Yefim laughed once. “I appreciate your dedication to the Empire Dalibor. That must have been very hard to say.”
The general’s teeth seemed fused together as he smiled and nodded. “Mmm.”
“I propose we put the onus once more on our operative inside the little village that is pestering us so. It is apparent that the Varrlanders are well prepared inside the walls for your flaming arrows. I am getting the distinct impression sir, that we will shoot all our arrows over the wall before anything worthwhile catches fire.”
Dalibor grabbed one of his chairs from the table nearby and sat down hard in it. “I agree. They’ve got firefighting wagons in there, no doubt.”
“I agree,” Yefim said. “And with a proven agent inside the walls, I propose I contact him right now, and have him deal with that issue before we proceed any further.”
“Peiron? You wish for Peiron to destroy the fire wagons?” Dalibor chewed the idea and he seemed to like the taste.
“I would wish that, yes. If he were even to destroy or cripple one of the machines, I think your next flurry of projectiles would have a much higher level of success.”
The massive warrior nodded, liking the idea. “Make ready a sending to him. Give him until nightfall. It won’t be long before the southern Varrland forces come looking for their silent northern cousins. We must take this stop on the rail within two day’s time before we head south or they head north.”
“And what if Peiron should fail?” Yefim asked, already having a clue what the answer might be.
Dalibor stood, replacing the chair where it came from before responding. “Then we do what we must. The undead shall march on the shallow moats and fill them with their bodies. Then, we use their bodies as a bridge and rip apart the walls and go in on foot. From there we bleed every Varrlander inside until the mud here is red forever.”
“I shall contact Peiron,” Yefim said as he stood.
—Chapter Twelve—
FORCES ARRAYED
The ladies finished their frightening search of New Falun’s ruins as the sun dipped behind the great tops of the Akeel Mountains. The sky remained a dull blue and gray color even though the sun had slipped over the rocks and headed to the horizon. None among them could guess at when exactly the sun would set, or the sky would become dark enough for the evil in the surroundings to be set free.
James sat at the center of the empty and collapsed town hall, his spell of consecration in full swing. Both Mal and Umaryn stood nearby, and deep inside they could sense the power the Apostle had stirred up. If the twins closed their eyes and drifted into the ether of The Way, they could feel and see the outline of the building’s old foundations of stones and walls. The magic James erected formed a transparent curtain of holy power that would help protect them against the undead that surely were assembling against them in the darkest shadows of the gorge not far away.
“How much longer?” Umaryn asked her brother. He had been with James nearly the whole afternoon, since he’d started the casting process.
Mal shook his head, not knowing. “I don’t know. Before he started he said there would be little time remaining as the sun set on us. I don’t think he has much longer. I do know that if he has much longer, we won’t have much longer.”
“Morbid thought,” Chelsea muttered as she searched the forest fringe of the abandoned village. The woman had torched seven of the ruined homes they couldn’t enter easily and the fires burned, sending up pillars of black smoke that smelled of burning mold and flesh. As the women set fire to each nest of vampires one by one there had been guttural screams of fear and dying. They had taken grim satisfaction while listening to their foes burn to their final death. Every vampire they killed during the daylight hours meant one less vampire they’d face in battle when the moons rose. One less chance to die.
“This will be a morbid night,” Mal said with some dread.
“Was there something more obvious you could say dear?” Chelsea asked him as she drew her sword. She tested its edge with a bare thumb as Mal gave her a dirty look.
“An hour or two?” Umaryn asked her brother.
Mal shrugged and then nodded hopefully. “James said the spirit in the urn was very well suited for what we need tonight. He seemed confident. At least that’s how I am choosing to remember what he said. I think we’ll be okay, but there won’t be much in the way of a margin of error if we’re sloppy when the sun goes down.”
Chelsea sheathed her sword, happy with its edge. “How are you feeling? After that spell you cast at the first hovel filled with the dead you looked pretty spent. Are you going to be able to use The Way tonight?”
