Worldshaker

by J. F. Lewis

  Sir, Harvester told him, you said to notify you if it looked like Wylant and Dienox—

  Show me, Torgrimm thought, puzzled by the amusement the warsuit found in his choice of phrase.

  CHAPTER 10

  FLAMEFANG AND FAR FLAME

  The fire woke first. It always did and always would until Brazz’s alchemical essence grew weak and he breathed his last. Mustard yellow scales turned orange in the glow of the aged Flamefang’s zig zag markings as he dreamed of conflagration. Wisps of steam trailed from Brazz’s scales and the scales of the other Sri’Zaur of similar hue drowsing nearby. Some deep inner sense tracked the careful padding of a diminutive gray-scaled Zaur picking his way around the entangled cluster of darker-scaled Sri’Zaur crowded together during the sleep cycle to preserve warmth, the largest of them on the interior of the ring, more directly exposed to the heat emitted by the Flamefangs surrounding Brazz.

  The first set of Brazz’s nictitating membranes opened, exposing unseeing eyes still blinded by sleep, and nostrils flared at the scent of the approaching Zaur, the messenger’s pheromones announcing his intentions and authority in a manner Brazz could not believe the other races did not on some level possess, despite their insistence to the contrary. As he neared the inner ring where Brazz slumbered, the Zaur began a series of sharp light tail and claw taps upon the hard-packed ground, charred and scorched in places by the Flamefangs’ preparations for sleep and the occasional corrosive expectorants they drooled or spat in their slumber.

  <> the tapping and slapping of Zaurtol told any who could feel or hear it. <>

  Muted vibrations reached the edge of Brazz’s dream, dimming the mass of eternal combustion that filled his nights, consuming no one item, merely existing, burning it cared not what. He Who Ruled in Secret and in Shadow was to be worshipped, but if Kilke was Brazz’s deity, then fire was the Flamefang’s truest companion. He felt about it the way he imagined humans cared for their wives, their husbands, their children, and their parents all in one. Fire lay in potential all around him. All it needed was the right air and good fuel . . . and most things could be made into excellent fuel given sufficient . . . encouragement.

  <>

  Surrendering his slumber to the dreadful noise of claw on scale, Brazz’s eyes began to focus, his jaw to open, readying to spew his ire upon the offending awakener.

  <> the slight gray-scaled Zaur tapped. <>

  “Gliders,” Brazz hissed sluggishly, sniffing out the Zaur’s name. Ninth Hatchling of the Twentieth Brood of Joolis? Never heard of a Joolis before who was worth the one brood, much less twenty.

  “Joolis?” Brazz angled his arrow-like head at the rounder wedge of the smaller reptile’s. Not worth burning. “Gliders?”

  <>

  Brazz took in the trees overhead, marking as best he could the time by the passage of the most visible moon, but all it really told him amid all this scandalously unburnt forest was that he’d been woken far earlier than the dawn rousing he had been expecting.

  <> Brazz chuckled. <>

  <>

  “Fine,” Brazz whispered. Fumbling around for a flask of Dragon Venom, he unstoppered the container, breathing deep its fumes, letting the vapor ignite the last vestiges of black damp in his mind. “Any further signal from General Tsan?”

  <>

  Where was he? Well, likely she by now, but even if the Warlord had commanded her to brood, Brazz’s orders ought to have come from Kuort or, Kilke forbid, Captains Dryga or Asvrin.

  “To His secret purpose, then.” Brazz gave the air a taste with his forked tongue, sliding on his vest bedecked with vials of Dragon Venom. Eight out of thirteen left, if he judged the weight properly. Enough to burn the whole of the Parliament of Ages down if only the Weeds hadn’t seen the truth behind the burning of their Root Tree and realized the strength and value of the Sri’Zauran Empire as allies. Given the sight the scouts had seen: the General, an Eldrennai, and a young Weed flying for the mountains . . . Well, if there was ever to be war with the Weeds, it loomed far enough in the future Brazz might never see it.

