Affinity for War

by Frank Morin

  "She's our first non-Builder test pilot," Verena explained.

  "She pretty much killed an elfonnel single-handedly too," Hamish added, and Jean flushed under all the attention.

  The meeting ended a short time later and Mattias immediately said, "Verena, I'd like a word with you."

  Ilse interjected. "If you don't mind, my lord, can it wait? We have a lot to do to prepare the command for these unique battle orders. I would appreciate your help."

  "I'll find you later," Verena promised.

  Mattias didn't look pleased, but he agreed. Connor caught Ilse's eye, and she winked at him. He decided Lukas's presence was good for her.

  As they descended toward the courtyard where they left the flying vehicles, Connor walked beside Verena, but she did not take his hand. She seemed lost in thought, and he wasn't sure what to say. Could Mattias's presence really confuse her so much? Was she doubting her interest in Connor?

  That thought terrified him. They'd been through so much together. Part of him wanted to make her see how much he cared, but that was too much like what Shona had tried to do to him. The more she'd tried to force his heart, the more she'd driven him away. He couldn't make the same mistake with Verena.

  Martys was still snoring in the Storm, and Aifric looked on the verge of shoving a blanket down his throat. She seemed relieved when Kilian said loudly, "Nap time is over."

  Martys sat up with a grunt and a final snort. "What be the word?"

  Connor summarized the basic outline of the battle plan and said, "I'm just worried about making sure we find all of the sculpted stones."

  Aifric said, "He started with a dozen, and three have been used to raise elfonnel."

  "Plus a couple were used at Harz to enhance the elemental attack," Kilian said. "I doubt those were fully consumed, so they may play a part in the next battle."

  "We can't allow them to stir up the elements again," Hamish said.

  "Anton will be prepared to face Gregor, even if he taps that stone again. I will deal with Ivor as soon as you secure the other stones."

  Connor didn't like the sound of that. "Let me try first."

  "Don't get distracted. You've already committed to the Crushers."

  "Ivor will be in the thick of it. I'll stop him," Connor insisted.

  Kilian leveled a serious look at him. "I know he's your friend, Connor, so you'll be motivated to show mercy. You must be prepared to kill him if he refuses to surrender that stone."

  "I said I'll take care of it," Connor promised, his voice a bit sharper than he intended.

  Kilian held his gaze for another second before nodding slowly. "See that you do. If I must intervene, I will."

  Verena said, "That leaves seven sculpted stones, as far as we know. Do you think Carbrey will distribute them before the battle?"

  Kilian considered that for a moment, but Martys spoke first. "I dinnae think so, lass. Those be the great treasure, an' from what Aifric told us, Dougal prefers to wield the elfonnel himself."

  Kilian said, "I think you're right. Carbrey may have the stones as an emergency option, but I doubt he'll dare deploy them until we force him to."

  "I hope you're right," Connor said.

  Kilian said, "Carbrey is no fool. He's proud and eager to conquer, but he won't risk destroying his own army too. Distributing those other sculpted stones risks exactly that."

  "We've got at least a couple days to prepare," Aifric said.

  "And we'll need your help." Kilian explained the plan to send Aifric into the Obrioner camp to plant Gisela's chemical weapons. "Do you think Sir would be willing to assist?"

  Aifric nodded. "He promised to help, and infiltration is his specialty. Together, we can gather any last-minute intelligence too."

  "That would help a lot." Kilian admitted.

  "I'd like to know if they've really been fooled by Ulrich's elaborate deception," Verena said.

  "And if there are any other sculpted stones we don't know about," Connor added.

  Hamish laughed. "Why not ask for a list of all their power stores while you're at it?" He gave Aifric an apologetic look. "Do you really think you can get all that?"

  She stepped away from the Storm and a shudder passed through her, shaking her from head to toe. She shoved a hand into a pocket.

  "Aifric?" Connor asked, suddenly worried Dougal might have somehow reestablished control over her mind.

  Her faltering footsteps recovered before he could reach her, and she danced forward with the quick step of a Strider. Her expression changed, the muscles of her face somehow altering slightly, making her look leaner. Her stance became more energetic, and she bounced on her toes when she stopped moving, like Lorcc often did.

