by Chris Fox
Right now Aran danced across those mats, Narlifex humming through the air as he executed the very first kata he’d ever learned, one of the memories restored to him by Neith not so long ago. He executed it perfectly, and found comfort in excellence.
After the first kata Aran added air, and leapt off the ground, soaring through the air in precise movements. This too was part of his routine, and he found comfort in the simple magic use. He repeated the next three steps of the kata, each requiring him to twist gracefully in precise measures.
Then Aran got bored. Instead of the usual last twist he shifted his entire body to air, and zipped to the far side of the room. He repeated the seventh kata, and this time he used void to blink to the far side of the room, ending the movement with a wicked slash that would have decapitated an opponent.
I enjoy this, Narlifex pulsed. We prepare to kill, but safely, when combat is not dangerous.
Aran smiled as he twisted into the ninth kata, but added a hop backward where he flung the shattered shards at the end of Narlifex toward an imaginary opponent, a fan of death that would be very lethal in a real situation. Aran snapped up his wrist, and a shield of ice formed. It afforded a different balance, and he shifted from Drakkon stance into a lighter form he’d seen Erica use back on Shaya.
A deep male voice spoke behind him. “You use improvisation. That is a necessary skill for any master, but one that most students cannot approximate.”
Aran spun in surprise, and slowly drifted to the ground when he realized who the speaker was. He was taller than Aran, with liquid blue hair that flowed as water would, all down his shoulders. They framed a face most would call perfect, the scales so tiny they might have been pores. Drakkon’s slitted eyes stared impassively at Aran, though he inclined his head in an almost imperceptible nod.
“I’m sorry about Marid,” Aran offered lamely. No words of his were going to make anything better. “I’m glad you got out alive.”
“As am I.” Drakkon stepped into the room and extended his left hand. A wide-bladed great sword appeared, the spellblade radiating intense power.
Narlifex gave a wordless growl at the sight of it.
“At first,” Drakkon continued as he glided into the first kata, “I wished to end my life. To give my power to Voria, and be done with this endless war of gods. Almost, I took my own life.”
Aran said nothing, but shifted into the eleventh kata. He added no flourishes, instead listening to the Wyrm who’d founded the style Aran sought to master. Every motion Drakkon made was perfect, and made more graceful through the use of his wings and tail.
“In that moment I think I finally understood Virkonna, my aunt.” Drakkon landed, and sheathed his blade. “I had been mistaken about why she chose torpor. I’d thought she did it because she was weary. Because her mother’s death was one loss too many. I’d lost my mother, after all, or so I’d thought. But I hadn’t lost Marid, not truly. My mother still existed. She could still be restored, if I could find potent enough magic to do such a thing. But now? Now she is gone. Her essence ripped apart by scores of those cursed ships. Now, I can never bring her back. This is what Virkonna understood. The futility of it all. The idea that no matter what we do, that we cannot overcome our enemies. They are always one step ahead. Always a little bit better.”
Aran continued the eleventh kata to completion, then ritualistically sheathed Narlifex, the fragments rapidly reassembling themselves into the end of the blade just before vanishing inside the scabbard. He turned to Drakkon and bowed, and then he squatted down against the wall where he’d left his water bottle.
“So you think it’s hopeless then? That’s what you’re saying, right?” Aran was surprised at the ice in his own tone. He sounded so cold. So emotionless. That wasn’t him. Was it?
“Virkonna certainly did.” Drakkon sank down against the wall opposite Aran, and lay his blade against the mat next to him. A rime of frost immediately formed on the blue fabric. “When Nefarius slew her mother, Virkonna realized the full scope of Nefarius’s plans. Not just their scope, but their range and depth. Nefarius had planned for everything. She’d seen moments eons from this day, and used her knowledge of the most likely timelines to engineer things in her favor.” Drakkon shook his head sadly, his eyes unfocused as only memory can do. “The cost of killing Nefarius was incalculable, and she orchestrated all of it, even her own death. She knew she would need to die, but that when she came back there would be no one strong enough to oppose her. We were too busy worrying about Krox, or encroaching humans, or countless other distractions. Meanwhile Nefarius quietly won the war.”