  The Weeds now dwelt within the lee of time, safe within the good graces of Kilke’s chosen. They possessed impressive abilities, too, and he could see their value as allies. Weaker than the Sri’Zaur of course, but then were not all Jun’s creatures lesser than they?

  “Well, Spawn of Joolis?” Brazz hissed at the little Zaur to nudge him onward.

  “To His secret purpose?” the Zaur asked.

  <> Brazz thumped with his tail, <>

  *

  A small contingent of Weeds (all females, Brazz assumed, from their arms and armor, but it wasn’t always easy to tell) paced nervously alongside Lieutenant Len and his Gliders. Two of the Gliders perched on all fours at Brazz’s elbows, ready to steady him if he lost his balance on the wide branch that they all graced. One of the Weeds, a silvery barked one with green frond-like head petals, gestured with an outstretched limb pointing something out to Len, who nodded tersely before turning to face Brazz.

  Wounds of various levels of severity dotted Len’s mottled scales. A long cut shone dark and angry on his shoulder. A Skreel blade, maybe?

  <> Len tapped, exposing his throat.

  <> Brazz tapped in response.

  “The fallen,” Len spat softly.

  “Fallen?” Brazz asked. “Ex—”

  “A tremendous web of spiritual evil stretches from the north,” the frond-headed Weed interrupted. “You may be blind to it, but the Vael are not. It reaches into the very heart of the dead and raises them like dolls on hooks, which dance to their weaver’s will.”

  “A moment, noble Vael.” Brazz cleared his throat. <>

  <> the young female tapped with the hilt of a knife upon her armored belly, <>

  “You speak Zaurtol.” Brazz forced himself to keep his breath even. No need to let her see his surprise. General Tsan had warned some of the Vael had a limited understanding of the more common dialects. Making a mental note to himself to give the order to shift to one of the more secretive dialects, he studied the Weed, looking deep into her black-green pupil-less eyes, the unpruned dental ridges, and smooth, yet unstripped bark. She was a hardy breed, an evergreen; her scent was bright and tart like the mountain trees that survived the winters on high. Things could be worse. He could have been forced to deal with one of the more florid sort, with their acrid stench.

  “Enough to know the difference between <> and <> when I hear it.”

  “We were right to desire a peace with your people.” In his mind’s eye Brazz set her alight, watching her burn, imagining the crackle and the wood smoke. She’d be hard to enkindle properly, but he had powders and tinctures to assist with that. He could almost hear the hiss and pop. Such a pity her people were strong enough to be allies. Then again, they were allies for a reason and, thinking on it, Brazz did not even need to come up with a false one. “Not because you understand Zaurtol. As a language, it is not all that difficult; even our hatchlings can grasp it. Appalling more warmbloods can’t seem to make tongue or tail of it, really.”

  “Then to what were you referring?” Iella asked.

  “You can see the spirits to which our cursed maker blinded us.” Brazz lowered his throat to surface of the branch, his limbs catching the distant rumblings of Zaurtol from other agents. A dead Zaurruk? A cadre of dead. But
, also, two humans, some scarbacks, and— No. That part could not be correct. “You will be most useful. Assuming, of course, you are requesting the Sri’Zauran Empire’s assistance in dispatching this threat.”

  “We would, but first we want your opinion on something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “One of the fallen has been encountered with a small group of Aern, a crystal twist with an Aern’s teeth, and a human who is not quite what he seems. The fallen one says its name is Kuort. It has been asking for you.”

  “Kuort.” Brazz narrowed his eyes, holding his breath to maximize control over his exterior expressions both obvious and subtle. He hated all of this honeyed wordplay, but—“Yes, I suppose we can spare the time to see what he wants.”

  *

  Randall Tyree’s eyes snapped open and closed again in rebellion, stinging like no experience he had ever known. His lungs burned, crackling as he wheezed. Two distinct types of pain radiated from his chest: a low dull throb and a sharper stab when he breathed in. Broken breast bone, maybe? How many times had the Aern hit him? Everything smelled like smoke, pine trees, and rotten flesh. Lizard, too?