Mal nodded. “Yes I’m much better thank you. Sitting, relaxing and eating replenishes my energy as it pertains to The Way. I’ll be fine. What about you, sister?”
“I cast no spells of consideration the last hour. I’ll be prepared,” Umaryn said as she brushed moss and dirt off of her crimson armor.
“Now there’s confidence. You heard that right?” Mal asked Chelsea.
Chelsea looked to her surrogate sister and smiled. “Yeah. Your sister is a resolute one, Mal. I like her. She can watch my back tonight. You watch James.”
Mal looked hurt. “I can’t watch your back?”
Chelsea wagged a finger at him. “You’ll be looking at my butt, and even under my armor obscured as it will be, if you watch my back, you’ll be distracted.”
“Oh. Fair point. I’ll keep our Apostle alive then. That seems important,” Mal said.
“It sure will be,” Chelsea said. “Have you two fought alongside an Apostle before? Healing while in battle?” The twins shook their heads. She continued explaining basic tactical ideas, “It’s a little different. I don’t know what James’ level of battle experience is, but if he’s somewhat experienced all you need to know is that if you’re injured, fall backwards towards him. He’ll restore you with The Way, and you’re back into the battle.”
“Seems too simple,” Umaryn said.
Chelsea sighed. “It’s a gross oversimplification but it should give you the idea. He is the keep we fall back to. We are the wall that protects him. Nothing can harm him if we aim to survive until dawn.”
“I aim to,” Mal said as he looked back to the kneeling, praying man. Not far outside the ringing bits of foundation and crumbling walls Mal saw their mounts, nervously pacing back and forth, occasionally nibbling at the grasses overtaking the old town. “We need to get the horses and Bramwell inside the consecrated area. If these things roaming the woods have half a brain, and from what I know of them they will, we need to make sure the animals are somewhat protected. It’s a long walk to anywhere if they die.”
“I’ll help,” Chelsea said, and the two walked through the space where the town hall door would have been years ago. They had to work fast. The sky seemed to darken with traces of inky menace with each passing minute.
Beyond the vale that New Falun died in lay the packed in forest of Scored Rock Gorge. An overgrown rail line split the ancient, withering forest in two as it headed towards the enormous scar in the earth where the original living inhabitants had mined copper for years. Those inhabitants were dead now, as was their village, but some still remained.
The unnatural dead gathered in a clearing in the forest, standing around their pillar—their leader—beneath the leaves and branches as the last vestiges of the day disappeared over the tall mountain cliffs. Their white bodies swayed, standing in an angry vigil, looking at a man who stood in the center of their group. He was of forgettable height and description, dressed in tattered rags from decades of wear and lack of care. Mud and dirt caked on from years of hiding from the sun clung to his pale milky skin. Veins of blue looked withered and drawn beneath taut flesh. His thinning hair stood askew, ratty and just as dirty as the hands that hung at his side. Fingers tipped with clawed bony protrusions twitched, scratching through what remained of his trousers, angering the dead flesh of his thigh below, nearly drawing the skin apart
. Two long fangs pushed his mouth open, preventing the jaw from closing. Each of the dead surrounding him stood the same. A clutch of sinister monsters clenching fists in unison, all no longer alive, and no longer wholly human.
“We took an oath,” the man who once had been known as Aleksi hissed to his congregation. The gathered vampires hissed back in acknowledgement. “We died to protect Elmoryn’s future, and all that the Church of Souls stands for.”
“We would do it again!” a female vampire shrieked, shaking the branches of the trees enveloping them.
Aleksi Oathman looked to her, the savagery in his face draining away, leaving sadness behind. “And again tonight you might be called to.” The vampire that had been so willing to give up her life for duty a moment before shrank back from his warning. “Intruders have come back to our adopted home, and we must meet them and send them away. It is as Alisanne foretold days ago by spell. They come to get below. They come to breach the doors. They come to steal and reveal the past that must be kept away for all time. And tonight, we must do what we promised our Church that we would do, and we will feed as we have before, and we will stand our guard again after for as long as we are called to.”