It saddened Aran that Drakkon had given up, and he wished he had the words to make things better. He knew that trying would be a mistake. The Wyrm needed to process his grief, so Aran let him talk, and just listened.
“When I realized that, I nearly went to Voria. That was my lowest moment.” Drakkon rose from the wall, and bent to retrieve his blade. “But then I asked myself a question. How do I want to die? It’s something you mortals ask yourselves every day. I imagine all of you have an answer. But if you are a true immortal, as Marid has made me, then prudence means we never need ask that question. Gods, and demigods, do not question their legacy, for we are our own legacy. We are eternal. But I realized that my own death is probably near, and I asked myself how I might want to face that death. How might I want to be remembered by the gods and mortals that survive the coming conflict, for there will certainly be those, unless Nefarius’s victory is total.”
Aran rose as well, and slowly drew Narlifex. He watched as Drakkon moved to the center of the training mat. The Wyrm faced him, and beckoned. Aran stepped onto the mat, and slipped into a guard position.
“My decision, ultimately, is the only one I can make and remain true to who I am.” Drakkon smiled then, the sea of teeth showing just how inhuman he really was, much more so than the tail or wings. “Come, Outrider, and dance with me. Give me a month, and I will turn you into the finest swordsman the sector has ever seen. You are the instrument of my vengeance, and while I may not see the end of this current iteration of the godswar, I will ensure that my enemies never forget my name.”
Aran gave a yell, and charged.
34
I Accept
The next two days were a special kind of hell for Frit. Even though she hadn’t actually done anything wrong she felt like she had. It was too similar to when she’d spied on Eros for Nebiat, and it dredged up all the same feelings. Even remorse over Ree’s death, she was shocked to realize.
Frit spent most of her time in her quarters, with occasional trips to gather more knowledge scales. She’d also had several more conversations with Kaho, and he’d been wonderful about providing insight into Nebiat’s situation. Unfortunately, he’d pressured her relentlessly to tell Nara what she was considering.
It was so tempting to do exactly that. Nara would probably understand. Probably. But whether she did or didn’t, it would put her friend in a difficult position. She’d have to choose between her loyalty to Frit and to Voria, and it wasn’t fair to put Nara in that position.
“Child?” A soft voice wafted over her from behind, and she twisted to see Nebiat’s spectral form in her quarters. The dreadlord-turned-goddess wore a hopeful expression, her flowing gown as elegant as it was flattering. “Is this a good time? I can come at another, if you wish.”
In that moment Frit experienced a revelation, one very similar to something Nebiat had shown her back on Shaya. She’d taken Frit to a sweetshop for her first sticky bun. A dreadlord had casually dined in the capital of her enemies, and now here she was doing it again. Virkon contained at least three gods that Frit knew of, none of whom would react well to Nebiat’s presence. Yet the dreadlord seemed utterly unconcerned that she stood in the stronghold of her enemies.
“Now’s as good a time as any.” Frit rose and approached the specter. She stopped before Nebiat, and eyed the deity searchingly. “I’m assuming you still want to make me your
guardian. Have you considered what might happen if I disagree with you? I’ve done my homework. I can take whatever magic you give me to Voria. That would empower your enemies, and gain you nothing.”
“Only if you betray me.” Nebiat gave a musical laugh. “Oh, Frit, I so love your candor. I still remember the cafe on Shaya where we shared your first sticky bun. You aren’t that girl anymore. You’re ready for this. I want you not in spite of your willfulness, but because of it.”
Frit paused at that. Leaders like Eros were careful not to keep strong dissenting opinions close to them, but in many ways Nebiat was more crafty. Perhaps she saw the value in a strong subordinate, or perhaps she was just telling Frit what she wanted to hear. “Kaho told me that you approached him first. I’m your second choice.”
