The Way of the Soul

by Stuart Jaffe

  Reon did her best to shut out Bell’s taunting words and focused on solving her problem. Her wrist had been shattered. No way could she hold a sword, and fighting with her other hand would be foolish. For a secondary weapon meant to assist the primary weapon, her working hand would suffice, but she couldn’t fight effectively with it on its own.

  Despite that reality, she grabbed one of several swords littering the ground. If nothing else, she would have that, and she could die knowing she tried everything. As her eyes shifted back towards Bell, she caught a glint off of something metal — not a blade. A gun. One of the monk’s rifles.

  Reon extended her head to look over the body next to her. She saw Harskill and Malja continuing their combat. Red-colored magic blasted from his hand, but Malja arched back to evade it. She then sprang forward with her blade. Harskill pivoted to the side, but Malja let her blade dig into the platform and used it as support as she jumped up and kicked Harskill in the face. He spit out blood as he spun. Reon grinned — she stole my move.

  “Stop worrying about your ex-lover,” Bell said. Reon whirled back to find Bell standing within striking distance. “Even if he did care about you, he’ll want nothing to do with you after I’m done.”

  Reon grabbed the rifle. Her broken wrist burned under the weight as she tried to hold it steady enough to fire. She finally propped the barrel on her knee and the butt on the ground.

  “Your stupidity never ceases,” Bell said. “Harskill’s magic prevents those guns from firing.”

  Using her good hand, Reon rested her finger on the trigger. “But Harskill’s too busy to concentrate on guns.”

  She fired the rifle and a hole opened in Bell’s gut. When the pain hit Bell, her face dropped in shock. Reon could see the realization occur — the do-kha’s no longer worked; the hole in her body came from the rifle blast. Bell plunged to her knees as smoke curled around her face.

  “You cheated.”

  Reon let the rifle fall and slumped back against the ground. “This is war, you bitch.”

  Closing her eyes, she promised to take only three breaths before opening her eyes again. If she waited longer, she might not be able to wake up. But her fears were unfounded. On her second breath, she heard the distinct crackcrackcrack of gunfire.

  She opened her eyes and sat up. Two monks had taken her lead by grabbing rifles from the dead and using them against the Gate. A few Gate had picked up the weapons, too. They did not appear to have any experience with firearms. One shot off his own hand. The other couldn’t figure out how to reload and ended up using the rifle to bludgeon his enemy.

  There still remained a sizable force on both sides. The brutality continued, though the Gate seemed less enthusiastic. Exhaustion could account for some of the change, but Reon noticed hesitancy. Of course, without their do-khas, the Gate were vulnerable. They had to be cautious.

  But the monks did not go out of their way to kill the Gate, either. They only fought back when attacked. Those Gate that hung away from the action did not get targeted.

  Despite these slight shifts in attitude, Reon did not have to look hard to find evidence of continuing abuse and death. Plenty of Gate still wanted to win this fight, still thought they would get to be gods. She could see the determination and desire on their greedy faces.

  All because of, all for, Harskill.

  She shifted on her knees in order to get a clear view of Harskill and Malja. Harskill moved with power and grace. Malja matched him each time. Whenever he dared, he snatched a look at Tommy. The worry on his face told Reon everything.

  Tommy was alive, probably working on a spell, and Harskill was running out of time. Whatever spell Tommy cast, it would be big. The bigger the magic, the longer it took to create. But no matter what happened, it would be coming soon — if not, the spell would be pointless. Harskill had to make his move first.

  While his focus rested on Tommy, Malja attempted to hook his waist with her curved blade. Any normal opponent would have been unable to avoid the attack. Any normal opponent would have been cut in two. But Harskill’s torso elongated and then curved from the middle outward. The blade passed through without touching him. The moment it cleared, his body snapped back to normal.

  The do-kha then covered over his left hand and continued outward. Reon assumed he would be forming a weapon similar to what she did with her own do-kha, but instead of turning rigid, the do-kha became thick and loose like the arms of a large octopus. Harskill’s newly formed tentacle jabbed out with furious speed and snagged Malja.

