Meric set his feet on the ground. He carved out another void-shield for himself, throwing the Fog back two meters in all directions. He walked toward the aberration. As he did, he pushed the Fog at his unseen attacker, closed it like a giant fist. The attacker pushed back. Spikes half the width of a pinky sprung toward Meric from six directions, hardening as they extended, fast as an adder’s lunge. He swirled the Fog like a cyclone. Five of the spikes burst into mist before they reached him. The sixth sliced through a layer of his bicep.
The pain brought anger. How dare they attack him here. Rage seized him. The Fog became a hurricane, a shifting gray wall through which he couldn’t be touched. He launched a frenzy of attacks against his unseen opponent. He set a shrinking sphere around the enemy’s void-shield, dropped a wall on it from above, sent spiked tentacles reaching through it by the dozen. His opponent smashed the wall to dust and smeared the tentacles into mist. The enemy’s void-shield duplicated itself, became two holes in the Fog, then four.
More attackers?
No–deception. Meric’s Fog-sense couldn’t penetrate empty spaces. His attacker was throwing up decoys. It gave Meric an idea. He kept his protective Fog-cyclone moving forward while he himself slipped away from it, crouching low, keeping his profile small. A void-shield was much easier to detect than the smaller, less uniform space occupied by a person’s body. His opponent sent another attack–at the cyclone. Meric defended it as though he were still inside, even as he circled toward his enemy’s void-shields. The first he reached was empty. He ignored it and kept going, launching a remote attack at another, dropping a rain of spiked balls. The second was also a decoy. Then the third void-shield drew within sight…
Gallatius stood inside, his back to Meric, arms raised as though to physically block the incoming attacks.
Meric screamed and charged. Gallatius whirled in surprise. Meric’s shoulder rammed into his midriff. They hit the floor. Meric’s fist rose and fell. Nose-bones crunched beneath his knuckles. Blood sprayed the floor. He almost missed the meter-long spike that fell from above. He rolled to one side. Gallatius made a sound.
The spike protruded from the Plutarchs right side, above his hip. It dissipated as Gallatius scrambled to his feet, grimacing, holding the wound. A blade appeared in his hand. Meric conjured his own to defend…
But it was a trick. In the Fog, nothing was as it seemed. Metal was not metal, wood was not wood. Meric’s blade bent backwards and wrapped around his arm. Simultaneously, Gallatius swung. Meric dissolved both blades and shoved the Plutarch away with a thickening gray wave. Gallatius righted himself. Both men flew upward, Meric roaring, the Plutarch emitting sudden mad laughter.
Like true sorcerers, they battled in the air. They funneled Fog at and around each other, sent tiny barbs and massive boulders and blades within blades. They conjured solid shields and melted them. They fought halfway across the breadth of Ozymand.
“I saved you. I kept you from being executed,” Meric shouted, “but I’d expect no less from a Plutarch.”
Gallatius laughed.
“Oh, Meric. You are a Plutarch! And you’ve betrayed both sides–first the savages and then Panchaea. Now you’d happily send your friends to their deaths. Don’t pretend to virtue. A mask of holiness does not suit you.”
He tried to crush Gallatius between two walls, but they only burst into heavy smoke.
“Struck a nerve, did I?” Gallatius called. “You would’ve rid yourself of me soon–you know it as well as I. With your sister here, you have no need of me. She’s a Fogsmith. She probably knows tricks even I don’t.”
Meric fended off a sudden attack and pursued Gallatius as he descended on a column of smoke. They were back near the entrance corridor. Drops of blood were scattered in the dust, fallen from the Plutarch’s wound.
“I wouldn’t have set you free, but I wouldn’t have killed you either. I don’t reward help with suffering–even if you only cooperated to save your skin, even if you deserve much worse. I would’ve found a solution. What was your plan after killing me, anyway? Going to stay down here forever? You can’t make food from the Fog. You’d never get past the tribes in the valley,” Meric said.
They were back on the ground, void-shields up.
“I won’t have to. You will. I’ll don your armor and wave from atop that silly mammoth of yours. These primitives will never know the difference,” Gallatius said.
