There had to be a way to duplicate the transformation Zouka had undergone. He had increased his already impressive strength immeasurably and grown into a goliath of power. It was only through the quick thinking of his friends and allies that Nevick had managed to survive. Zouka had been defeated, and there had been no sign of escape before Kahntran was violently ripped to shreds. All evidence suggested the Gorram died there on that day. So why then was Nevick refusing to accept that his foe had been vanquished?
Zouka was alive. Nevick could feel it in his heart. When he had confessed these musings to Deana, his fiancée simply looked at him incredulously and assured her betrothed there was no possible way he could have escaped in time. Still though, Nevick just knew. The worst ones are never truly gone. Zouka would come at him again, and when that happened, he needed to be ready.
A pulsating power spread through the veins on his arms, pressed against his skin by the bulging rock-like muscles that flexed beneath them. An almost unperceivable hue of emerald light accompanied this feeling, and Nevick felt mighty in its presence. More strength was most certainly needed for what was to come. For while Zouka was indeed a powerful opponent, what Nevick had encountered next was something beyond comprehension.
To say that he was soundly defeated by Empress Aleksandra would be an extreme understatement. His thrashing had been so complete, so utterly void of any semblance of hope, that in the subsequent month following the assault, he had fallen into a deep depression. He wouldn’t let it show, but he spent much of those first thirty or so days just stoically reflecting on the hopeless situation they all faced.
How can anything have that much power? he had often thought, reflecting on not only the heat of her burning flames or the power of her magical might but the sheer jaw-dropping physical strength that allowed her to so casually deflect his offense. Each time she struck him, it felt as though the strength of the entire planet bore down upon his body.
Had it not been for Valentean, he would be dead. Should he live for one hundred years, he would never forget the breathtaking sight of Valentean Burai rising through a cage of electric hatred, marching through an agonizing blaze, determined to succeed as he cooked alive. Nevick would also remember the stifling heat of those carving bolts, the vile smell of burning flesh and hair, the sound of his friend’s pained cries, and the satisfying screams of their would-be murderer as she received a well-deserved comeuppance.
The muscles in his arms bulged and grew, and he could feel the mana spreading through his bones. This was a new sensation, and for a wild second, he believed himself to be on the right track to unlocking this mysterious transformative power. He recalled, in this moment of suspenseful anticipation, watching from the forward viewport of The Heart of Casid as Aleksandra tore the entirety of Kahntran to bits as a gargantuan red dragon. Against something like that, what good were his muscles? What use did his fists have against the flesh of gods?
He felt the energy gathering in his joints, and for a sweet solitary moment, he felt the pull of expansion against them, but as quickly as the power had come to him, it vanished. The instantaneous drain of strength throughout his body caused Nevick to pitch forward onto his hands and knees, gasping in gulping breaths to his lungs. Nevick cursed his weakness as he watched cascading droplets of perspiration drip from his nose and pool onto the ground below.
Weak, the voice of his doubt whispered into his mind, silently chastising him for his inabilities. Casid had fallen due to his weakness, not once, but twice. Then, when he could have ended the Skirlack threat once and for all by striking the sorceress down, he again found himself held back by his own lack of strength. There had been a time when Nevick had believed himself to be the strongest man in the world. But that was before he learned there were demons and dragons and hulking masses of Gorram warriors who stood atop Terra.
Against such forces, what good could one ordinary man do?
Maura’s stomach churned as she spooned the hot vegetable stew into her dry mouth. Deana had worked painstakingly hard to produce this meal, using the scarce supplies they had remaining, and Maura was determined to smile through it. Not everyone in their group shared her manners. Nahzarro scoffed in disgust as he brought the spoon to his face and took a whiff. He wrinkled his nose and gingerly placed the bowl upon the ground. Maura was relieved that no one else had seemed to notice.
