by Rob J. Hayes
And Tamura was right about something else, too. I had already done it; I just hadn't realised it. In my rage and grief, I had assaulted Aerolis with everything I had. Ssserakis and I working in perfect union. Shadow and blade and fire and lightning. It is a fight we would have lost, had Aerolis fought back, but in that frenzy, we staggered the Djinn. We fucking hurt him. When I looked back, I realised how. The Sourceblades I formed at the height of my rage were different. Before, I had created the blades with Kinemancy, then coated them with lightning or fire. But that one time I had mixed the magic inside. The kinetic energy I used to fill those blades was suffused with Arcmancy and Pyromancy. I had not even realised it. Perhaps that is why the rejection struck so soon afterwards. I don't know. What I do know, is that mixing of magic is what allowed me to hurt Aerolis. And I knew I could do it again.
Chapter 13
I took to a new regime of training, cautious at first. It was dangerous and I had to go slowly to make certain I didn't blow myself up, or something even worse than that like blowing everyone else up. Mixing magic inside, then releasing it, shaping it. With no tutor to guide me, and no real hint of direction, I fumbled along like a blind woman in a maze. My first few attempts were met with failure and the wounds to prove it. I almost lost a finger when a Sourceblade exploded in a gout of flame, but I just about managed to direct the fire outward, scorching sand so hot it turned to glass. Lightning was easier for me. It's strange, I have always felt most comfortable with Pyromancy, something about the flames drew me in and made me feel at home. Since the Arcstorm, which I had absorbed and held inside, Arcmancy came so easily. I was the fury of the storm, and it was me. Maybe that was why. The fury. Fire isn't furious or angry, it is simply fire. It consumes, that's what it does. It is slow and methodical. Flames may not be predictable, but fire is. Its course can be directed and controlled. Lightning is different. It is anger and fury and rage. It can be directed, but not controlled. It follows along its own course and strikes faster than a flicker. I was angry. I have always been angry, but it was worse after Silva. I lashed out at times. I didn't mean to, it just happened. The anger was difficult to control. Often, I didn't realise it was there until it was out and the damage was done. Lightning and I shared a kinship, of sorts, that went deeper than the storm I carried. I am not proud of it.
I made some progress at least. Sourceblades that were stronger, lighter, imbued with a fire that could set metal burning. I copied the shield I had seen Silva erect around her, more a bubble really. Infusing that shield with both Kinemancy and Arcmancy, I made it impenetrable to both physical attack and magical. I learned to create a shockwave of energy, expanding out from me, that would be more than useful if I ever found myself surrounded. So many new possibilities opened up to me with the knowledge that magic was more powerful when it was used in concert, when using the principles that bound the Rand and the Djinn together. It was where the Iron Legion's true power came from. The knowledge to use magic in a way no one else fucking dared. He was attuned to over ten different Sources, could probably carry all of them at once. No wonder he was so strong.
The weeks wore on and the toll became all too obvious. Aerolis and his city could fly through the sky forever, an eternity apart from the rest of the world, but we could not. The ferals could not. We were all starving. Our supplies ran out, even rationed as they were. All of us lost flesh, and some days our hunger was all we could talk about. Some people get angry when the hunger takes them. I am not one of them, but Ishtar is, and she has the wit and the tongue to back up her anger with insults that sting as bad as sword cuts. She reduced Imiko to tears on one occasion and I rounded on her so sharply I thought we would come to blows. Not the type we dealt each other in sparring, but true blows meant to wound or even kill. We were friends, and more than that, she was a mentor. I respected Ishtar more than I ever told her. But anger and hardship do not mix well together, and we both said some things I wish we hadn't.
The ferals became vicious. As a whole, their fur was never as well-groomed or healthy as Ishtar's, but even I could see it was becoming dull and mangy. More than once I came across one of the creatures gnawing at its own leg, as though it were so hungry it was willing to cannibalise itself. I couldn't help but remember the Damned down in the ruined Djinn city. How they had been in some sort of hibernation until we came along, and how they were willing to fall upon each other, devouring the dead and wounded. How different were the ferals, really? Were they already devouring each other down in the depths of Do'shan? There couldn't be much else to eat. Even Tamura was struggling to find rats to catch.
