The Arclight Saga

by C. M. Hayden

  Lokír stood from his chair and hurried toward the man. “Fjore, what happened?”

  The man’s limbs were shaking. “We were attacked.”

  Lokír’s led him to a chair. “Who did this, my friend?”

  Fjore motioned for a drink on the table, which Lokír brought him. The wounded man finished it off before he spoke again. “Fire from the sky,” he said, setting the empty goblet on the armrest. “The women. The children. All dead. Burned to cinders.” There was a murmur of gasps and a clamor of discussion amongst the assembled men, but Lokír raised a hand to quiet them. “Start from the beginning, Fjore-ama.”

  Fjore made no motion to hide his tears. “I never saw the beast, but I heard it. It came in the night like a hurricane, burned the farm and cattle, tore through the village. There was no defense, no arrow could mar it, no sword could reach it.”

  “Your wife?” Lokír asked. “Your son?”

  Fjore stared with hollow, tear-filled eyes. “I stand the only survivor, Lokír-ama. Even the little children were not spared.”

  “Craetos?” Kyra asked, looking at Taro and Fenn. Were it not for the dead silence of the hall, the comment probably would’ve gone unnoticed by the Northmen. However, they did notice, and all eyes fell on the three.

  Kyra spoke first, answering their unspoken question. “We were attacked last night by a dragon on the way to Caelis Enor. Our ship was damaged, many of the crew were wounded. We came hoping to bring back food and supplies.”

  “Ship?” Lokír said. “Did you come from the coast?”

  “We came over the mountains,” Taro said.

  Lokír looked suspicious. “Over the mountains in a boat?”

  “An airship, actually,” Kyra said.

  Lokír set his goblet down. “Air…ship…”

  “It’s a ship that rides in the sky rather than on the water,” Fenn interjected, sounding horribly patronizing.

  Lokír grunted. “I know what an airship is.”

  Taro, Kyra, and Fenn went quiet, as did everyone else at the table.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” Fenn trailed off until his voice disappeared into the background noise.

  “Tell me, why would lowly traders travel by airship?” He held up Taro’s aurom between his fingers and brandished it. “And this? The seal of the Sun King himself. Why do you have it? I’d mind you to choose your words carefully.”

  Kyra answered. “We’re from the Magisterium. We were coming to treat with the dragons when we were attacked. The creature that attacked us, and you, is an abomination raised by the Helians.”

  Lokír grumbled. “By Vexis the Shadowmancer.”

  Taro and Kyra exchanged confused glances. “Yes…how do you know that?”

  “One of her Inquisitors visited us. Ate our food, drank our wine, and threatened our lives if we didn’t submit.”

  “Did they give you their name?” Taro asked.

  “Praxis,” Lokír said. “I wanted to kill the wretch on the spot, but our king bade me to let him leave. He promised he would return in a fortnight for our answer.” He spoke his next few words more softly. “I wouldn’t expect the High King to submit, of course, and if he has sent this creature down on one of our villages, there can be only one answer to such inhuman butchery.”

  Taro remembered Praxis, the Shahl’s oldest son. A thin, sharp-faced man who carried out his father’s commands without question. Was he now working for his younger sister?

  Fjore wiped some of the blood from his forehead. “He was there, Lokír-ama. Praxis, cursed be his name. He was there, looking over the wreckage when I fled.”

  Lokír’s face turned red. “Then we ride tonight to bring him to justice.”

  “No,” Taro interjected a bit more forcefully than he’d intended. “I’ve met Praxis. His magic is horrifically powerful. If you go, he’ll kill you all.”

  “We can’t allow his devilry to go unanswered. The Shadowmancer must know our resolve. We won’t be frightened by her or her minions.”

  “At least let us go with you,” Kyra said.

  “You?” Bjorn scoffed from across the table.

  “We’re magisters,” Kyra said.

  “You’re mites,” Bjorn said.