  It curled around her and lifted her off the ground. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and her blade clanged when it hit the marble floor. She swore at him, but he turned away, letting his do-kha keep her immobile. He faced Tommy, and the young man stood.

  With his back to her, Reon could not see Tommy’s face, but she counted that as a good thing. Harskill’s expression showed how terrifying the young man could be. A rattle of gunfire erupted near the bridge, but these two combatants remained still. Even Malja’s struggle did not register between them. Reon had seen this before — when two fighting Masters faced off. But in those cases, the Masters were still because they did not want to give each other any advantage. Here, Reon thought for certain that the stillness came from the unknown. Harskill had no idea what Tommy planned, and Tommy had no idea if Harskill had recharged enough to be a significant threat.

  As if reacting to unheard music, both Harskill and Tommy shifted positions. Tommy’s hands lowered and opened toward the Library. Harskill widened his legs and placed his hands on his hips.

  The sharp scent of gunfire drifted by on thick, gray smoke. For a moment, it obscured Reon’s view. When it cleared, she found Tommy had lifted his hands above his head and Harskill had set one leg back and bent the other slightly.

  Like a startled horse, everything ignited for no reason Reon could see. Tommy brought his arms down with decisive force. When his hands slapped against his thighs, green darts of magic erupted out of him. Out of all of him.

  His body lifted into the air, writhing and seizing, as an onslaught of magic volleyed out of him. Each spear of magic bulleted towards Harskill leaving a thin trail of green fire behind. Before the fire could vanish in the air, another spear followed. And another. Another. Another.

  Harskill did not flinch away. As the barrage of magic approached, his face tightened in concentration. The attack came fast, but his do-kha reacted equally fast. A large portion of it spread out, forming a wire-thin linked fence. The green darts spattered against it with an electric sizzle.

  Tommy pressed harder, becoming a machine autofiring magic at a rapid rate. And it’s all from within him. Reon could not believe what she saw, what she understood. That magic had to originate somewhere. Since it all poured out of Tommy, and there was no other source of energy he had tapped into — it came from inside him. He used his body’s energy. His body’s life. For Malja? What was it about that woman that drove these men to fight so hard for her?

  Harskill’s fence grew larger. His do-kha pulled off his feet and inched back up his arms. It shifted its tentacles to Harskill’s back as it increased the fence’s size even more. It was using all it had available to make this fence and still maintain control over Malja. Reon knew that would not be easy. Malja kicked and wriggled and fought to be free.

  When the last spear shot off, Tommy dropped to the dirt. His body was soaked, and Reon could hear his labored breaths. Harskill sighed and his do-kha eased back over his body.

  “That’s the problem with big magic,” Harskill said. “It takes too long to cast, and if you fail, you’ve got nothing left.”

  Without looking up, Tommy raised one hand. Whatever he intended to do, however, would not happen. Harskill formed another octopus tentacle off his back and grabbed Tommy by the head.

  “Let him go,” Malja yelled.

  Harskill glanced at her. “I intend to.” He walked off the platform and headed toward the gorge.

  “No. You do this
, and you’ll never have any hope of gaining my love.”

  “I think that possibility ended long ago.”

  Tommy did not struggle. Hanging limp in Harskill’s do-kha embrace, he only had the strength to glare. The tentacle holding Malja kept her high off the ground and furthest from Harskill’s body. As he walked, he towed her along like a child’s balloon — albeit a struggling, cursing balloon.

  Reon wished she could stop this. She even looked at the rifle at her feet. But with her broken wrist, and as drained as she felt, she held no false hopes — she could never raise the weapon, aim, and fire effectively, if it all. Certainly not in time to save Tommy or Malja. And part of her still rebelled against the idea of helping them, still saw them as her enemy.

  She pushed aside the guilt such thoughts created. After a lifetime of preparing for and praising Harskill, she couldn’t expect her subconscious to let go of her old ways in less than a day. But she could try, no matter how futile the effort, to help.