  "You're a Strider, Aifric?" Hamish exclaimed.

  She huffed. "Aifric couldn't infiltrate a sick bay full of unconscious patients, but I'll get into the camp, no worries."

  "Who are you now?" Connor asked.

  Aifric made a deep curtsy. "I'm the one and only Rith."

  "Pleased to meet you, Rith," Jean said with a smile.

  "So we're meeting another of your nineteen fake identities?" Connor asked.

  "Fake?" Aifric-Rith asked, dancing closer, her expression turning belligerent. "Is Aifric fake? Is Student Eighteen fake?"

  "You really become a different person, don't you?" Verena asked in a tone of wonder.

  "Finally, someone who thinks a bit. I haven't let many people meet Rith in a while, and I was thinking it was a mistake."

  "I think it'll be a pleasure to get to know you, Rith," Verena said.

  "Of course it is. Only a fool wouldn't agree, and you're brilliant."

  Rith seemed at least as confident as Dietmar, Ilse's cocky Wingrunner.

  "You're still taking an awful risk slipping into the Obrioner camp," Connor pointed out.

  Rith sighed. "You're like an old mother, Connor. I've done this before. I'll darken my hair and plait it into Strider tails. And I've got one of the King's Own Strider Corps uniforms, and this."

  She pulled from a deep pocket of her Healer coat a piece of shaped, black leather and slipped it over her face. Connor recognized it as a Strider half-mask. The form-fitting mask covered the top half of her face, hooded slits shielding the eyes and nose from wind and bugs.

  "It does help," Hamish admitted.

  "But those half masks aren't exactly common," Connor objected. He had only seen Strider students at the Carraig wear them a handful of times. If anything, wearing the mask drew more attention.

  "They are in Turriff's realm. I wear them all the time," Rith said.

  "Where did you get that?" Hamish asked. He was openly grinning at Rith. Her confident good humor was infectious.

  She shrugged. "Ask Student Eighteen. I just wear it."

  "What do you think of Student Eighteen's new name?" Jean asked.

  Rith shrugged. "Student Eighteen's got issues. I'm from a little town outside of Casur, right on the Macantacht. Our bloodlines run deep, just like our crops."

  Kilian held up a hand to forestall Connor's next question. "Let's not get too distracted. We have a lot of work to do. Rith, you and Sir can leave after dark."

  "Sounds good to me. Eighteen will take care of fishing for intelligence once we get there. She's crafty that way."

  "Don't attempt tapping obsidian in the camp," Kilian warned.

  "I'm not an idiot. Aifric can be a bit scatterbrained sometimes, but she doesn't use obsidian anyway. Eighteen's aware of the risk, though."

  Connor marveled at Aifric's ability to keep her various personas separate. Aifric had downplayed the fractured state of her mind, but it seemed her different identities were actually different personalities, all living in the same head. Rith's comments were providing fascinating insights into how the various segments of Aifric's head kept their stories straight.

  "So Aifric uses sandstone," Jean said, a thoughtful look on her face. "Eighteen uses obsidian and chert. Does she also use serpentinite?"

  "Wouldn't be
much of a Mhortair if she couldn't use that, now would she?"

  "That's what I thought. So you really are Agor in both primary and secondary affinities. Are you also Dawnus, or is serpentinite your only tertiary?"

  "I'm not Agor," Rith said. "Weren't you listening? I'm a Strider."

  "But you're all the same person."

  Rith held up a hand, and stopped bouncing. "You can't lump us together like that, Jean."

  "But you are, aren't you?" Hamish asked.

  "That would be mental."

  The mental games she played made Connor's head spin, but were her different personalities really that different?

  "How does that work?" Jean asked with a frown.

  Rith shrugged. "We each use what we use. It's all separate. I can't use Aifric's stones or Eighteen's, and they can't use mine."

  Connor exchanged an amazed look with Verena, who said, "We need to sit down and talk for a month when this is over."

  Rith rolled her eyes. "Talk with one of the others. I can't sit still that long."

  Kilian said, "I think we've settled your part of the plan. Why don't you go prepare for your incursion, then meet me back at Wolfram's command tent. I'll bring Sir."

