Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

  John. More time. He needs more time. Quaking fingers took hold of the lengthen pockets sewn into her cloak. A bundle of sticks, like Ymir in his human skin. Only these sticks unfolded to form a longbow, and other bundles unfolded into arrows. Sylver drew the arrow to the cheek, closed one eye for better accuracy.

  Waiting. Ice exploding at her feet. Waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for that one moment of exposure, that one target that would decimate the enemy in one final, swift blow. Waiting. Joozu was turning. Waiting. The bastard’s crimson eyes shifted into focus.

  Now.

  The arrow howled like the winter wind that carried it, screaming as it lanced across the leagues. Howling. Screaming. Crackling.

  Joozu caught the arrow in mid-flight.

  Sylver was stunned. The arrow was supposed to pierce the bastard’s eye, drive through his brain and explode from the back of the skull. And the bastard simply plucked it right out of the sky. Impossible.

  “It is time to end this.” Sylver whirled and gaped. Joozu’s voice, now from a nightmare. His giant’s body was split right down the middle; one half red and the other blue. The face that uttered the ultimatum was not the head. There’s a face in his stomach. Not just in the stomach, she saw, but in both hands and knees as well. There was no weapon on his person; from his size and power, he didn’t need one. Monster.

  “If you tell me where they are, I promise I won’t kill them.”

  An odd sort of courage filled her, the kind of peace one finds in the gallows, the relief that one’s defiance smoldered at the robbing of the executioner’s prize. “No.”

  “Very well then.” All the faces hissed out a noxious gas, and she felt no more.

  “Melly.”

  Papa?

  Her name was Melissa then, a six-year-old girl growing up in a town so old its name was lost to history. But Melissa didn’t care about that, nor did she care that she was the subject of ill repute. Parents hurried their own children along when their paths crossed. Conversations would be cut short at her presence, followed by awkward silences that persisted even in the face of her innocence. The parents’ warning became a common phrase around town. Stay away from Melissa, she’s wrong in the head, else she’ll drag you down with the dead.

  But Melissa didn’t care. Her mother was her best friend, and that was all that mattered. “Look, Mama. I got you your favorite. Twilight irises.” She settled the flowers on the ground. Purple-leaves, fresh and bright, just as Papa described them. “She used to love those irises because they bloomed on her birthday. She used to weave them into her hair. Drove all the boys wild. Drove me wild, too. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

  Melissa smiled. Maybe Papa will weave some irises into my hair. “Then we could be twins, Mama.” The house was a hop, skip and jump away; surely Papa was fast enough to help. I can show Mama before bedtime. The thought pumped her little feet faster.

  But at the house she slowed. There were two voices coming from the open window. One, the deep, gravely bear was Papa, of course. The other was Miss Teacher. But that made no sense. Teachers did not follow you home.

  “It’s been going on for quite some time now,” Miss Teacher was saying. “It’ll get worse the longer it goes on. You have to tell her, Jason.”

  Melissa opened the door just a crack, and poked her head in. “Papa?”

  “Melly. Come here.” The great big bear of a man, shaking at the edge of tears. “Sit on my lap.”

  Melly came slowly. Papa’s face was all wrong. And Miss Teacher wore silly clothes. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, baby, no.” Papa hugged her so tight his beard tickled her face. “No. Never, baby. Never.”

  There was something shiny on Papa’s face. She touched them, and that made Papa shake even more. “Why are you crying, Papa?”

  “Melissa.” Teacher’s hand pressed onto hers. “Your father and I...we’d like to talk to you for a while. Is that okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Melissa, do you remember last week when I told you to draw a picture of your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here.” Teacher gave her a picture. “Can you tell me who these people are?”

  Melissa frowned a bit. “This is the Papa.” Her finger rested on the funny-looking man, then moved down the line of succession. “The boy, the girl, the dog...” The frown tightened on the final figure. “An older girl?”