  Still. Pine was a good sign.

  “Nobody hit me again,” he croaked, tongue dry and raw. “The Harvester’s already seen me once today.”

  Emotions touched him quicker than the flood of words from those around him. Shock. Surprise. Awe. Confusion. Fear. Along with a type of emotion he got from animals more often than humans, which he could describe most accurately as a sort of loyal joy.

  He recognized it. Good. Alberta survived.

  Eyes watering (surely those could not have been tears of relief—he’d only known the horse a matter of days), he tried to separate the sounds he was hearing.

  Words, he thought, definitely words. They swam in circles around his brain but refused to make sense yet.

  “Can somebody hand me a wet rag?” Cold and wet, a rough cloth was at his eyes as someone worked to wipe away a mask of soot and char. Warm hands touched his cheeks and his forehead, a heavy weight on his chest, then gone.

  More words he didn’t understand, at first, but they sounded gentle and feminine, so he saw no reason to complain.

  Can you hear me? Cadence’s thoughts hit his brain, made his ears and mind ring.

  Do I get a kiss if I can?

  Between the snort and the lack of lip contact, he presumed the answer to be resoundingly negative.

  Worth a try. Attempting to open his eyes again, he spotted trees, but snapped them shut against the light, a miasma of colors wobbling before him even after he closed his eyes again.

  “Too bright.” The trees made him happy, though. Trees meant they were out of the tunnels. Shielding his eyes with his left hand, he let them slowly open once more.

  Aern faces surrounded him, peering down and out at other figures that surrounded them. Alberta whinnied plaintively, drawing a weak smile out of him.

  Where’d you go? he thought at Cadence when he did not see her.

  Alberta snorted and stomped, not a fan of being ignored.

  “I’m glad to see you, too, lady.” He attempted a roll in that direction, but his body responded slowly, its complaints visceral in their agony. He had heard many people say pain was a good thing, and his opinion about those sorts of people was that they needed to feel more of it so they would stop sounding like idiots. “Give a moment and I’ll—”

  Rolling his head toward the sound of Alberta’s whinny, he spotted a rotting Sri’Zaur carefully brushing the animal down and cooing at her in a sibilant, yet calming tone. Other reptiles with mottled scales and large membranous flaps along their limbs surrounded the Aern.

  “Gliders,” he whispered. Jerking back in the other direction to try to take in their number was a mistake that left him vomiting across his own bicep. Well, he thought, I probably would not have been able to get all of the smoke and soot out of it anyway.

  “Captain Tyree,” one of the Sri’Zaur, a Flamefang, the older one, began. Tyree did not know his name, but he’d seen the reptile once or twice during his captivity. “I expected that you would be half way to Midian by now.”

  “You mean this isn’t Midian?” Tyree managed a smile. “I knew there seemed to be a lot more trees than the last time I was here.”

  “Your attempt at humor is—”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Flamefang, sir.” Tyree tried, eyes sparkling, to beam positive emotions at the Sri’Zaur. “But you know how it is. You come upon a group of young Aern. One of them loses his leg somewhere, so you all have to go looking for it, and then no one can find it, so you have a cookout in a cave. Somebody forgets to check the air vents and . . .”

  “Brazz,” the dead reptile said softly, “has never had much of a sense of humor. Have you, Brazz?”

  “You talk.” Brazz eyed the dead one warily. “The other corpses don’t.”

  Not true, Tyree guessed, by the emotions coming off of the nearby Vael.

  “Dead or alive, I am Kuort,” the dead one said. “I serve General Tsan and have been her trusted guard and advisor. Do not lie to me, honored Flamefang. Of course the dead speak, but most of them do not speak freely, as I do. The majority are slaves to our cursed maker’s will.”

  “Who?” The interior of Brazz’s mouth began to glow. “Who is it?”

  “Our maker,” Kuort said slowly, taking great pains to enunciate well around split or missing fangs. “Ours, not just mine.” He gestured at the other reptiles then back to himself with one jagged foreclaw.