  Kyra glanced at Taro, then at the hilt on his belt. Taro drew Raethelas and pointed it at Bjorn.

  “Want to test that?” Taro said.

  Bjorn looked excited by the prospect, and drew his sword. “Gladly.”

  Before he could take a step forward, Taro focused his templar through the Deeplight shard. “Sit.”

  Bjorn’s knees buckled and he was on the floor in an instant. “What…what is this?”

  “Drop it,” Taro said, and the sword fell from the man’s hands, clanking onto the stone floor.

  Taro moved toward Bjorn, and picked his sword up with one hand. It weighed almost as much as he did.

  “As we were saying,” Kyra said. “The Helians are our enemies, too. Vexis and her family, most of all. She kidnapped and tortured my father. She’s waging war against my kingdom. Let us fight with you, and we can bring this monster to justice together.”

  Lokír considered it for a moment. “I’m not too big a man that I can’t tell when I need help. You would be most welcome.”

  Kyra gave a short bow. “Thank you, my lord. And if you’ll not think me ungrateful, I have one more request.”

  “Yes?”

  “We mentioned our ship was attacked. It crashed a few miles due south, near the edge of the forest, just past the mountains. We still have men there, many wounded. If you could help them, the Magisterium would be in your debt.”

  Lokír spoke to one of his men, whispering for a moment and gesturing with his hand. When they were done, he turned his attention back to Kyra. “We will send a caravan to retrieve them with all haste. Do not waste your worry on their safety.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  King of the Ashes

  With the well-being of the Eventide crew assured, Taro, Kyra, and Fenn were able to focus more on the more immediate concern before them: for whatever reason, Craetos was scorching villages in the area. How this related to Vexis was unclear, but Taro didn’t doubt she was involved.

  “It makes no sense,” Fenn said.

  The three were briefly alone in one of the Nurengard stables, with nothing but horses and farm equipment around them. Taro was inspecting the tack and saddle of one of the three horses they’d been offered.

  Fenn continued, “The Nuren are just a bunch of barbarians. They don’t have any magic, no real weapons to speak of, no overwhelming numbers. What the hell does Vexis want with them? Why send Praxis?”

  “They have location,” Taro said, petting the side of his black mare. She neighed and jostled at his unfamiliar hand.

  “What do you mean?” Fenn asked.

  “They’re all over the Caelis Enor, right at the doorstep of Castiana. Maybe Vexis just wants a foothold here.”

  Fenn shook his head. “I’m telling you it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe we can ask Praxis,” Kyra mused. “You said you’ve met him before.”

  Taro nodded. “When me and your dad were escaping Helia Edûn, he was one of the Inquisitors chasing us. But…”

  “But…?”

  “He didn’t seem to especially like or follow Vexis. I’m not sure what could’ve changed.”

  “Rumor says the Shahl is dead,” Kyra said. “That Vexis killed him.”

  “Bonding over the death of their father?” Fenn said with a sickly frown. “They really are just monsters, aren’t they?”

  “The Shahl was the real monster.” Taro tapped his forehead. “Whatever he did to them really screwed them up in the head. Praxis is as strong as Vexis. We can’t just rush him, we need a plan.”<
br />
  “Well, that’s an easy one,” Fenn said.

  “How so?” Taro asked.

  Fenn looked at him like he was an idiot. “Hello? That mind-controlling sword you’re lugging around.”

  Taro drew Raethelas from its sheath a few inches. “If he doesn’t overpower it.”

  “We just need to kill him before that happens,” Fenn said, sounding surprisingly nonchalant about the whole ordeal. “When we see him, you subdue him with Raethelas and we’ll run him through.” Fenn brushed his hands together. “Done and done.”

  Taro was taken aback by Fenn’s casual brutality, but couldn’t argue that it was their best bet. “It’s as good of a plan as we’re going to get.”