  Groaning, she bent over and nudged the rifle loose from the mud. She placed the muzzle against a dead monk and used the corpse for support. Sliding the rifle up, she flattened behind it and gripped the butt between her shoulder and the side of her face. She tried to line up a shot. Part of her recognized that the kickback would probably shatter her jaw, but if instead she held the rifle steady with her good hand, she would have no way to pull the trigger.

  Malja’s nonstop swearing echoed along the land. Her voice was the only weapon she had left.

  Reon saw a long piece of metal on the ground, thin like a twig but sturdy. She had no idea what it was, but she had a thought of how to use it. She picked it up. Too fast. A sharp pain bolted through her bones.

  She threaded the metal against the trigger and into her broken hand. She readjusted the rifle, stabilizing it against her shoulder and holding tight with her good hand. Closing one eye, she lined up her shot.

  At first, she thought to shoot Harskill’s body. It was the biggest target. But that do-kha would protect him. Her only chance would be a good shot to the head, and the hope that his do-kha was too busy holding Malja and Tommy to react fast enough. It was a futile hope. She knew it. Yet she knew she would try anyway.

  Harskill stopped at the edge of the drop. Malja screamed her words, desperate to break through Tommy’s exhaustion.

  “Wake up! You’re the best thing that ever happened in my entire life! Tommy! Wake up! Do something.” Though Reon could not see the tears, she could hear the crying. “I’m so sorry. I’ve used you up. For too long. I love you.”

  Tommy did not stir.

  Harskill’s gloating smile turned ugly and cold.

  Malja’s eyes widened.

  Reon pulled the trigger.

  As the rifle kicked, the butt slammed against her shoulder and broke her clavicle. It rode right up along the side of her head and cracked her jaw. The world spun. As she drifted to the ground, she watched her bullet ping off Harskill’s do-kha. She hit him in the hip — not even close to the head. He barely noticed. Though her view tilted, she comprehended what she saw just before everything went dark.

  Harskill dropped Tommy into the gorge.

  Chapter 31

  Malja

  In combat, Malja often experienced a slowing of time. She could see the fists or swords coming her way and dodge them without thought. She controlled the movement and momentum of a battle, and for a short time, she was all-powerful.

  When Harskill threw Tommy away, time slowed for Malja. But she did not see Harskill’s actions coming. She could not change them. She had no control over the movement of his actions. She had lost her power.

  Tommy floated out over the deep hole like a drifting feather. His limbs flopped down and his head lolled back. He had become a ragdoll trashed by a careless child.

  As he sunk toward the darkness below, Malja’s heart sunk with him. Harskill had turned away, heading back to the Library platform, and since he still had Malja wrapped in his do-kha tentacle, she went with him. But she contorted her body to keep a view of Tommy. Even when he left her sight, she watched — seeing him tumble over and over in her mind.

  Pain wracked her insides. She strained her muscles, pulling a few, but could not break free. She wanted to run back and jump in after him. Save him or die with him. Either way, she would not have to face the reality that stalked her now — life without him.

  Her soul ached.

  Harskill climbed the platform, and in a booming voice, he spoke. The sounds vibrated in Malja, bringing the present back into normal time. She would mourn for Tommy later. She would kill Harskill now.

  “Your magician is dead,” Harskill said, and much of the fighting stopped. “Your weapons are almost exhausted, your forces are diminished to the point of uselessness, and I am standing in control of your Library without any of you to stop me. This battle is over. You have lost. A noble, honorable defeat.”

  Lightning flashed from the gorge. Malja saw it along with several others in the field. Perhaps Tommy fought to stay alive, using what little magic he had left to kill the creatures roaming the darkness. Or perhaps a magician’s body, a unique magician like Tommy, perhaps his body dispersed into bits of bright magic. That would be a beautiful, solemn sight.

  “I promised you peace, and so it will be.” Nearby, a monk grappled a Gate into a solid choke hold. Harskill concentrated on them, moved his little finger, and watched dispassionately as the monk burst into flames. The Gate jumped away, yelping at the flames. When the charred body stopped moving, Harskill continued speaking. “Cease your resistance, allow my fellow Gate to take control without trouble, and you’ll find an ordered, logical, and peaceful existence for the rest of time.”