This time, the vampires did not shrink from his words. They reveled in the realization that hot, fresh, sustaining lifeblood would soon be theirs, and to make it all the better, they would be upholding the will of their faith.
“Where are the encroachers?” a thickly built vampire asked. His body rippled with muscles that flexed and spasmed. Though his hair had stopped growing years ago, he still sported a tattered and filthy beard that had originally been red in color. Now the only color in the thick hair came from spilled blood.
“They have burnt many of our family homes down in the old village. Fifteen of our number had slept there last night, and I fear they have been released of their vigil by flame and sword. The invaders and thieves murdered them and now they wait for daylight to hunt us again. Biding their time until the sun rises again, making us vulnerable. But tonight,” Aleksi’s voice became angrier, “tonight under the light of the two moons we end them. Follow me, my brothers and sisters, and let us win justice for our family, and bathe in the blood of four foul heretics!”
The vampires shrieked as one once more, and then they ran through the thick rot of the dead and dying forest back towards the village where their prey sat anxiously, waiting to be killed.
Several hours earlier that day Samrale Overfist potentially changed the future of The Way on Elmoryn. He did it on the deck of Bridgette Marie surrounded by seventeen souls who had joined him from the ranks of House Kulare.
The flute style vessel held the makings of war. Arrows, swords, bows, food, water, wine, ale, horseshoes, rough leather, and more filled the stowage areas of Bridgette Marie from bow to stern. Those on the vessel about to debark would sleep where they could; on top of crates, on the floor, in hammocks, and before they arrived, many would steal naps while standing.
The Captain with his leathery browned skin and his son with fairer flesh stood at the rail beside Samrale. The smallish Waymancer could see the tension on the Captain. His brows were knitted together, his hands clenched with a mind of their own, and his posture seemed stiff.
The Captain fears for his vessel’s new maiden voyage. “Captain Sarkett, forgive me, but your nerves seem frayed to me. Is there anything I can do to reassure you that this has been a good decision on your part?”
The captain’s lips pursed in worry and disdain. “Is it that obvious, wizard?”
Samrale laughed and adjusted his spectacles. “Perhaps to those who are paying you their attention? I think you are safe.”
The captain watched as his boy walked away to help a crewmember with some ropes. Samrale watched the old sailor as his affection for his son replaced his worry. When his gaze returned to the mage, the worry had returned, wrinkling the skin around his eyes. “What is the worst that could happen if your magic spell doesn’t work?”
Samrale chuckled as he watched Jonah tie a difficult knot with ease. His long, young fingers were nimble. Samrale envied his youth. “That entirely depends on what you consider failure. For me, failing entirely would be the spell fizzling out before we leave Davisville here. For you, I imagine a greater failure would be the spell dying out while we are aloft.”
Sarkett’s eyes went slowly wide. “Would we drift to the ground and land softly?”
Samrale chuckled again. “Oh no. We would plummet like a rock dropped by an eagle, though the rock would fare better when it hit ground.”
“I’m having second thoughts,” the captain said, looking once more to his boy.
“I understand that completely. I can assure you that will not happen. My research has been exhaustive, and I am confident in the spell,” the mage said.
“There are a good many lives at stake, Mr. Overfist. I pray to the ancestors that your confidence in your own mystical abilities does not exceed their reality. Tell me the truth. Will my ship fly to Varrland this day?” The captain looked into Samrale’s eyes and sought the future.
