by Chris Fox
“That’s your defense? You’re labeling me some sort of binder puppet?” the governor asked, chuckling. “Where’s your proof? This is nonsense. An attempt to deflect blame, criminal.”
“Ahh, here we go,” Voria said, pointing at Horuk as the archivist stepped onto the stage. “Citizens of Marid, most of you recognize Archivist Horuk. He’s served in that role for most of your lives. Horuk, you are a true mage, are you not?”
“I am.” Horuk’s deep voice boomed out over the square.
“And you are capable of reading spell sigils to detect the nature of a spell, are you not?” Voria asked calmly, watching the governor closely. He’d begun to shift, his gaze roaming the edge of the crowd—like an animal, about to flee.
“Indeed I can. There is none more qualified on this world.”
“I do not expect your people to trust me, Governor. But I do expect they’ll trust the word of their own archivist.” Voria sketched a fire sigil, performing a detection spell. The governor began to glow. A soft white light emitted from his skin, then the light intensified—so bright that the governor was gone, eclipsed by a tangled mix of sigils wrapped around the area where his chest and head would be. “Can you tell me exactly what you’re seeing, Archivist?”
“I can,” Horuk called out, his clear voice echoing over the silent crowd. “The governor has been inflicted with a number of spells, the most notable a binding to shackle his will. He belongs fully to a binder, and I suspect it was he who arranged the recent attack.”
The crowd burst into shouts—a mixture of shock and deep anger. They were looking for a target, and Voria needed to handle this next part delicately, or they’d quickly become a mob.
“Citizens, how you handle your own internal matters is up to you. I’ve nominated Archivist Horuk to serve as acting governor, until Ternus High Command can help you install another. The governor is yours to deal with as you see fit. I would argue leniency. Once the bindings are removed, he will have to live with what he did. In a way, he is blameless in all this—a victim, as all of us are.”
The shouts died to dark murmurs, but at least the calls for the governor’s blood had died.
“And what of you, Major?” Horuk asked. “Will you depart this world, or stay and protect it?”
“I will stay—and more,” Voria yelled. She faced the crowd, clenching a fist. “Tomorrow at first light I will take the fight to the Krox. I will find Nebiat, and I will stop her from achieving whatever her aim here is.”
The crowd roared their defiant approval, their collective cries drowning out the sorrow.
47
Didn't I Mention That?
Aran finally unclenched as the crowd of locals gradually filtered away from stage. They were moving off in groups, most talking quietly. They looked thoughtful, though there was definitely an undercurrent of anger. Many glared hatefully at the governor, who stood under Marine guard.
Nara pulled her helmet off, freeing a river of dark hair. “Did you have any idea she was going to do that?”
“No. I don’t think the major told anyone, and I can’t blame her.” Aran removed his own helmet, enjoying the cool breeze. He did not enjoy the scent of ash over everything.
“You got that right,” Crewes rumbled. He walked off a short distance, into the shadows of a relatively undamaged building. “She didn’t say it, but I’ve seen her do this sort of thing before. In the morning, we’ll move out. She’ll make a call to the locals to see if any militia will join us. Most won’t. Then we’re gonna march out into the swamp.”
“I wish Bord was going with us.” Nara gave a heavy sigh, kneeling to scoop up a pile of ashy dirt with her gauntlet.
“He is,” Aran said, smirking. “Didn’t I mention that? The major brought him back from the dead.”
Kez clomped up in her heavy armor. “Did the Krox joost knock you in the head, sir?”
Aran gave a wide smile. They’d been through it, and they needed a victory. This, he realized, could be exactly that victory, exactly the morale boost that would get them all back in the game after being punched in the crotch.
“Right before the major pulled her stunt with the governor, we paid the morgue a visit,” Aran explained, pausing for dramatic effect. Even Crewes was watching him with rapt attention. “When we met with the Drifters, they sold her a brew they claimed could wake someone from the dead.”
“And it worked? Bord is alive?” Nara gave a musical laugh, then threw her arms around Aran. “That’s incredible.”
“I can’t believe it myself.” Aran returned the hug, but quickly disengaged since the squad was watching. “The major gave him the rest of the day off, and he’s back to active tomorrow.”
“Just in time to join us in the muck,” Crewes rumbled cheerfully. “Perfect. Every time I think she can’t surprise me, she does it again. Back from the gods-damned dead. Who’d believe that shit?”
Aran surveyed the squad, realizing that everyone’s armor was at least partially damaged. Most had empty canisters, and one of Crewes’s had been shattered by a hit from an enforcer.
“If we’re moving out in the morning,” Aran said, “we should make good use of the time. Let’s get back to the barracks. Kez, can you help us run repairs on our suits while you all catch up with Bord?”
“I betcha we can get it all fixed up tight in a joost a few hours,” Kez drawled in her sing-song accent. “But I have to warn you, sir. After a fight like that, I plan on drinkin’.” The faceplate to her armor popped up, framing an oval face with a wicked grin. “Ya should join me sir. Discover the fine line between drunk and drunker. We certainly got cause to celebrate.”