She sat in a small circle in what was once apparently a thriving center of commerce for the tiny village of Casid. Deana sat to her immediate right, then Nahzarro, followed by Mitchell the inventor and Michael the mechanic. Her gaze settled on Nahzarro, the mage prince of Grassan, captain of the Knights Mystic. Her eyes narrowed into horizontal slits of distaste and disgust at him, and he noticed.
“Deana, you’ve done a great job here,” Maura said, forced optimism shining upon her face.
“Oh, now I know you’re a liar,” Deana said, looking down at Maura with a snort from the seat of her wheelchair.
“I’ve had worse,” Michael offered with a smile and a wink.
“I haven’t,” Nahzarro scoffed.
Maura’s eyes doubled in size at the incredulousness of her Grassani companion. An uneasy silence settled around the meager gathering. Nahzarro had not done much to endear himself to their new allies, and Maura had stopped trying to defend his behavior after the first few weeks.
“Uncalled for,” Mitchell said into his bowl, not even bothering to look up as he shoveled another spoonful into his mouth.
“This entire situation is uncalled for,” Nahzarro replied sharply. Their prolonged encampment in this place had worn on all of them, and tempers were beginning to flare.
“I apologize if the soup is not to your liking, Nahzarro,” Deana said softly, calmly. “I am trying to make do with the limited supplies we have here in…”
Nahzarro stood sharply and turned to storm away. “If your pair of geniuses there were half as talented as they claim to be, we would have been in the air two months ago, and I would be back to civilization!”
Michael roared to his feet, spilling his soup into the dirt. “That airship is one of a kind. The entire engine was completely burned out from our little adventure to Kahntran,” he spat back across the circle. “If my brother and I weren’t who we are, then there’d be no hope of ever repairing it!”
Maura raised a hand as if trying to halt the conversation. Nahzarro ignored her as he turned back toward Michael.
“When we reach Grassan,” he proudly stated, “likely sometime after the Skirlack have already conquered the entire sodding world, take a look at the skies and tell me how ‘one of a kind’ your precious boat is!”
Mitchell finally looked up and glared. “My airship runs thanks to the power of science,” he said slowly, anger tinting his words as they flew from his mouth. “If it were as easy as saying a simple magic word like these ridiculous magic airships you keep babbling about, then we’d be underway. But in the real world outside of your silly magical bubble, these things take effort and skill. I assure you we lack for neither.”
Nahzarro glowered down at the seated inventor. “Well—”
“ENOUGH!” Maura cried out as she rose dramatically, stepping between them, fury smoldering in her stare. Nahzarro clicked his tongue in annoyance and turned with a flick of his long, purple coat, storming off toward the deserted beach. Maura turned to Mitchell, Michael, and Deana, her anger abating, replaced by a sorrow-filled apologetic shrug. “I am so sorry for that,” she said.
Deana smiled back warmly, that same incurable optimism that was her trademark shining through even the most awkward of situations. “It’s perfectly fine. No worries should be had.”
“You’re not responsible for the way that jerk behaves,” Michael grumbled, shaking his head in bewildered disbelief once more at Nahzarro’s erratic behavior.
Mitchell remained silent, which worried Maura. So much rested on the inventor’s shoulders; the last thing they needed was for his genius mind to retreat inward.
&nb
sp; She nodded to her friends and allies, gently laying her bowl upon the ground before stalking after the extravagantly dressed prince. Maura marched onto the sandy beach, determined to give him a piece of her mind.
“What?” he said, not even bothering to turn around to face her.
“You know damn well what!” she spat back at him. Nahzarro slowly turned to her, and she was once more amazed at the deteriorating finery of his garments. His long, purple coat was mud streaked and torn. His prized top hat sported several rips along the brim, and one of the dark goggles he kept latched around its base was cracked vertically along one eye. He looked a far cry from the regal aristocrat who once sneered at her within the confines of an extravagant office.
“You don’t understand,” he said simply, not snapping at her like he once might have but also not taking great care to be kind either.