  “No, Melly.” Papa whispered. “That’s the Mama.”

  Melissa frowned. “That’s not the Mama.”

  Papa looked sick. “Oh Melly,” he whispered over and over. “My sweet, sweet Melly.”

  “Melissa.” Teacher gave her another picture. “This is the picture you drew. Can you tell us where your Mama is?”

  Now Melissa was worried. She marked the figures’ names below their feet. Maybe Teacher’s eyes hurt.

  “Please, Melissa,” Teacher said again. “Where is your Mama?”

  “Her.” Melissa pointed right at her. “That’s Mama.”

  Teacher looked like a painful sneeze, and her voice was barely a whisper. “Melissa, that’s not your Mama. That’s a grave.”

  “No. That’s my Mama.”

  “Melly.” Papa brought lifted her up, so they could meet face-to-face. He hadn’t done that before. “Melly, it’s time we talked about your Mama.”

  ***

  Sylver woke up crying. Mama. The ache in her heart burned as hot as it always been. Hot for the memory of her child-like inclination to believe a headstone was a human being, and that the fantasy was the only reprieve from her mother’s dying. Worst of all was the small part that wanted to go back into that delusion. But I can’t go back. I can never go back.

  “Hey there now.” Raptor was holding her. “I wouldn’t move, if I were you. You’re pretty banged up.”

  Evidently. She felt like one big sore...that was lit on fire. She hated that she needed Raptor to lean on as a makeshift splint, but there wasn’t anything to do about it. “Where’s Orson?”

  “Over there, fuming.” Once the rangers reached him they knew why. At first the dismembered corpses were too blood-stained to identify correctly. Then the eye came upon the head and there was no mistaking it. Ymir and Joozu. Their eyes were so wide with fear that Sylver braved a smile. They died the cowards they were.

  “We woke up to find this,” Orson growled. Obviously, he felt cheated; it was not his sword that slew the monsters. “Whoever did this was strong enough to kill them without a fight. Who the hell is that strong?”

  Sylver wasn’t one to deduce victories, no matter how mysterious it was. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get to civilization.”

  ??? Date

  ??? Space

  ??? Realm

  Aeon strolled through the gardens with a vulpine cast to her face. Oh, she knew it wasn’t a real garden. This place between seconds was made of a malleable substance, taking shape according to the occupant’s desire. A slight wind tickled the dandelions at her feet, scattering the white fuzz to the sky. Dandelions were always her favorite –

  The vision stopped Aeon dead in her tracks. The visions were fragmented, forced her down to one knee. Arctic cold flooded her mind. Dead? Ymir, dead? Impossible. The second shudder jarred her from head to toe. Both of them. Both of them, dead? How could both be dead? Those pathetic rangers were endem! Stromgald was the only one with enough power to wound them, however so slightly. And he was leagues from the battle! How could three worthless endem kill two Lynx?

  “They had help.”

  Aeon’s hair flashed raven’s bl
ack. No. Impossible. Yet there Sutyr was, pacing about. Or was this a trick of the mind to encourage fear? It will not work, Aeon resolved. She surprised herself that she was not running like a crazed banshee. Perhaps that would make the difference. Sutyr hated cowards in his ranks.

  “Did I not make my orders clear, Aeon?” A single finger traced a line from one cheek to the other like a caress. Aeon fought the urge to gag. “Do you have nothing to say?”

  “Your orders were to take the boy alive, Sutyr.”

  “Yes. Yes, they were.” Suddenly he was in front of her, a clawed hand emerging from the billowing smoke-cloak to grip Aeon’s chin, observing the angles of her face much in the manner of a master jeweler observing a diamond. “So why did I have to kill two perfectly good Lynx?”

  What? Her head spun. Why did he have to kill...? The revelation hammered into her. Sutyr killed them? Sutyr personally descended to the mortal world and killed Ymir and Joozu? The knowledge swirled in her gut with a sickening lurch. Sutyr had dealt the deathblow himself, instead of sending a vassal to do so in his place.