  “Uled?” one of the Gliders asked.

  Hate hit Tyree from all sides. If Uled was the angry dead thing he’d accidentally touched back in the tunnels, the thing from which Cadence had rescued him, he understood the feeling. Now if only they could all hate the guy a little more quietly . . .

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FLAME-HAIRED GODDESS

  Filled with stones and coated in flaming pitch, a barrel crashed over the wall of Warfare and down, past the angry goddess of resolution, toward the still-crowded marketplace at the center of the Guild Cities. Tornadic winds seized the barrel, kicking it back up in an arc that would return the projectile to the city from which it had been launched. Flaming hair, no longer merely an attractive quirk of magic, filled the air around the warsuit-clad Wylant in a writhing, hungry conflagration, consuming or igniting all it touched beyond the goddess, Clemency, and Vax.

  Arrows burst into flames as they sought her. Steel crossbow bolts melted and blew away, drops of liquid metal spattering and setting small fires where they found purchase. Fighting forms, with tattoos of Dienox across their fronts, manned siege weapons, directing the rank and file to keep firing arrows, to try anything that might slow the advance of the end to hostilities.

  It was hard not to pity them, but Wylant knew war and how to end it. With negotiation no longer an option, all that remained was the killing. Against an enemy like Dienox, one who would not or could not surrender, she had to keep coming until he actually showed up in person and lost . . . or until she destroyed every last temple and follower he possessed, robbing him of his power and leaving him helpless . . . She hoped.

  It will work, Mother.

  Wylant prayed Vax was right, but she did not know to whom she should send the prayers. Aldo would have been her deity of choice in the recent past, but she could not stomach praying to Vander.

  He would not mind, Vax thought.

  Clouds rolled in and tore apart, cutting misshapen tunnels in the sky from which fire and lighting rained. Steam rose from the Grand Arena most sacred to Dienox, the water boiling, killing the sharks within and reducing the helpless terrors to cooked meat in a wrathful stew.

  “Dienox!” Wylant bellowed, “Face me, you craven thing! When I was mortal you tried an ambush and came away more wounded than I! Come and die!”

  “You are acting beyond even the great leeway we have allowed you as one new to godhood.” The voice, female and strong, erupted from the clouds. “Gods do not treat mor
tals and their habitations this way, Wylant!”

  “Shidarva.” Wylant spotted the goddess hovering amid the maelstrom, could feel her influence seeping into the clouds, shifting the fallout to rain and hail.

  A complication. Clemency intoned. I shall keep a lookout for Dienox while you resolve this, ma’am. He will not catch me unawares.

  Thanks, Wylant thought. These are the rules Vander mentioned earlier, right?

  Yes, Vax answered. But she’s referring to rules Aldo wrote, not the guidelines the Artificer left behind. Most of the gods view them as irrefutable, because Aldo convinced them they were, but any god or goddess is free to do whatever they can manage without the other gods stepping in to stop them. Scary, given how fickle they seem to be.

  Sounds like we were all lucky Aldo was a good bluffer. Wylant wanted to know more, but she decided the ruler of the gods took precedence. With the same judgment that had led her to decapitate Nomi and scalp her, Wylant weighed her chances against the four-armed goddess. She had never seen the goddess depicted in this aspect. Her skin ranged from midnight blue to light and dark grays as if storm-filled skies merely echoed her own visage. Shidarva flew free of the clouds, her Altan armor falling into place as if assembled by the rain.

  Eagle-helmed plate armor covered her chest, back, shoulders, feet and knees. Arms exposed, but wearing gloves of black leather, Shidarva wielded curved blades wreathed in blue flame. Two wings sprung from her back, covered in gray feathers crackling with lightning.

  I haven’t seen armor like that on a living person, Wylant thought at her sword and warsuit. The paladins of Alt used to wear it charging into battle. I’ve seen paintings of it. She chuckled to herself.

  What is so funny, ma’am? Clemency asked.