  "Good idea. I'll see you all after we trounce old Carbrey."

  After Rith trotted from the windrider courtyard, Hamish let out a low whistle. "For a Healer, she's cracked."

  "I'm glad she's on our side," Connor said.

  Verena nodded. "She's far more complex than I imagined. I wonder how they do it?"

  "We definitely need to dig into that and try to meet all of her," Jean agreed.

  Kilian said, "She'll find out what there is to find. It falls to the rest of us to win this battle and flip this war back on Dougal."

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  "Can the blind lead those who cannot see, or the maimed guard against dangers unknown to them?"

  ~Sentry class teacher

  Martys caught up with Connor as he left the windrider courtyard. "All this plannin' and talkin' gives me the boke. Come on, laddie, let's find a place for some simple, honest bash fighting."

  Connor shook his head. "I'd love to, Uncle Martys, but we have so much to do."

  "It can wait. Ye be headin' into battle the likes o' which ye no have tasted, me lad. Ye must be ready."

  "I've done a lot of fighting," Connor assured him.

  "Fighting aye, but killin'? Ne'er so much, I reckon."

  When Connor hesitated, he added, "Aye, laddie. Killin' be on the docket now. Ye cannae afford to hold back. This no be a fight fer points at yer school. This be the battle to decide the war, if'n what they all be sayin' is to be believed. So ye cannae show mercy, ye cannae hesitate, and ye cannea think that anyone ye fight is still yer friend."

  There might be truth to what Martys was saying, but Connor didn't like it. "I can't just abandon friendship and kill people I care about."

  "War is an ugly thing, but if'n ye will nay do that which must be done, those ye truly love may suffer. Come, lad. Ye need a taste of real battle."

  He led Connor down several stone corridors, taking each turn as if he knew exactly where he was going. A few minutes later, they stepped into a small, stone-walled courtyard, open to the early evening sky. It was empty and smelled of sweat and leather, as if it was often used for sparring.

  "You didn't just sleep while we were in those meetings, did you?" Connor asked as they walked into the middle of the empty courtyard and Martys turned to face him.

  Martys grinned and thumbed the side of his nose, in a gesture that reminded Connor of the motion used to seal a bet in the gealls so popular at the Carraig. "Men dinnae live long if'n they no understand the lay of the land."

  Martys's skin faded to gray and his leather battle armor creaked as his muscles swelled. "Dinnae delay, laddie. I be in a mood to punch."

  Seeing Martys ready to fight made it easier to push away concerns about planning. A little unrestrained bash fighting was exactly what he needed.

  Connor had downed a draught of soapstone mixture earlier and had a wafer of slate in his boot, but didn't plan to tap any of his tertiary affinities. He would meet Martys fist to fist.

  The familiar itch of his oldest affinity crawling under his skin like a thousand insects made him grin. He tapped granite and his own skin faded, his muscles expanded, and strength welled through him.

  Without preamble, Martys lunged, rock-hard fists snapping out for Connor's face. Connor side-stepped the attack and landed a punch against Martys's shoulder. He was a bit off-balance and the punch lacked full strength.

  He grinned anyway and said, "Point."

  "This be no school game," Martys growled, shifting quickly and advancing, his fists snapping out in a steady rhythm. "I mean to hurt ye, lad, unless ye hurt me first."

  Connor doubted he was serious, but tapped more granite anyway and met Martys punch for punch, reveling in the unrivaled rush of bash fighting. The two stood toe to toe, raining blows on each other, rock-hard fists cracking loudly against granite-skinned faces or striking with muted thumps into leather armor.

  Martys was bulkier, but Connor was faster. He shifted around his uncle, dodging and parrying, shrugging off brutal hits in order to land even more powerful ones of his own.

  Martys was an excellent fighter, and he pursued Connor, absorbing fantastic amounts of punishment with not even a grunt of pain. His expression was hard, his mouth set in a stern line, his eyes focused on Connor with a gaze so intense, it was a bit unsettling.

  "We no be playin' here," Martys growled after Connor punched him in the chin. "Hit me like ye mean it."

  "You asked for it." Connor hit him again, as hard as he'd ever hit anyone in his life.