  The bastard’s grip tightened suddenly, forcing Aeon to meet the empty space where the eyes were supposed to be. “This lack of discipline cannot be tolerated. You are removed from this task.” A gesture of the other hand and a black choker materialized around her throat. Aeon barely had time to struggle as the choker clasped together with surgical precision.

  “You will remain,” Sutyr’s voice whispered; his physical form having already disappeared. “You will do so until such time I decide you’re worth fucking.”

  With the silence, the chamber changed. Everything melted into blackness, save for a cone of light blazing on Aeon’s form. Room Of Eternal Dark, the servants called it. Few who entered failed to return, and those who did were...lesser...than they were before. Broken, somehow. No. They were weak. Pitiful. I will not submit.

  At least there was one positive note to this. Something about those five mortals held significant attention to the great and mighty Sutyr. They would have to be watched. Very, very carefully.

  VI

  The night grew darker, straining against the snow-veil, battling as if this were a duel. White would give in to flashes of black, mist would dissolve to barely visible pinpricks, and black would shrink against the swirling snow as it collected back to normal, as if it had never been touched. Finally, the path branched into twin holes of darkness, rimmed by purple twilight that was quickly dying out and divided by one of the Cerulean’s thicker streams. Without hesitation Stromgald veered towards the eastern path, which was appropriate because that was the right path. Then why did Stromgald stop?

  Stromgald answered by pointing towards the eastern path. A growing drone, and then a list of torch-light, blurred against the thin wall of trees barricading the Cerulean. Neither one so much as breathed. Even the horses stilled as though they knew the icy fingers that crept over the night.

  Torchlight cut away shadow to reveal misshapen figures of nightmare marching in tune to a drone only slightly akin to the tattoo of a marching drum. The first wore darkness as a skin, thick and crusty like as a segmented insect’s save for its eyes, slits of green fire radiating malice. Dots of green stars from here, but there was no mistaking it. Its blue-black cloak flowed behind in a torn banner, shimmering sickly in the haloed torchlight. Myrrh. Mykel fought the impulse to shirk in his saddle as the Myrrh tilted its head towards them. Even as specks the malice was sharper than daggers.

  The beasts trailing behind it were the stuff of nightmares. Snouts and fangs and forked tongues alike marked versi, glinting in time with the weapons they hefted, themselves bobbing and shifting with light. Numbness washed over Mykel as he realized they walked in perfect unison, and their eyes were shrouded in wells of shadow. Behind them roamed black beast-dogs stumbling over one another to keep up with the rest of the pack. Halfway down the road there was a growl, a yelp and something tearing, ripping the night silence. When the last beast disappeared, there was blood trailing a faint, jagged path behind it.

  Mykel released a breath he didn’t know he held. “What...” He closed his mouth and tried again. “Fifteen. Fifteen ranks.” Lips worked frantically in the silence. “They’re not supposed to be here!”

  “No.” Stromgald stared after the column for a moment. “They should not. This is no place for a nest. Versi aren’t migrating beasts.” He answered Mykel’s confused look. “They stay at their nest until they are ordered.” His mount danced a few steps; Stromgald seemed indifferent to the motion. “We will have to destroy the nest. Now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because otherwise they’ll start hunting the surrounding villages. How long do you think the villagers will last?”

  It took an iron will for Mykel to repress the cold. “Wait. I know this road. There’s a village called Shiva not too far. Maybe we should go and get reinforcements.”

  “No time. It’ll take days to rouse up some defense. If they believe us at all. The people will panic at the first sign of trouble. The leaders will cry neutral quarter and run with their tails between their legs. Don’t worry. Sylver and the others will take care of them.”

  Mykel blinked. “How do you know they’re even alive?”