Hunger is a horrible thing. A gnawing ache inside that feels as though something is twisting unnaturally. Hunger clouds judgement and makes everything sharp and fuzzy at the same time. It frays nerves down to the very edge of snapping, and makes the skin sallow and sunken, waxy. I may never have been the most vain woman in the world, but I was well aware that sunken cheeks only made my scar stand out more, and that made me look worse than a Ghoul.
Aerolis seemed either unwilling or unable to rectify the situation, so I took it upon myself. What we needed was a way down to the surface. We needed to be able to allow the ferals to hunt or trade, and gather wood for fires. We needed a flyer but had not the materials to build one. I had no doubt Aerolis could get the engine working, nor that he had Kinemancy Sources to power it, but the only thing we had plenty of was stone, and no amount of whirring gears and propellers could make stone fly. Whatever magic could do that seemed to be beyond even the Djinn now that there was only one of them left.
When I approached the edge of the mountain, I did so with the intention of puzzling out a solution. I had magic and the will to use it, which, I was certain, counted for something. Do'shan was above land, broad expanses of fields, green forests that looked small from so high up, mountain ranges that grew from nothing to reach up into the sky. And I realised that I recognised the land. We were above Isha. In the far distance I recognised the Forest of Ten, and beyond it the Atare mountain range. We were close to the Pit. A plan formed in my head. It was a plan Ssserakis counselled against. Vehemently.
"Aerolis!" I was at the foot of the tower once more, my shout echoing along its length. I was no Vibromancer, but I could pitch my scream to carry when the will took me.
Do you enjoy making a mockery of the Djinn?
"Yes," I said with a smile that was all for my horror and I. "Don't you?"
Ssserakis was silent for a long moment. Yes.
Horralain stood nearby, arms crossed and the hammer resting against a nearby wall. He had taken quite a liking to Shatter, and I saw no harm in him carrying a weapon that could destroy a god. As long as he remained loyal, at least, and I was certain Horralain's loyalty would never again be in question. Tamura and Hardt had followed me to the tower as well. They had spotted me in the approach and recognised the determined gait of my stride, the set of my shoulders. They knew I had in mind to do something historic. I was making something of a habit of it.
"Aerolis. Stop hiding in your little tower and face me." It was a deliberate choice of words. After the way he fulfilled his end of our last bargain, I was in a confrontational state of mind when it came to Djinn and their deals.
The ground shook beneath my feet. I took it as a good sign, though it was probably anything but. Making people angry before you gamble with them can be a choice tactic. Anger clouds the mind and causes many to act too swiftly which leads to mistakes. When they have the power to snuff you out with little more than a thought, it is probably wiser to prepare them with flattery than insults. I thought maybe I'd give that a go.
"Oh, great and powerful Aerolis, the Changing. Stop trying to impress me with cheap tricks and threats, and listen to my proposal." I'm not very good at flattery. "You want to impress me? Then listen to me. And agree to the deal that will save the lives of everyone on Do'shan." The ground continued to shake. "Or you can let us all starve to death and sit up here, alone, for eternity, or until Mezula comes
to complete her treachery. Whichever comes sooner."
The Djinn burst up through the ground in front of me, his body already fully formed and towering over me. The rocks of its form rotated, loosely connected by barely visible swirls of translucent magic. It was a grand entrance that showered me in sand. I will admit, I was impressed and a little intimidated, but I refused to let it show as I wiped sand and dirt from my fraying jacket and looked up into the vaguely head-shaped rock at the top of the Djinn's form.
"Good to see we've done away with the pretence that you can't be summoned." It was mockery, pure and simple. I was pushing the Djinn, seeing how far I could go before he snapped. Believe it or not, it was a calculated move on my part. Aerolis needed to know what I was capable of.