“And I stand by my first choice, though you shouldn’t see that as an insult,” Nebiat replied smoothly. “Of course my own son is first, for obvious maternal reasons. You know how intelligent Kaho is, and what he might accomplish in the role. He would bring my children to greatness, whereas you are far more likely to look after your sisters, though you can’t be blamed for that.”
Frit gave a grudging nod. She couldn’t fault any of Nebiat’s logic. Kaho would be the best choice, if he was loyal to Nebiat at least. And he would likely favor Wyrms more than she would.
“I don’t understand your motivations, and it really bothers me,” Frit found herself saying. “You’re evil. You wipe out worlds. You tried to destroy Shaya, and killed countless people in the process. Why should I ally with you? It doesn’t matter how pretty the dream you’re offering if it’s all a lie. I know you’re capable of being friendly until you get what you want from me, but I also know you’ll discard me, and anyone else, without a second thought.”
Nebiat listened gravely with her hands clasped before her. “It’s important you realize that evil is merely a word used to justify the destruction of one’s enemies. The condemnation of our actions is how they dehumanize us. Yet they use exactly the same actions. Let me tell you a story of an evil Ifrit.” Nebiat gave a dramatic pause, and a smile as she continued. “There was a girl on Shaya, a slave who served the noble Tender, Eros, hero of Shaya. One day she betrayed Eros to his enemies, foul dragons who seek to slaughter all children, and shave all livestock.”
Frit snorted a laugh, despite the gravity of the situation.
Nebiat continued, giving her a wink. “This Ifrit was given the key to her collar, and could have fled on her own. Instead, she created a resistance among her sisters. She convinced nearly forty treacherous Ifrit to betray their noble Shayan masters. They burned several war mages alive during their escape, and later killed more when those brave Shayan pilots were sent to bring the traitors to justice.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Frit growled. It hit too close to home. Even Nara blamed her a little for Ree’s death. “I see your point. Everything said about you to me is from one of your enemies. But you seem to forget that I’m capable of observing you myself. I watched you during the war. I saw the way you treated Nara and the people you bound. You can’t seriously believe that I’ll accept you as some magnanimous deity.”
Nebiat tilted her head back and laughed. It was a long, loud, freeing sort of laugh. The laugh lines bunched around her eyes as the goddess focused on Frit again. “I think we’re going to get along wonderfully, Frit. You know better than any that I am utterly ruthless. You understand my goals and motivations, and know that I will listen to you, even if I do not always do as you ask. You are exactly the same sort of moderating influence my father lacked. Teodros died, not just because he over-reached, but also because he didn’t have any allies. He kept his children at arm’s length, and used us as fodder. In the end he died for his hubris. I do not wish to make the same fate.”
Frit took a deep breath, and exhaled a puff of smoke. She wasn’t certain this was the right decision. Part of her screamed that she should talk to Kaho, or Nara, or even Voria. But she’d been over this ground too many times. This decision was hers, and hers alone. It was simple really. Did she stay here as an outsider, miserable, and marginalized, or did she take up the mantle of demigoddess and help shape a culture that would be a home for her people?
It was no choice really, despite needing to ally with the personification of evil she’d grown up fearing. Reconciling propaganda with observation had been difficult, but Frit believed she might know Nebiat better than anyone living. She understood the dreadlord, her sacrifices and her triumphs. If she was wrong, the price was likely to be high, but at least Frit was going in knowing that.
“Very well,” Frit intoned, solemnly. “I’m willing to accept your investiture of power. And in exchange I will do everything in my power to help you escape from Krox. However, I will not take any action I disagree with. I will not be your slave, and if you attempt to make me such, you will find me very quickly defecting to your enemies.”
“I wouldn’t dream of putting you in that position.” Nebiat nodded and raised a hand to sketch a sigil. After a moment she lowered the hand, as if suddenly realizing it wasn’t needed. “You are making the right decision, Frit. I will give you the power I’ve offered, and when I am finished I will leave you here to solve my dilemma. You’ll have both the power and space to do whatever you wish. First, though, I have one request.”