Samrale’s voice toughened at the quasi-challenge. “Captain Sarkett, your lack of faith in the abilities I have honed over a lifetime is disappointing. The truth, good sir, is an amorphous thing. It is defined in each and every moment by the observers who see the world for what they believe it is. Beyond that, all that remains is the convincing of others that the version of events you saw is the absolute truth, and many times, that is a lie. Allow me to put to rest your fears.” The aged caster stepped away from the rail and the worried sailor. The simple act of his moving slowed the activity on the gently rocking vessel, and hushed all the chatter. “Crew of Bridgette Marie, and my colleagues and students, forgive my inability to speak eloquently in public outside of a classroom, but it is time. Today we set sail in a wholly new way, and we move to the front of a battle that will decide the fates of tens of thousands of lives. Should we succeed in our endeavor, our world will be the better for it. Waymancers, I beg of you to take your places on the ship, and to begin your preparations.”
A cheer erupted from those gathered as well as from the crowd who stood on the dock, awaiting the show that came. Samrale walked to the rail beside the still apprehensive captain and looked down to the wharf. He searched out for a familiar face, and after finding Breen Valgo, he waved.
The diminutive leader of House Kulare called out joyfully up to Samrale. “You are ready then, sorcerer?”
Samrale felt a rising tide of excitement. “Yes. Wish us luck.”
Breen’s voice switched from an external, audible one to a silent, internal one born of The Way. Samrale didn’t even see him cast a spell. “May those who have passed show you their blessing Overfist. I will pray that they bring you and all our colleagues and students back intact and quickly. As we discussed; leave no trace. The Empire should not know that House Kulare interfered in their politics.”
The old wizard smiled at his friend, and used their magical connection to send his own message back. “I promise that I will do my best to remain invisible. House Kulare’s best interests will be in my thoughts.” Samrale watched Breen smile, and felt the spell’s connection fade. The leader of the mage’s academy had said what he needed to say. With a wave, Samrale headed away to the very bow of the vessel. As he passed Captain Sarkett, he issued him some advice, “Captain, when we are aloft you will be required to navigate us. Attend to your sails and rudder, and be prepared for a journey no human has ever undertaken before.”
“Aye,” Sarkett said as Samrale walked away. He headed to take care of his own business.
Samrale Overfist, second in charge of House Kulare, moved to a small carpet that he had made years before. Fine traceries of gold were woven into the thin fabric the color of dusk. Samrale dug deep into his pockets to have six of the rugs made, and today would prove if his departure from his money was worth it. He felt confident about it.
Samrale sat cross legged in unison with the three other senio
r mages who stood on matching rugs. He would’ve preferred six Waymancers in total, but four with twelve assisting would do. The ship would fly.
The four mages adjusted their legs into the proper alignments, set their postures to the proper angles, and began to recite meditative thoughts. The thoughts became rote after ten minutes of pregnant silence. The crew and junior Waymancers watched, each holding their breath as they felt the power swelling in the air. The waves lapping against the hull of Bridgette Marie stood out starkly. When the thoughts became rote, the magi began to speak. Samrale led the arcane act, his voice the most powerful.
He did not make words, only independent consonants and vowels. Each sound had been designed specifically to stir The Way, pulsating the ebb and flow of the magical energy that fed Elmoryn, and to build the spell. Each cycle of the chorus grew it louder and louder, stirring up the world around them as well as The Way. The air grew cooler, and the wind picked up, sending the waves into the hull with more energy, and rocking the boat as if they were entering the territory of a storm. Even the clouds changed, flying across the sky like puffy white sheep that had jumped their shepherd’s fence.
When the wizard’s volume reached its crescendo, their arms extended outward to their sides, and as they spread their fingers, the wood of the boat began to creak and strain. The spell’s effect had started.
The tilt of the ship’s deck changed abruptly, sending all standing aboard into disarray. Arms shot out to grab something tied down, and more than a few lost their balance entirely as the ship listed, causing them to fall hard to the deck. The casters couldn’t sense any of the chaos they had caused. Their minds were linked as one with The Way, and together, they were lifting the vessel out of the bay that House Kulare overlooked. As the Waymancers lifted their arms higher and higher ever so slowly, the cheers came from those remaining behind on the docks. They were witnessing flight for the first time ever.
The Echoes of Sin (The Kinless Trilogy Book 3) Page 15