  Malja narrowed her attention onto Harskill. There would be no peace while he lived. Not for him. Not if she could do anything about it. If she had to marry him, she would. Get close. Poison him with something to paralyze his system. Bring him back here. Tie him to a long, thick rope and dangle him in that darkness like a fishing lure. Let those creatures nibble and bite and tear him to pieces. That sounded good to her. That sounded fair.

  She’d have to deal with Fawbry. He would argue against her actions. He would bring up the Black Beast and point out how far she had come from those days. But in those days, Tommy had not been murdered.

  The bright flashes from the gorge ceased and a roll of thunder crossed the sky. All eyes looked up, including Harskill. The sky was clear and sunny. Hot. Yet thunder rolled again.

  A bolt of black lightning raced across the blue sky. But it did not vanish. It held, frozen in the air like a crack amongst the clouds. The sound that followed made the worst thunder sound like a little sunbird greeting the morning. It was the sound of the sky breaking apart.

  On the battlefield, the monks and Gate shuddered. Some dropped to the ground, covering their ears. Others flailed off balance as if punched in the jaw. Still others, lowered to their knees, bowing to Harskill, thinking he had caused the occurrence. But Malja knew Harskill had nothing to do with it because he had dropped her in his surprise.

  The dark crack slowly faded. Malja heard a commotion near the bridge. When she looked, she thought she had deceived herself. She saw Tommy rising out of the gorge, floating limp in the air, and then gently laying on the ground.

  Following behind him, the Artisoll rose in the sky. Her mouth held a grim line, her eyes a dark scowl — directed at Harskill.

  As the Artisoll stepped onto land, Malja marveled at the idea that her love was so strong, she willingly abandoned Reo-Koll to save Tommy. Malja felt that way, but she found it unfathomable that another might, too. Yet here was the Artisoll, leaving her people to turn on one another, to vie for power, and possibly destroy Reo-Koll — all for Tommy.

  That is, until Malja saw the ground rise up from the gorge, filling it in and returning the land to a flat plain. And riding that swell of land, Malja saw the armies of Dovell, Bechstallon, and Ro — the three major countries in Reo-Koll. The smaller countr
ies brought some of their armies, too. The Artisoll had portaled thousands from one world to another, done so with magic powerful enough to keep them all safe, and she still looked vibrant and ready to fight.

  The Dovell and Ro armies marched out in an ordered fashion. Malja could tell at once that they had an organized plan. The Artisoll had managed to get these warring factions to work together. Amazing what a common enemy can do. Bechstallon stampeded forward, eager to clobber heads and draw blood.

  Harskill’s jaw clenched as he stood on the edge of the platform. “You should have stayed on your world,” he said, but he did not project his voice. Only Malja could hear him, and she wasn’t sure he intended even that much. “You’ve come a long way just to die.”

  Inhaling long and deep, Harskill flexed his arm muscles. The Library sent tendrils of its magic into him. It reminded Malja of the way Tommy’s lightning magic could arc between his fingers.

  As he exhaled, he screamed, “Die!” Bright energy poured out of his eyes like a blizzard of magic particles. The Artisoll stood in direct line of the attack with her index finger raised upward.

  The snowy magic swirled in front of her, collecting in an ever-thickening ball. Harskill shouted as he thrust out his hands, leveling more of the bright magic at her — this time coming from his fingers. No matter what direction he attacked from, no matter how many sources he used, it all circled back into the swarm she had created.

  Then she pushed it back toward him. All his anger and confidence drained with the color from his face. He suddenly found himself having to use his abilities in order to keep the Artisoll from destroying him with his own magic.

  Malja sat up on her knees. The movement sent sharp pains into her side that hurt worse when she breathed anything more than shallow breaths. She had definitely broken a rib or two. Maybe worse. At least, from this position, she could see Tommy.

  She wished the Artisoll would ignore Harskill and attend to Tommy, but that could not happen — not with Harskill fighting all the way. Grunting, Malja forced her way to her feet. Her head spun and bitter bile raced up her throat. But she was standing.