“I’ll see if we can’t requisition a keg from the major,” Aran promised, smiling at his friends. “We’ll kick back, as much as we’re able. Run light repairs, then get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’re heading back into it.”
He put his helmet back on, still smiling. In some ways, a single soldier coming back from the dead was a small thing—not enough to turn a battle on its own. But in another way, it demonstrated the major’s unfailing ability to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Tomorrow, some of them were probably going to die. But they’d go willingly to that death, knowing they were following a woman worthy of that allegiance.
48
The Circle
Nebiat flapped her wings, descending slowly toward the mossy mountain below. Eight sites had been erected around it, each attuned to a different aspect, each with a large urn in the center. Those sites glowed with power. All eight aspects would be needed today, though in different proportions.
Enforcers moved the last of the urns into place, completing the outer ring. That ring, the magical repository, could be managed by lesser binders. All they needed to do was funnel power into each urn, power she would consume when she cast the ritual.
She transformed as she fell toward the mountain, and was a full human by the time she landed gracefully at the summit. Unlike many of her brethren, she usually preferred the human form. It was frail, but it also allowed the kind of manual dexterity a much larger body prohibited—the kind of manual dexterity needed to draw an immensely complex ritual circle, for example.
Nebiat knelt, drawing from the well of power in her chest. She sketched the first sigil, beginning with void. She prided herself in the artistry, having drawn countless such circles in her lifetime. Never had they been as important as this one.
If she succeeded, if she were able to remove the seal, then Marid would become a staging ground to conquer the Confederacy. From this world she could launch a dagger at Ternus itself, and then at Shaya. The Confederacy would fall in years, instead of the decades her father had allocated.
In the incredibly unlikely event that she failed, she’d turn that to her advantage as well—though it seemed impossible that anything could prevent her victory at this point. Voria had proven annoying, but was unlikely to even reach the ritual before it was complete, much less muster enough force to stop Nebiat
.
Nebiat had husbanded her forces, sending only the weakest and least trained to assault the Confederates. Those who remained were her strongest, and were more than a match for anything a human could bring to bear.
She made the second sigil, adding fire next to void. Then came dream, and air. She took her time with life, the most complex sigil and the aspect she had the most trouble mastering. She continued to water, then spirit. Finally, she added earth, completing the circle.
Rising, she surveyed her handiwork. She would need to strengthen each sigil several more times, but the framework for the spell had been created. Now it was time to test it. She waved a hand, and a puff of spirit energy drifted into the air.
The circle seized it instantly, channeling it into the sigil she’d drawn. She smiled. All she needed to do was test the outer circle, then strengthen both. Within a few hours, she could begin casting the spell that would end the hated Confederacy—and, after that, the entire sector.
Her father would be enraged at the death of her brother, but if she could deliver him this world he would forget about it soon enough. If she managed to bind Drakkon? Then he would barely notice the loss of a son, and she’d be showered with honors.
She smiled. There had been setbacks, but she was still very much in control of the situation. Still, it was best not to grow overconfident. The Confederates were coming, of that she had no doubt. Perhaps she needed to arrange another distraction.
“Serephala, attend me,” Nebiat boomed, in a voice far louder and deeper than should have issued from a human throat.
A Wyrm near the life urn leapt into the air, flapping her powerful wings as she climbed toward the summit. She banked, landing on an outcrop above Nebiat. “How many I serve, elder sister?”
Nebiat did not look up from her work on the circle. “I’m giving you a chance to make up for your failure on the station. I want you to slaughter every snake, every cat, every creature in the swamp around us. Gather them, and hurl them at the Confederates. Slow them. Make their march excruciating. Make them pay for every meter.”
“I will simply crush them all and remove the problem,” Serephala boasted, flapping her mighty wings.
The wind tugged at Nebiat’s hair, blowing it across her face. She shot her younger sister a glare, and the Wyrm dropped her gaze. “Do not be arrogant. Kheftut is dead. As are many others. We’ve never had so many of our siblings die in so short a span, not since the godswar. Do not risk yourself, sister. Harass, and fade away.” Nebiat ceased her work, staring up at her sister again. “Do not engage them directly, am I clear?”
“As you wish,” her sister muttered sullenly.
“Good. Then see to it.” Nebiat bent back to the circle, content that there would be no more distractions.
49
Debriefing
Voria closed the door behind her, pausing to breathe. The archives bore the rich fragrance of books, her very favorite perfume. Even after being introduced to Ternus datapads, she’d never lost the love for books.
Horuk sat hunched over a table, scrawling notes into a journal with a feathersteel pen. He looked up at her approach, setting the pen down with the kind of precision she envied but was far too impatient to implement in her own life.
“Welcome, Major.” He rose slowly to his feet, smoothing his jacket. “You’ve come for the debriefing, I assume?”
“I have.” She nodded, moving to sit in the chair opposite his. “I realize I’ve given you very little time, but I’m hoping you’ve put it to use.”
“It was well spent.” Horuk reached for his journal, flipping it to another page and sliding it across the table to her. “Take a look.”
“This isn’t the page you were writing,” Voria mused, scanning the contents. “How old is this? It’s not dated.”