“I understand that you’re an ass! You treat everyone here like dirt!”
“Not everyone,” he answered back softly. It was true; his demeanor toward her had certainly improved since their ordeal together on the Northern Continent. She sensed a begrudging respect from him now and perhaps something else. She unconsciously dredged up a forcefully buried memory of that abandoned guardhouse they had squatted in just before the turmoil began. Their heads tilting toward one another, so close she could taste his breath…she immediately shook her head free of the thought and replaced it with the aggravated humiliation she felt at having to explain away his actions again and again.
“That’s beside the point,” she fired back at him, stomping up to glare directly into his eyes, nearly face to chin as she puffed out her chest and stood on tip toe as if daring the tall, thin mage prince to defend himself against her.
“What do you want from me, Maura?”
“I want you to act like a decent human being once in a while before our own allies toss you into the sea!” She gestured wildly with one arm toward the churning waves, which reflected the red and orange hues of the setting sun.
“You don’t understand,” he scoffed at her, turning to storm away.
Maura lashed out with the speed of a pouncing cat and caught the prince by one arm, spinning him forcefully back to face her. Nahzarro wore a look of incredulous shock at such a manhandling, and his left hand crackled involuntarily with lightning.
“Make me understand!” she shouted back in his face.
He bit his bottom lip for a moment, clearly wrestling with some inner strife. Finally, his face resolved into haughty iron, and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a sneer of derision. “Grassan is next on Aleksandra’s list; we both know this! And for all I know, sitting here at the ass end of the planet, my home is already a smoldering, ruined crater, plucked from the ground as easily as Kahntran was! My father could already be dead! And on the off chance that he isn’t, on the infinitesimal possibility that everything I’ve ever known and loved remains intact, I have to trust a couple of magic-fearing country shorms to get me back there so that I might make a difference and defend my home!”
“They’re trying to help!”
“They aren’t trying hard enough!” Nahzarro insisted, slamming his fist into an open palm to accentuate his point. He turned his back to Maura once more and gazed out over the breaking waves. The serenity of the sea seemed to calm him after but a moment. He turned his head to glance at her sidelong and spoke softly. “I’ve never relied on others before. I’ve never had to place my future or the future of anyone or anything I value in the hands of anyone but myself. I’ve never relied on servants, I turned down all offers from potential animus warriors as a boy, and I just find it impossible to place that kind of trust in anyone.”
Maura fell silent, glad to finally have some insight into this unacceptable behavior. It all made sense, but that did not excuse the way he spoke to their allies. She opened her mouth to reply, when Nahzarro’s attention shifted down the shoreline. A red-clad figure moved swiftly through the sand toward them, walking at an unbreakable gait. The folds of his ankle-length, crimson, hooded trench coat wafted in the ocean air, and Maura shook her head, still not used to seeing him adorned in anything besides white animus robes.
Nahzarro took a step back at his approach, which did not go unnoticed by Maura. Since healing from his near-death encounter with Aleksandra, Valentean’s demeanor had noticeably shifted. For one, he rarely smiled. His face remained a void, barren landscape of emotionless indifference at all times. Gone were the days of their jovial light-hearted conversations. Now when Valentean spoke, there was always a direct purpose. He kept his voice flat, rigid, and this was clearly intentional as though he were putting his all into holding his emotions in check. This, honestly, may have been a blessing.
In the last month, since Valentean had become ambulatory, he had lost his temper many times. Often, he would snap with some kind of biting comment or impatient brush off. They were jarring yet brief. He would quickly recover from these momentary lapses in manners, offer a sincere apology that had a tint of his former kindness buried within, and then rush off once more alone, headed who knows where.
Even more disconcerting was his manner of dress. His animus robes had burned away, so he was making do with garments found within the airship barracks. The long, red hooded trench coat seemed more fitting for Kayden, as the dark blood-colored hue contrasted everything she knew about Valentean. Beneath it all, he wore all black, the polar opposite of his animus trappings. Upon his face, he always wore a pair of dark black goggles like those found in Grassan. When she had asked him why he needed to cover his eyes, Valentean made some ridiculous excuse about the sun hurting his head, post healing. Maura did not believe that for an instant.