Meric’s eyes narrowed. Was the Plutarch deliberately backing toward the corridor? He slammed a wall shut across the entrance. It exploded into dust and Gallatius ran through … into emptiness. The Fog in the corridor was too sparse to manipulate. Gallatius’s bubble disappeared from Meric’s Fog-sense. With his implant, the Plutarch didn’t need to be inside the Fog, just close enough to transmit instructions–effectively removing Meric’s means of attack.
Meric pushed the Fog into the corridor, reaching for him, but it was slow to arrange itself in the empty space, and the Plutarch backed away easily. Meric’s only options were defensive–he had to get out of the Fog and fight hand-to-hand; demigods reduced to mortals. But Gallatius wouldn’t let him. He launched a ferocious frontal assault, forcing Meric away from the corridor. The entrance was lost from sight. Doubt trickled in. There was no winning on defense alone, but how could he reach the corridor? It was a small space, easy for Gallatius to control. Sweat beaded his brow. His heart pounded madly. Needle-like spears zipped toward him from random directions. A house-sized wrecking-ball dropped from above. He cycloned the Fog, shredding it all. Smoke as thick as sand enveloped him. Panic rose. He couldn’t keep this up indefinitely. Gallatius’s entire focus had gone to offense…
And then everything went still.
No flying blades, no crushing masses. Around Meric was only unformed mist. He probed it warily, feeling with invisible fingers. The stillness unnerved him. He moved slowly toward the entrance. Gallatius was standing down the corridor, mouth agape … with an atomblade through his chest.
Swan stood behind him, gritting her teeth. Her soul was in her eyes. She wore an expression Meric had never seen on her: naked pain, both vulnerable and terrible. She pulled the blade out. Gallatius collapsed to his knees, looking at Meric. For a moment he was too shocked to speak. Then a hint of the old trickster glittered in his eyes. He smirked–the same smirk he’d used on that long-ago Giving Day.
“Always liked a good trick. This one–not so much. Killed your woman above. Guess I missed this one.”
The words struck Meric like frozen daggers.
Swan held the weapon the way Azog had taught her. She screamed and slashed in a short, vicious arc. Tissue and bone parted as easily as air. The Plutarch’s head tumbled obscenely to the floor.
CHAPTER 23
For five seconds, neither of them moved. Swan wheezed a barely audible cry, like the air was leaving her throat through the barest slit. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Meric stepped forward.
Killed your woman above…
A daze overcame him. Swan dropped the blade and sobbed harder.
His tongue couldn’t form words. He pulled her toward the lift. It rose too slowly. When it stopped, he ran from the hollow hill … and met a dozen people running toward him. Azog with his hammer out. Diodorus. Nog, Vireo, armed tribesmen.
And Meliai.
Something let go. He’d pictured her dead in the makeshift hovel where they’d chained Gallatius. Instead, she was here with tears in her eyes. Meric put his arms around her. She stiffened in surprise. Slowly, her body relaxed. Her eyes closed. She leaned her forehead against him. He touched her hair, her face. Reluctantly, he let go.
“I thought you were dead. He said he’d killed…” Meric began, trailing away, his throat dry. Meliai shook her head. She blinked away a tear.
“You talked to the bastard? Is he down there?” Nog asked.
“In a manner of speaking. Swan killed him.”
A collective tension eased out of the group.
“I held it like you showe
d me,” Swan said, her voice cracking as she peered up at Azog. Azog picked her up as easily a child. She rested her head against him, sobbing quietly.
Azog?
“Silver-eyed devil. Deserved worse,” Nog said and spat to one side.
“We must burn the sorcerer’s heart before he returns to life,” Vireo said
“You do that,” Diodorus said, then drew close to Meric. “You look shook, son. What happened?”
“He said he’d ‘killed my woman.’ I don’t understand–wait, Lillian?”
“Lillian’s fine. It’s Hestia he meant,” Diodorus said, grimacing.
“Hestia? What happened?”
