nograh's altar. And you'd do well to remember that."

  "Of course, Sir," du'Chapin muttered, his gemstone eyes cast downward, as if properly cowed.

  "If Farhaven is still engaged, it still does not excuse his failure to update me on his progress," Veis declared, shifting his feet around where they were Merged with the dirt beneath them. Obviously, he wasn't used to staying in such close communication. Not surprising, as the mage bore a greater resemblance to a scroll warrior than a field commander. "He has the Prideful Spawn, and he has a full compliment of granites. If he has run into... trouble... I need to know about it so I can dispatch reinforcements from Stormhold and Jakar'tei. Farhaven will secure Bastion, even if I have to send nannies to baby-step him through his incompetence into victory."

  "We have every confidence in Farhaven's ability, sir," offered an amethyst seated across from du'Chapin. He was a high commander by his stripes, Veis' true peer in rank if not in authority. And a far more refined bootlicker than du'Chapin. "But perhaps it would be prudent to consider delaying our mission. To ensure the success of his, sir. We are only a day past the Icewater. It would be nothing for us to turn south to either Eastwind Delta or Soleis Harbor, and---"

  "Enough!" Veis shouted, the brown-grey auras surrounding his eyes flaring briefly. At the sound of his outburst, the amethyst issued one of his own, screaming in pain as he grasped his hand, pinned to the table by the granite spine that had shot up from the wooden surface. "We will not turn south. We will not be delayed. We will advance to Aitaxen, as planned, and on schedule. Have I made myself clear?" A chorus of affirmation rose loudly and quickly from the table. Mik imagined that not a one of them wanted to be noticed as the last man to submit to Veis' demands.

  And just like that, Mik's subterfuge paid off.

  Aitaxen. He should have known. The Highest had a history of exploiting the weaknesses of those who opposed him, and no place was dearer to the boys' hearts, and the hearts of those that loved them, than the twins' hometown, the storied citadel of King Titus.

  And it was a good move politically. It sent the message that nobody was safe from the Highest's wrath, should someone think to defy him. The Cause was on the far side of the Mainland, but that meant nothing. Aitaxen was where the Highest could hurt them. And if the people of Aitaxen were innocent, so much the better -- it would hurt them all the more.

  Objective accomplished, Mik's mission altered course, bearing for the next objective. Not only did he have to update Retzu on Veis' plans, he also had to get word to Aitaxen to prepare for a Rank invasion. He supposed that he could just use Sapphire to warn them, but Aitaxen was too crucial to the boys -- well, to Retzu -- to trust to their own defenses. Mikel du'Ander had resources, experience. More than anything, he had a burning desire to not see his friend Titus' land fall once again to the heretic 'vicar'.

  Of course, the ghosts of his past whispered to him, choosing that moment to remind him of the value of remaining in the Rank encampment. As an established servant, neither the Cause nor Aitaxen needed to embed a spy with the enemy. He was already there. But Mik silenced the ghosts as quickly as they spoke up. He was a servant, but not an indispensable one, and he quite likely could not work his way silently into a position of greater importance in time to be effective. No, as a servant, he was expendable, a mere convenience to be discarded as the battle drew near and the enemy closed ranks. Any soldier could cook a pot of gruel, or the occasional mutton, but not every servant could help save a nation.

  And I'm no servant, Mik thought, an evil grin stretching across his face. Time to leave... but he didn't have to leave quietly.

  Mik quickly assessed the enemy resources within the pavilion. Two amethysts, one within arm's reach. Three emeralds. A ruby. Two sapphires. And the granite, Veis. He was the greatest threat, sure, but none of them were insignificant. Mik shifted slightly, rubbing his lower arm against his side, counting the resources in the hidden pockets of his sleeve. Two amethyst darts. Two granites. No rubies or sapphires or emeralds. No shurikens. He did still have three granite chips in his coin purse, but he doubted that he could talk these fine gentlemen into putting them in their mouths.