Something was wrong with her friend, and the gnawing anxiety she carried over this overrode her annoyance at Nahzarro. She waited for Valentean to approach them, but his pace never slowed. He had not acknowledged their presence as though he hadn’t even noticed them.
“Valentean,” Maura said, stepping in front of him, halting the young animus warrior’s progress. His head snapped up at the sound of her voice, and the look on his goggled face led her to believe he had indeed been oblivious to them.
“Maura,” he said with a cold stoic nod of his head as though she were a stranger he had greeted casually in the market.
“Where have you been all morning?”
“Training.”
“Oh, well, how did it go?”
“Fine.”
“I see… Well, Nahzarro and I were just having a discussion here about our progress in getting the airship up and running again.”
“Don’t let me interrupt then,” he replied softly and turned to walk back toward the village. Maura looked at Nahzarro helplessly, and he shook his head in disbelief at the casual disregard the powerful Rosinanti now showed to his friends.
“Valentean, wait,” she insisted, reaching out and catching him at the black-gloved wrist. She could feel extreme heat along the surface of the cracked leather and inclined her head at him in silent question. Valentean’s head snapped toward her like a hawk at her touch, and he roughly and easily wrenched his arm from her grip.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“What is wrong with you?” Her eyes welled up with tears as she looked at her friend in frustration. “You’ve completely closed yourself off from the group, you’ve retreated inward, and you’re scaring me!”
The harshness in his face softened momentarily, and even through the opaque lenses of the thick goggles he wore, Maura could see a spark of Valentean’s old compassion spread along his face. His muscles seemed to relax, and he took a long, slow breath.
“I’m sorry, Maura,” he replied at a slow, deliberate verbal pace, “but you can’t imagine what I’m going through right now.”
“Can’t I?” Tears burned the corners of her eyes. “You’re not the only one who has lost everything, Valentean. At least your home can be reclaimed. It’s taken some blows, yes, but it’s not wiped off the face of Terra like L
azman was.”
“Maura, I never meant to cheapen your pain. It’s just…”
“It’s what?”
“Sera…”
“I know, Valentean, but we can get her back together!”
“Can we? You saw what we’re up against. I’m not nearly strong enough. None of us are. She can and will wipe us off the map with a gesture the next time she sees us. She’s done playing around. I can feel it.”
“What do you mean, you can feel it?”
“It’s…nothing…just a feeling I have. Call it warrior’s intuition.”
“Be that as it may, we can fight her together.”
“The only way we stand the ghost of a chance is if I can increase my strength. If we all increase our strength. So far, Nevick is the only other one who has realized this.”
“We will get stronger together, Valentean. But in the meantime, Seraphina can take care of herself.”
“I know that, but I’m her animus warrior, and she shouldn’t have to face all of this alone. If I were strong enough yet, I’d transform into the white dragon and fly to her myself, but I don’t trust my own power to hold out long enough to get me there.”
“I know a few things about animus warriors, you know,” Maura whispered. Valentean inclined his head in way of questioning. “As a little girl, I was enamored with them. It’s why I took such an interest in you when we first met, Champion Animus of Terra and all. I memorized the Oath of Animus, read the history of your order, and I understand why you feel you need to return to her immediately.”
“Do you?” He scoffed. “Hang the oath,” he spat at her, his face contorting now in sudden anger. “Hang the white robes. Hang the training and the titles and the duty. All I want is to get back to the woman I love. Oath or no oath, it changes nothing. A piece of my heart lies across that sea. She needs me, and I’m here, wasting time on a beach with you, too weak to fly off to her, too weak to defeat the chaos.”
Rosinanti: Rise of the Dragon Lord (Rosinanti Series Book 3) Page 3