Hestia hated Meric–had since he’d escaped with Trajan, perhaps even before that. He didn’t particularly blame her; lately he wasn’t a big fan of himself either. Hestia had a sister who’d made it to the valley, and her attitude had softened in recent weeks, but she was in no way “his woman.” Meliai’s tears were for Hestia then. They’d been sisters-in-arms, if not friends.
“She was guarding Gallatius. She wore a necklace made from the Fog. It looks like he was able to–constrict it. It shrank around her throat,” Diodorus said.
Meric was dumbfounded.
“A necklace? But she didn’t wear the one I gave her.”
He’d made it with that first batch of goods in Ozymand. She must have salvaged it from the steamcar after the battle with the Plebians.
“She started wearing it after we took that last batch of soldiers,” Diodorus said.
Meric felt a wave of guilt and self-loathing.
“Gallatius was chained aboveground. He didn’t have access to the Fog. How could he manipulate the necklace?” he asked.
“Pockets, Meric. There are tiny pockets of latent power all around this valley, not just the big one under the ground. Trajan had the area tested. Gallatius just happened to be in the right place. Or the wrong one, rather.”
“Blood of Marthuk,” Meric whispered.
He turned away. His own Fog-sense flickered to life on occasion when walking above Ozymand. It had seemed a harmless oddity. He should’ve realized the potential for abuse. He’d thought Gallatius sufficiently contained.
And Hestia? If she’d kept hating him, she’d still be alive. The moment she’d showed him some allegiance, she’d died for it. Everywhere he went, death struck those around him. Even his birth had led to the death of the woman who’d spawned him. He was a walking curse. Heading into the forest, he veered from a camp of Red Eagles. They too would go to their deaths for him.
*
When Meric returned to Ozymand, Lillian, Diodorus, Lucretius, Aureus, and Swan were waiting. Gallatius’s body had been removed, though his blood still stained the floor.
“What’s this?” Meric asked.
“Fog-appreciation night. Or maybe a resurrection of Club Fogborn,” Diodorus posited, shrugging.
They were there to comfort him. And each other. Meric said nothing.
“I do miss home,” Lillian sighed, waving her hand through the Fog as if to caress it.
Though she didn’t say it, Meric knew what she missed most. Her implant had been stunted, preventing her from accessing the Fog. It was every Plutarch’s worst nightmare.
“Been here almost an hour, Meric. You going to make us stand around much longer? What’s the use of all this Fog if you can’t make a decent chair?” Diodorus asked.
Meric conjured up chairs and a table. Aureus revealed a deck of cards. Diodorus had obtained a jug of honey-wine from the Bloodrats. Meric was obstinate at first, but slowly the darkness eased out of him. They talked of Panchaea and the Wildlands, of friends and families. When Meric thought of Hestia, he wanted to weep. He’d never even liked her. Now he wished he’d known her better.
He sculpted absurdities from the Fog for general amusement. After trying repeatedly to refill his cup from the empty wine jug–and being genuinely confused as to why that wasn’t working–Diodorus stood up.
“Where are you going?” Lucretius asked.
“Nowhere. The world is moving around me,” Diodorus said.
“Where is it bringing you then?”
“Hopefully to more wine. Also, I don’t want to piss in the Fog. It’s Meric’s home now. Which makes me wonder–where do you go down here? Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”
“I’ll come with you,” Swan said, rising. There was something calculating in her eyes.
“Thank you, but I’ve learned to piss on my own,” Diodorus said.
“I know someone with wine,” Swan said.
“Why didn’t you say so! I’m still pissing alone though.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
When they returned, Diodorus was carrying a new jug, and four savages were with them: Rune, Nog, Azog, and Meliai. The three Treeborn were still wary of the Fog, though not so much as they’d been. Repeated exposure, coupled with Ozymand’s proximity and Meric’s powers, had lessened their fears. Swan’s eyes twinkled as she shot Meric a secretive look. Then she turned her attention to Azog. She stood close to him, touching his arm. Meliai watched Meric silently, green eyes never straying. In her hands was a stone bowl. A hush fell over the group as the knowledge of the bowl’s contents permeated the gathering.
“Hestia’s sister has chosen to give us Hestia’s strength. She wishes it to be split among those who will face the fogborn,” Meliai said.