  Martys rocked back from the blow and nodded. "Now we be gettin' somewhere."

  He attacked again, more viciously than before, adding elbows and knees, forcing Connor to immerse himself in the fight like he rarely had in the past. All else faded but the need to strike his uncle and ward off the brutal attacks.

  The few times Connor had fought so hard, the fight had ended in seconds, but it quickly became apparent that this duel would be different. Martys's initial onslaught never slackened, and he only increased tempo as the bash fight continued. His arms pumped faster and faster, even though he began to pant from the effort.

  Soon Connor found himself completely on the defensive. He managed to land several punches hard enough to stagger Martys, but his uncle only rebounded with even more fury.

  He lacked the finesse of the Fast Rollers, but made up for it with pure, brutal ferocity. He had said he planned to hurt Connor, to show him what a real fight felt like, and Connor started to believe him.

  Knowing this fight was turning real triggered a surprising feeling of anger in Connor. Instead of retreating from his wild uncle, he plunged deeper into the fight.

  He too was panting, and his muscles burned from the effort. Sweat and the smoky scent of broken stone clung to his nose. His mouth had gone dry, but he tasted blood. All of his senses seemed to grow more acute, even though he wasn't tapping quartzite, but all he saw, all he heard, all he smelled, all he tasted was the fight.

  Connor exulted in that moment of complete focus, his entire being tuned to the single need to win. In his heart, fury began to build, the fury of a rampager. He lacked porphyry, but he felt the beast stir in his heart, yearning for release, driving him to fight harder.

  The thought of porphyry triggered an intense yearning for the stone, a hunger to feel the powder biting into his skin and transforming him into an unmatched fighting machine. Connor max-tapped granite and his muscles shrank as the fibers intertwined to produce triple the power.

  Snarling with a savage lust for battle that he'd only felt as a rampager, he slipped between Martys's flurry of punches and slammed his own fist into the tip of Martys's chin.

  Not even the raging Martys could withstand that one. He tumbled to the stone-paved ground with a solid whump. Connor stood over him, panting and
growling low in his throat. He was shocked to feel an urge to leap upon Martys and beat his head into the stones.

  Shaking his head to dispel that battle fury, Connor lowered his hands and tried to calm himself. Most of that fight had been fun, but he didn't like what he'd nearly become at the end. He could have hurt his uncle.

  Martys didn't seem to care.

  He lunged off the ground, roaring a wordless cry, and slugged Connor in the side of the head hard enough to crack his stone-hardened skull. The impact drove Connor to the ground in a heap, his head ringing, a strange smoky taste in his mouth. He'd never been punched that hard, never imagined such a punch was possible.

  Martys loomed over him, growling like an animal, but Connor couldn't seem to focus his watering eyes. He raised his hands to ward his face and shouted, "Hold!"

  Martys punched his arms, savagely knocking them aside, and drove a fist into Connor's chest, blasting the air out of his lungs. His eyes were blazing with that odd orangish light that again made Connor wonder if he was a secret Solas.

  Martys raised his fist to punch again, and Connor instinctively tapped soapstone, drawing water out of the air. He whipped it across Martys's face.

  The blow staggered him, leaving a white, scar-like streak on his hardened skin. Connor rolled away and leaped to his feat, worried he might have struck too hard, but Martys's face contorted with rage. He launched himself at Connor, snarling like an animal and raining a torrent of blows in an unstoppable wave.

  The intensity of the attack surprised Connor and he actually felt afraid for the first time. His uncle seemed determined to drive the lesson home, even if he had to shove his fist through Connor's skull to make the point.

  Connor stumbled again and Martys punched him off his feet, then followed him down, pounding at him, shouting and cursing, face purple-red with fury.

  Martys had unleashed the beast.

  When Connor had felt it stirring, he'd reined it in, but Martys was embracing it. He'd reverted to his most basic, savage self, and Connor finally understood just how dangerous that was.

  Connor could do the same thing. The beast was there, pacing in his heart, straining for a chance to escape. He couldn't unleash it, though. Not against his uncle. If he did, he wasn't sure he'd regain control before hurting or maybe killing Martys.