"I am done with your insolence, terran." No sooner had the words rumbled around the square than rocks rose up either side of me. They pushed out from the ground, each as tall as myself, and rushed towards me. The Djinn truly was done with me, he was trying to crush me.
I drew on the Sources inside, Kinemancy and Pyromancy, and thrust my arms out, releasing a fiery shock wave that shattered the rocks and sent the Djinn in front of me staggering. He had not been prepared for that. Of course, I knew the trick would not work a second time. But I didn't need it to.
"You figured it out, I see." Aerolis' words rumbled with the sound of an avalanche in full flow.
I hope you know what you're doing, Eskara. This plan makes no more sense now than it did yesterday. The horror wasn't wrong, but in truth it was less a plan and more a gamble.
"Your cryptic lesson?" I nodded. "It was quite simple really, though I admit it has taken me some time to get to grips with controlling the extra power." I took another step forward, so close I could reach out and stab the rocks floating in front of me. "Do not try to harm me again, Aerolis. I don't want to fight you, but if I have to, it will not go down like last time."
A low laughter echoed around the square and along the length of the tower. "You can't kill me, terran."
I grinned, putting as much malice into it as possible. My eyes flashed with the Arcstorm inside, and my shadow rose around me like an aura of black flame. "Don't be so sure." Intimidation was the key here. For the most part, Aerolis knew what I was capable of. But the Djinn had never encountered someone who could absorb the magic of Sources. Before Josef and I, no one like us had ever existed. Neither did he know what my horror was capable of, and Ssserakis had grown fat and strong with all the fear surrounding Do'shan in the past few weeks.
Some would have called my actions foolish; I know Hardt did. But there was nothing foolish about them. Aerolis saw me as another worthless terran. A life to be toyed with and discarded on a whim. A nobody and a nothing. Fuck that! I needed the Djinn to see me as an equal, or at least as close as possible to it. A part of that desire was pride. Aerolis had shown deference and fear to the Iron Legion, and I would demand the same. Of course, the Iron Legion had fought with the Djinn, and I was trying my best to avoid just that. I was certain Aerolis could still swat me like a fly if he really put his mind to it.
"I figured out something else, Aerolis. Something you didn't mean to show me. I know where you come from." I looked up towards the moons. Lokar was prominent, clearly visible despite the bright day. The blue of his bulk shielding much of Lursa's red.
"And you think that knowledge matters?"
I shook my head. "No. I just wanted you to know. I'm not here to threaten or coerce you, Aerolis. I'm here to offer you a deal. Our third and final deal." And this time I hoped to get the better end of it.
Chapter 14
Josef was drugged past the point to resist. I cannot begin to imagine how that must feel. He found himself a prisoner as surely as he had when he was down in the Pit, but worse. Down there he had been forced to dig, beaten occasionally for little to no reason at all, and fed the most meagre of rations. With the Iron Legion there was no digging, no beatings, generous food, and a warm bed, yet it was still so much worse. With the Iron Legion, Josef was forced to kill.
Disobedience was met with punishment; the death of another. The Iron Legion had no conscience, a life was nothing to him but a resource to be spent. Perhaps he couldn't see, couldn't imagine all the little threads that connect a person to the world. A life branching out into a countless number of connections. Family, friends, enemies. He couldn't see the pain it caused, or maybe he just didn't care. Some people are like that, unable to feel anything that does not directly affect them.
These are not my memories. They are Josef's.
It was time. Time to take the drug. To give away control of his body to the mad man. Time to kill. No! He couldn't think like that. He wasn't killing anyone. It wasn't him. Wasn't his choice. It wasn't him. It was all Loran. All Loran. It had to be.
Josef takes the Sweet Silence and swallows it willingly. What other choice does he have? Last time he resisted, the Iron Legion killed a young woman with dark skin and a scarred face. He remembers her, the fear in her eyes as Loran sucked the life from her. Then he forced Josef to take the drug anyway. A meaningless death. They were all meaningless deaths.
He feels his will drain away as the drug takes hold. Everything goes fuzzy around the edges. The niggling, scratchy pain from his cut throat fades. And then there's nothing. No feelings. No thoughts. Nothing but sweet silence and the commands of a monster.