“Technically, you’re facing a few fogborn right now,” Diodorus muttered.
Ignoring him, Meliai placed the bowl with the prepared heart on the table. Meric conjured more chairs.
“Ishka has already blessed this offering. Do not eat unless you will face the fogborn in battle,” Azog said, glancing at Swan. Swan gave a slight nod.
Meliai lifted the bowl and recited a prayer to the Goddess. Then she said:
“Once, when we were girls, Hestia and I saw Grotto Sixstone beating his daughter in the forest. He was like a mad bear, overcome with spirits. We knew he would beat us too if we interfered. I climbed a tree. I wanted to stay out of reach and throw rocks, but Hestia planted her feet in front of Grotto and yelled for him to stop. She was filled the gaija of justice. Her anger was stronger than her fear. She had taken a branch as a weapon, and when Grotto came at her, she danced out of reach and struck him many times, until he was dazed and tired and sat in the mud. Though she was barely flowered and he a grown man, she scolded him like his own mother. From then on she carried that branch with her, and always Grotto went wary of Hestia and her stick. This is the courage I would take from her, with the blessing of the Goddess.”
Meliai took a piece of the heart-meat and ate it.
One by one, they went around the table. Rune ate almost casually, as if he dined on hearts nightly. The bowl passed the Plebians untouched–except for Aureus, who had already participated in capturing other Plebians, and then Meric himself.
“I know more of Hestia from your stories than I ever knew of her in life. I would ask her forgiveness, for my part. I would carry her courage into Panchaea, and do all that I can to be sure her sister remains safe among the People.”
Azog and Nog nodded in solemn approval as Meric took a piece of the heart. He’d thought the tribe insane when he’d first learned of their funerary practices.
Yet another thing changes.
The meat was chewy and still bloody. Meric’s jaw ached by the time he’d finished. He washed it down with another cup of wine. Lucretius had been learning the ocarina from a friend among the People. He removed the instrument from a pouch and played a slow, mournful tune. Aureus began a new card game, and Meric performed simple tricks with the Fog for entertainment. As the second jug emptied out, Lucretius departed. Others followed: Rune to his tunnels, Nog to his family, Lillian to her quarters in Malthenian’s treehouse. Swan and Azog left together. Diodorus didn’t look like he’d make it to the lift, so Meric formed a cloud-like mattress from the Fog, and Diodorus fell into it face-first. Aureus likewise had passed out at the table,
scattering his cards.
Meliai and Meric alone remained among the conscious. Meric had been trying to talk to her, but mostly she’d sat in a tense silence listening to the others. Tell her how you feel, Swan had said–but how? Words ran through his head in torrential streams. None seemed right. Meliai pushed back her chair and stood to go. Meric grabbed her wrist before he was aware of making the choice. Her eyes went slowly from his hand to his face. He was frozen. The moment had come. A curtain fell away. Of all the words, only one came out.
“Stay,” he said.
And she did.
*
“A legion has left the Fog–and a sorcerer travels with it,” Rune said.
Malthenian’s treehouse was crowded with the highest ranking members of the tribal alliance. Some had already heard the news. Smoke drifted lazily about the room. Malthenian’s pipe sat beside him.
“Our own scouts have yet to return. How does this information come to you?” Vireo asked, arms folded, the Spear of All Spears strapped to his back.
“News travels fast in the dark,” Rune said, smiling slightly.
It was rumored the Eyeless trained rats to carry messages underground. Meric had no idea if it was true, but Rune was often the first to know about distant developments. Maybe if the Bloodrats had spotted the Plutarchs’ advanced force earlier, Red Oak Grove would’ve had more warning.
“How big is this legion?” Azog asked.
“Five centuries,” Rune said.
A murmur passed through the room.
“Five hundred soldiers–and a sorcerer!” exclaimed a dusky Steelspear.
An army that size, disciplined and well-armored, would roll right over them. Meric watched a whorl of smoke.
“And their heading?” Malthenian asked.
Rune put one hand in front of his stomach, fingers pointed forward, and pushed it away from his body.
“Coming straight at us,” he said.
Another murmur.
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