  So, four darts, plus his tanto. For nine mages, and at least as many servants.

  Somewhat risky, even for him. He'd never be able to get all the mages, not and still make it out of there alive, but he'd definitely let them know he'd been there, and take a fair portion of the Rank leadership with him. Smiling, he cracked his neck, and went about showing them what a diamond-hilted shol'tuk could do.

  Time slowed to a crawl for him as he burst into action. Well, to be fair, time didn't actually slow for him. He was no mage, after all. He was just that fast.

  He threw the tray of gruel up into the air before him, reaching with both hands into his tunic. One hand grasped the granite tassel hanging from under his armpit. The magic of the tassel activated as his hand closed around the runes, allowing him to pull the tanto free from where it was melted into him. The other hand dove inside his sword-hand's sleeve, sweeping the four darts from their hiding places in one motion.

  He extended both hands at the same time, the one whipping the sword around to grasp properly, the other tossing the first of the amethyst darts across the table and into the amethyst mage seated behind du'Chapin. The dart was still in flight when he slashed with his tanto, lifting the nearest amethyst's head free of his shoulders.

  The Rank commanders were just now waking up to the fact that something was amiss. It'd still take them a split second to realize that one of their invisible, expendable servants was not who they thought he was. More than enough time.

  Mik slung his dart hand three more times in rapid succession. The first -- his final amethyst -- found its way into Heramis Veis' neck, burying itself deep. The granite's hand flew -- or, in Mik's sight, crept -- to the hole that the dart had produced. Given enough time, he'd probably be able to dig the enchanted thorn out of his body, thus breaking the null field it cast on him, but by that time Mik would be long gone, leaving the granite unable to follow.

  That took care of the three greatest threats -- the most deadly of the bunch, and the two mages most capable of stopping him. The final two darts, both granite, Mik sent into random Rank commanders, for no other reason than they were sure targets. They each started to discolor as Granite's disintegrating magics spread outward from the point of the dart's contact. The mages were already dead, and they didn't even know it yet.

  At that moment, du'Chapin's tray of gruel t
ook opportunity to come down in front of Mik. Obviously, it was eager to be of use. How thoughtful.

  Mik leapt into the air, spinning as he climbed. He threw out a foot, catching the tray as it fell. The now-missile flew across the tent space, into du'Chapin's waiting brow. Breakfast was served.

  Mik couldn't see the auras of the mages, but his hilt spoke to him, indicating at least two mages readying spells against him. Time to beat a hasty exit. He chopped with his tanto, parting the hair -- and the skull -- of one of the emeralds nearby, then squeezed one of his fingers into the tassel of his hilt. The ground rippled as the tassel's magic took effect, and he slipped away, into the earth and out of the chaos that he'd left as his parting gift.

  Thank you for your hospitality, he thought as he sped away, the soil around him, in him, magically absorbing his laughter.

  Chapter 25

  Sal grunted as he beat his leathery wings. The treetops passed far below him in a reddish, goldish, greenish blur, testament to the speed at which he was pulling himself through the sky, but still he pushed himself faster. Whatever the granite commander had in mind, Sal had to get there first to break it up.

  Idiot, he berated himself for his recklessness, but did nothing to curb it. You never outrun your coverage, bonehead! Never outrun your coverage.

  He tossed his head to one side and then the other, hoping to catch even the slightest glimpse of a wing or a neck. But he saw nothing but open air. He desperately hoped that he was just way out in front, and that Aplos and Athnae and their Flight was hard on his heels, but for all that he could tell, he was the only one in the sky. Idiot.

  It was just like every boneheaded play he'd ever seen watching college football on Saturdays growing up. He could see himself on kickoff return -- the ball settling into his hands and him just taking off, headed for the uprights on the far end of the field. He sprints down the field for all he's worth, kicking up divots and outrunning his blockers so that there's nothing left on the field but him and a whole bunch of defense just waiting to cream him.