Prisoners are brought before him. Not one or two, or ten or twenty. Hundreds of prisoners. Cages full of whimpering terrans or pahht, many are too malnourished to even stand, others rage at their confines, scream insults and threats, or make promises they have no hope of keeping. Some are criminals, some farmers, some shop owners. Some are just children. All are brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, parents. It doesn't matter who they were. They're nothing but fuel to burn now. A voice screams in the back of Josef's mind and it sounds like his own, but he can't really hear it and it doesn't matter. None of it matters.
They're in the lower laboratory with its reinforced walls, cages to the sides, chains on the ground, a wide-open space in the centre. Off to one side stands a single desk, an inkwell and a book sitting upon it. All the Iron Legion's notes on the experimentation are there. His successes, failures, formulae and calculations, numbers. All his research. Josef stands in the centre of the laboratory, waiting for instruction. Thinking nothing. Feeling nothing.
The Iron Legion picks up a small sceptre of plain grey metal. On the end of that sceptre sits a Source the size of an orange, clear and colourless. He moves closer, hands the sceptre to Josef, and goes back to his desk, flipping open his notebook and leafing through the pages. Josef waits. Again, he hears a voice screaming in the back of his mind. A wail of pain maybe? It doesn't matter. It's not his pain. He has no pain.
"Swallow your Biomancy Source now, Yenhelm." Josef obeys without question or hesitation. No thought. Only obedience. He takes the Source from a pocket in his trousers and pops it in his mouth, swallowing hard. The power sits inside his stomach. He can feel it. He can feel… No. There is no feeling. Only the cloying fog in his mind.
"Infuse the Source with their lives, one by one." The Iron Legion scribbles something in his notebook.
Josef turns away from his captor and approaches the first of the cages. It holds a woman of middling years with hair the colour of straw and skin as dark as coal. Her left arm was missing, taken above the elbow, the wound long since closed. Her eyes are full of sorrow and pleading. The voice beyond the fog in Josef's mind screams, but he can't hear it. Not really. And it doesn't matter. He reaches through the bars, grips hold of the woman's ankle, and sucks the life from her. It does not pass quickly, nor easily. She clings to what little life she has left, but in the end her resistance is futile. Josef's Biomancy is far too strong. The life, her energy passes through him and into the sceptre. The Source atop it begins to glow a little, as if lit from inside. It's faint, so much so it's barely perceptible. The screaming voice beyond the fog subsides, but Josef is certain he hears a fa
int sobbing in its place. It doesn't matter. It is not him. It can't be him.
How much was a life worth? A slight glow. A trickle of energy. The first of many. More prisoners are brought before Josef. He takes the life of each one, sucks them out through his Biomancy and pushes them in the sceptre. Into the Source. The sobbing behind the fog grows quieter.
Two hundred and sixteen terrans pass before him. Two hundred and sixteen lives he feeds to the Source. That's the number. The number of terran lives a single Rand is worth. That's what the Iron Legion's calculations have taught him. People with families, hopes, dreams. All gone.
Josef is crying. The sobbing no longer trapped behind the fog. He feels again. Thinks again. When had the Sweet Silence worn off? When had he gone from unable to follow Loran's commands to following without question? Why hadn't he stopped?
Two hundred and sixteen lives, now nothing but corpses littering the cages behind Josef. Why hadn't he stopped? Why hadn't he stopped? The Source is glowing with an inner blue light so strong it hurts to look at. So bright they could snuff out all the torches and still see into every corner of the laboratory. So fierce it looks like a snowstorm caught in a marble.
The Iron Legion makes another note in his book. "Now absorb it, Yenhelm. Take it in and give birth to a new Rand."
Should he fight? Resist. Loran will just kill more. Murder another and force him to do it anyway. It's easier not to struggle. Easier to push down the hate and guilt and grief. Easier to pretend he's still drugged. It's not his choice. Not really. It never was. He has no choice but to do what he's told.