“Oh?” Frit asked suspiciously.
“Come home, Frit.” Nebiat took a step closer, and looked as if she wanted to hug Frit. “See the world you will be defending and shaping. Meet your sisters, Frit.”
Frit hesitated. She knew that the next words she spoke would dominate her fate forever, but when she spoke them, she spoke them gladly. “Okay. Take me home.”
35
Framed
Aran rolled his shoulder as he reluctantly crawled from bed. Drakkon had beaten the everliving crap out of him on the mat. Again. But for the first time Aran had actually landed a blow. That showed he was improving, right? In another century or three he might win, if Drakkon was asleep, maybe.
He rose with a grunt and tugged on his uniform. He buckled Narlifex on over it, and the blade thrummed a greeting. It talked more when spoken to, but the blade still rarely initiated a conversation.
Aran exited his quarters and headed to the mess, where there was coffee, a more vital fuel than magic at this point. Davidson was the only one there, and to Aran’s immense surprise the stoic blond officer was crying. He glanced up as Aran came in.
“You’re gonna want to see this.” Davidson wiped at an eye. He shook his head, and nodded at the image playing on his portable viewscreen. “Ternus just did a real hack job on us from a PR angle. So far as they’re concerned we’re the enemy. That means my folks are gonna get persecuted. Gave birth to a traitor and all that.”
Aran ordered his coffee from the food thingie, and moved to sit next to Davidson. “All right. Hit me with it.”
Davidson hit the reset button and the newscast started from the top. A pretty blonde reporter announced the story, with the headline Victory at Marid. She started with a smile. “We’ve just received news from Governor Austin himself that Ternus has enjoyed its first victory of the war.”
Footage of the battle for Starn played in the background, and Aran winced. He didn’t want to remember that battle. It had ended badly, for everyone involved. Draconic Krox gutted starships and slaughtered Marines.
“We discovered a nest of dragons lurking near a resort community on the planet Marid.” The smile became a concerned frown, and the reporter’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “Our sons and daughters rose to the occasion, but the magic they were up against was…well, I’ll let you judge for yourself.”
Footage from a Marine’s helmet cam played, and showed the ground erupting around them. Then they were sucked down into the swamp, and the camera went dark. The screen cut to a trio of hatchlings tearing apart a tank, and then the people inside.
Something clicked in Aran’s head. The newscast hadn’t said that these dragons were
in any way affiliated with the Krox, but they’d shown some very suggestive footage first. Most viewers would assume the two were one and the same.
The camera changed again, this time to a view from orbit. The reporter shed a single emotionless tear as she spoke again, her expression all empathy. “Casualties were heavy, as they always are when dealing with supernatural monsters. This time, though, Ternus was ready. This time we had an answer to their dark sorcery.”
The camera cut to the terrifyingly familiar ships, and majestic music played as the camera slow-panned around the midnight vessels. Smiling young officers, attractive men and women every one, gazed up at the ships, their faces rich with hope.
The ships suddenly zoomed into combat over Marid, and Aran watched as they descended toward Drakkon en masse. Dragon after dragon died, and when the dust had settled, and Drakkon stood alone, only nine ships had been destroyed.
The rest converged on the doomed dragon, and Aran winced. Drakkon fought hard, but there could only be one end.
A flash of white light drowned out the screen, and when it cleared, Voria was there. A literal lady of light, standing protectively over Drakkon. She whirled the Spellship and the shining blades sliced through the tendrils the black ships had attached. Drakkon was free!
Voria raised her free hand, and a life ward sprang up around her, Drakkon, and the Catalyst itself. The black ships began assaulting the ward, and it immediately began to discolor.
“As you can see,” the reporter said, her tone forlorn now, “a woman we thought our ally has chosen to consort with alien powers, rather than help our brave men and women. She protected the dragon lurking in our swamp, one that has no doubt slain countless humans over the centuries it has terrorized that world.”