  _____

  The burned village was called Firholt, and it lay about twenty miles from Nurengard. Not a great distance as the crow flies, but with all of Caelis Enor’s steep hills and mountainous terrain, it felt a great deal farther.

  As they approached, even from miles away, Taro could see the smoke rising like a black cloud out of the pristine, snow-dusted trees. Firholt sat on the base of a mountain, causing the village to be ever so slightly slanted. As they neared, the line of trees gave way to clearings of blackened ash and windswept dust. Fires smoldered in the surrounding forest, and the village itself was little more than a burned, hollow shell of what it once was.

  The great hall—once an intricately carved masterpiece of fantastical sea monsters and warring ships—was now charred black; the roof had caved in, and there were still-burning bodies littering the dirt roads. What really struck Taro was the silence. Firholt was bigger than Nurengard, but where Nurengard was filled with the laughter of children playing, men and women shouting, and animals bleating, here there was nothing of the sort. It was like walking through a graveyard.

  “Stay close, young masters,” Lokír said, trotting his horse forward. He took the front, and led them through the burnt-out remnants of the once great village, searching for any survivors that Fjore might’ve missed.

  When they were past the main gatehouse, Lokír pointed to his men. “Bjorn, Toft, search the smithy and the outer walls. Stay together. The Endrans and I will search the great hall.”

  Bjorn and Toft nodded, pulling at their reins and turning toward the blacksmith down the way.

  When they were a fair distance, Lokír turned to Taro. “Can you use your magic to see what happened here?” he asked.

  Taro shook his head. “Our magic doesn’t work that way.” He pointed to the clean lines of fire piercing through buildings and walls. “But this was done by dragon fire, there’s no doubt. The cuts are just like they were aboard our ship. It has to be Craetos.”

  Kyra looked sick to her stomach. “If Vexis brought him back from the dead, it stands to reason she’s in control of him.”

  “Not quite,” a voice answered.

  The voice came from the charred, collapsed doors of the great hall atop a small hill. There stood a man clothed in white, sharp-faced and scowling. There were intricate magistry tattoos running up his neck, and his black hair was slick and combed to the side. Instantly, Taro recognized him as Praxis Andurin. In his bright, perfectly clean robes, he stuck out against the blackness.

  Lokír’s eyes zeroed in on him, and he clenched his teeth, pointing his axe at him. “You! You’re behind this!”

  Lokír dismounted and brandished his axe again in Praxis’s direction. There was perhaps twenty yards of space between them, but the hulking man cleared the distance in a second, before Taro or Kyra could even attempt to stop him.

  Praxis didn’t seem worried.

  Shadows pooled around Praxis’s feet and extended outward. When Lokír’s feet touched it, he could no longer step forward, as if the shadows were holding on to his ankles. He cursed and spat, trying to yank himself free.

  Praxis frowned, the very picture of noble piousness. “I’m not here to fight you,” he said, looking at Lokír like he was something he’d scraped off his boot. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help you. Quite unintentionally, rest assured.”

  Taro drew Raethelas and pointed it at Praxis. “Let him go!”

  From Praxis’ expression, this was the first time he’d noticed Taro standing there. “You,” he said softly. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  “In the tunnels underneath Helia,” Taro said. “You tried to kill me.”

  “You should feel honored, then. There aren’t many people I’ve ‘tried’ to kill. Most people I want to kill end up dead shortly thereafter.” His eyes turned to Lokír. “Take your barbarian friend here. If I wanted to snap his neck like a cornstalk, it would take nothing more than twitch of my finger.” Instead of doing this, Praxis swiped his hand and the shadows holding Lokír disappeared.

  The large man looked around, amazed, then up to Praxis. “What’s the meaning of this?” he said through gritted teeth.

  “An act of good faith,” Praxis said, tapping his fingers together. “We can’t have a proper dialogue if you’re straining and worried about your life. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to bring Endrans here. I suppose, in some ways, it makes it easier.”