  “I know.” The way he said it infected the librarian. They had to be alive. They were alive. Just as they had to live. Sylver is going to kick my ass if I let him die.

  Stromgald led the librarian down a bend that no map showed, through roads that rose and fell along the curves of hills. The rivers of the Cerulean was a cragged finger guiding them along the path ending at an island, wavering between remote and isolated depending on the tide. Now, it was the latter. Even if the tide were out, the quasi-island was separated from the demon nest by a couple hundred yards. Not the ideal way to enter the demons’ den. Then again, nothing seemed ideal to Mykel tonight.

  “Why are we here again?” Mykel asked, huddling within his cloak.

  “I have an intricate number of informants spread over the world, each one with their assorted talents. Mostly they provide me with information. Sometimes I am involved with a task I need help with. Such as being ferried through a particularly dangerous stretch of river to an equally dangerous chain of islands.”

  “The Jade Arc?”

  “Exactly.”

  “One of your informants will guide us to the island?”

  “Once the tide withdraws.”

  What John forgot to mention was the fact that it would be hours before the tide retreated. Mykel stared at him venomously through the paltry shelter of his cloak. The least the man could do was to appear cold. But no. He stood indifferent to the winter chill as though made of stone. Mykel pulled his cloak tighter and focused on keeping his teeth from chattering.

  “He is late.” The librarian twitched. It had been so long Mykel thought John was sleeping standing up. “Come.” Mykel limped after him, awkwardly rubbing life into his thighs. He’s being standing for hours. How can he move?

  They stopped at the edge of the threaded path, now glittering with various shells and minerals. The water lapped at their heels, but of course Stromgald was unaffected, sweeping his gaze across the horizon with hard, dissecting eyes. “There.” There wasn’t anything different about the patch of shadow from all the other patches of shadow in this god-forsaken night, but the librarian followed anyway.

  The pair came across a line of cairns. Mykel recognized the severed heads easily, most likely made so for the little space available in land so close to the water. A small marker was placed at each, though made of twigs and flattened by the winter wind. Twelve males, six females. The foremost stone in each cairn had the bearer’s name scratched into it, most likely by fingernail or sharpened flint.

  Near the cent
er of the isle the pair found a blackened tree twisting skyward in an image of sheer agony. Laboring alongside the tree was a man ankle-deep in the water. He would stare at the eddying stream for long moments and delicately pull from it a fist-sized stone, which made the three-step journey to the shuffled dirt where the severed heads lay in wait. The headless corpses were stacked against one side of the tree, right next to the bloody axe used in the decapitation.

  “I know you’re there. You might as well come and get it over with.” Pale moonlight illuminated the stranger’s angular face, topped with needle-point hair, piercing eyes and prominent cheekbones. “Funny. You don’t look like executioners.”

  Stromgald frowned. “Where is Eddard?”

  “Hell, I hope. The bastard stole my ship.”

  “Ah. You would be Mathias Tolrep, the privateer.”

  Tolrep gave out a hearty laugh. “From Eddard’s description, you have to be John Stromgald.” The privateer squinted before adding, “I always figured you to be taller.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I bet you do.” The hawk-sharp eyes shifted onto the librarian. “As for you...”

  “Mykel. Mykel LeKym.”

  “Okay. Myke...”

  “It’s Mykel,” the librarian corrected. Then a glint of silver caught his eye. “Is that...are those flintlocks?”

  “The one and only. Specially customized. Everything is internal on these babies. No matches, no smell, nothing. Best part? Doesn’t blow your fingers off.”

  Stromgald coughed. “You said you were abandoned?”

  Tolrep looked at one to the other and sighed. “Don’t be giving me the glare. I’m a privateer, not a thief.” After a moment Tolrep rolled his eyes. “Look. Can’t we put aside all this misgiving until later?”

  “What I’m wondering is why you’re here at all.” Mykel shrugged at Stromgald’s glance. “He can’t be a very good guide if his ship got stolen.”