“Just over a decade,” Horuk confirmed. “I memorize the dates, so I’ve little need to apply them to my personal journal.”
Voria turned the page, eyes widening as she read. “You’ve been to the Catalyst.”
“You can’t be surprised.” Horuk gave a dry smile. “I’d been sentenced to this backwater for four years before I finally decided to explore the mists. It took another two years to locate the Catalyst.”
Voria set the journal down. She cocked her head to the side, studying the archivist with fresh eyes. “Tell me.”
“The Catalyst is the body of a Great Wyrm. She wasn’t a mere Void Wyrm. She was a true god, fashioned by gods even more ancient than she.” Horuk picked up his journal, running a finger along a page, lost in memory. “She was killed by one of Krox’s puppet gods, slain because she would not submit, and was simply too powerful to control. Her body fell from orbit, making the crater around us. Her heart, a fount of magical power, lay at the center of that crater.”
“An open wound? That would have called primals from all over the sector.” Voria interrupted, though she was intrigued by the tale.
“And it did. The swamp is full of giant snakes, the youngest form of the drake. As they age, each becomes more and more a true Wyrm.” Horuk set the journal down, eyeing her earnestly. “At some point, the wound was covered. A mountain now stands above it, blocking the magical signature. This slowed the development of the Wyrms in the swamp, keeping them from progressing to their final forms.”
“It probably also kept Nebiat from finding it. A Water Catalyst is powerful, but not powerful enough to warrant the kind of forces she’s committed here. What’s so special about this one?”
“I don’t know. But I believe this world’s import is greater than I first guessed,” the archivist mused. “The part about strange skies? The original natives of this planet kept detailed star charts, painted in caves on the southern continent. I spent months studying them, and not a single one matched the current night sky.”
“Stellar drift?” Voria asked.
“That was my assumption too, but drift would only partially modify constellations, not completely alter them. No, when these people say strange skies, I think they mean the entire sky changed.” The archivist watched her closely, waiting for her reaction.
“The only way that could be possible is if the planet were moved.” Voria shook her head, trying to understand the kind of magical power that would be required for such a feat.
“Yes, and you can see why I’m so troubled. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to hide this world.” He shook his head. “The fact that the Krox have found it now? I believe that may be far more catastrophic than the Confederacy realizes.”
“What do you think Nebiat is planning?” Voria asked, reaching again for her missing staff. Blast it, she was going to need to replace that.
“At a guess, I think she might be trying to remove the patch over the wound. If she can do that, maybe she can tap into the energy more fully.” Horuk shrugged. “I don’t really know.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” A chill passed through Voria, and she rose from her chair. “In fact, I think I know what Nebiat is planning. If she removes the patch, then the primals will begin coming again.”
“And those already here will continue to develop.” Horuk’s eyes widened in understanding. “She’ll have an army of Wyrms, and a way to make more over time.”
“You begin to see the problem. What about the Guardian?” Voria asked. “There’s no way any Guardian would let a binder approach, and there’s no way a Catalyst this powerful doesn’t have a Guardian.”
“Again, I don’t know. During my trip I expected to meet a Guardian, to find something of immense age watching over the Catalyst. Given its scope and power, the idea that there is no Guardian is unfathomable. Something would have moved to control the Catalyst, millennia ago. Perhaps whatever erected the seal over the wound.” Horuk walked over to a bookshelf, scanning for several moments then selecting a tome. “Hmm, I think this is the one. Yes, there it is. Look at this sketch.”
Horuk passed the book to Voria. It showed a towering god hurling a crackling magical spear at a titani
c Wyrm. The spear had impaled the beast, and the beast slammed into the world beneath it. If the depiction was accurate, it would have been apocalyptic for the people of this world.
“This is the battle, I assume. What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“The location of the wound, hopefully. It’s a bit off center, but near enough.”
“It will suffice.” Voria sketched a quick trio of sigils, then touched the journal hanging from her belt. The image shimmered, then a copy shot into her tome. “Is there anything else you can offer, any warning about the dangers of the swamp?”
“Nothing you don’t already know. The Krox will come for you, of course. The local fauna most likely will not. They’ll be easy enough to frighten off with loud weaponry.” Horuk frowned again. “I don’t know what happened to the Guardian, but I suspect that you, and this binder, are about to find out. Is there anything else you require before your journey?”
“Sleep,” Voria muttered. She rubbed at her temples. “If you can arrange to have the citizens in the square to see us off in the morning, I’d be grateful.”
“You intend to ask for volunteers.” It wasn’t a question. “These people have already sacrificed much.”
“I will not demand they sacrifice anything further, but they have a right to choose their own fate,” Voria countered. “Some may join us, and odds are good those who do will not return. If none do, so be it. We’ll fight Nebiat with every resource at our disposal.”
“Good night, Major. I think my people may surprise you.”
50
Into The Mist
Voria accepted Captain Davidson’s hand as he pulled her atop the tank. “Thank you, Captain.”
He nodded respectfully at her, but didn’t say anything. His attention remained fixed on the mist below, scanning ceaselessly as he watched for another Krox assault.