  “What could you possibly want to talk to us about?” Taro asked.

  “The rumors milling about are quite correct. Using the Netherlight, and a fragment of the Arclight, my little sister somehow brought Craetos back from the dead. Now it’s running rampant. She’s just as out of control as Craetos is, powerful but not as smart as she thinks she is. If we don’t stop him, Craetos will continue on, burning everything in sight.”

  Taro looked at Kyra. Kyra looked back with a shrug.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “We absolutely can’t trust him,” Taro said.

  “Thank you for that keen and penetrating analysis,” Fenn said sarcastically. “But should we hear what he has to say, or kill him now?”

  Taro looked up at Praxis. The man looked utterly unperturbed by their presence. Was he really that strong? Maybe they never had a chance of beating him.

  All this Taro thought, but did not say. Instead, he nodded. “Let’s hear him out. Maybe if we pick through the bullshit long enough, we’ll find a few kernels of truth.”

  “Your analogies are just peachy, aren’t they?” Fenn sighed hard. “But I agree. Talking is the way to go.”

  Kyra nodded. “Don’t let your guard down, and keep away from his shadow magic.” She shouted to Praxis, “We’ll talk.”

  Nodding, Praxis turned and entered the charred, burnt hall, his robes billowing in the ash-swept wind. Taro, Kyra, and Fenn approached cautiously, checking Lokír to see if he was all right.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Lokír said. “His words are poison.”

  “We’ll take them in strides,” Fenn said.

  The four entered the great hall. No doubt it had once been as grand and majestic as the Red Hall in Nurengard, but now it was nothing but a charred shell of its former self. The High Seat in the back was a blackened stump, where Praxis sat, having pushed the burnt skeleton of the village elder out of the way.

  Seeing this, Lokír looked at him with dark eyes that could’ve melted steel. He made no move toward Praxis, and stood near the door, his axe clutched close to his side.

  Praxis’ hands clenched at the crumbling armrests, and he broke a bit off, flicking it away. “What happened here is just a taste of the destruction my sister will unleash if she gains control of Craetos.”

  Taro held up a hand and shook his head, as if to clear it. “Wait. I’m confused. She rose Craetos from the dead? He’s been bones and ash for what, a thousand years?”

  “Longer,” Fenn said.

  Praxis nodded gravely. “Somehow she was able to get her hands on a shard of the Arclight. With that and the Netherlight you so graciously handed over to her, she’s rewriting
the rules of what’s possible.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Taro said. “I did it for Nima.”

  Praxis gave Taro a disgusted look. “And how did that work for you?” He gestured to the destruction around him. “How many people have died because of that choice? And this is only a taste of what’s to come.”

  Taro shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “It was your father who sent Vexis to Endra in the first place. It’s your sister, your father, your whole damned family.”

  “I’m not going to sit here and defend dear old dad. And I don’t deny he is—or rather, was—a violent man. But notice that Helia and Endra were at peace for decades with him in power. War was never his goal. War leads to power shifts, uprisings, and challenges to authority. Peace was to his advantage.”

  “Then why have an army of artificial humans underneath the Aculam?” Taro asked. “Why his sudden need for the Arclight?”

  Praxis looked down at his hands in deep thought before he spoke again. “You know the answer to that. The Netherlight couldn’t grant new life, and even extending Valros’ life was becoming unsustainable. My father was old, Taro, so very old. He wouldn’t admit it, but I think he was afraid of being damned for eternity. He knew he’d lived a life of brutality. He feared what awaited him on the Great Ship, and dedicated himself to finding a way to cheat death. Those bodies under the Aculam, they aren’t soldiers. They were failed attempts at creating himself a new, younger body.”

  “That’s not what Vexis said.”

  “Believe what you want.” Praxis made a dismissive gesture. “Here’s what it boils down to: Vexis was able to raise Craetos into that necrotic abomination, but it’s a wild beast, utterly without will or purpose.”