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

by Michael Wolff

  “Oh, do you? What is it?”

  “Argus.” Mykel frowned at the confusion knotting the ranger’s brow. “You know, Argus. Faithful guardian of Hera.” Nothing. Tolrep massaged his sinuses. “Assigned to keep watch over the maiden Io, who was changed to a cow by Zeus, king of the gods?” Still nothing. “How can you not know these things? What do they teach you in school?” Stromgald’s sharp gaze dared both librarian and privateer to continue the debate, and the counter should they be stupid enough to pursue the argument. “Look. In the myths, he was a guardian. Obviously, he’s here to guard the eggs. If we can destroy him, it’s an easy path to the Queen.”

  “How would we accomplish that task?”

  “Quite easily, if I remember the legends correctly.”

  Tolrep shot a look at the librarian. “You sure you got the chops for this, Myke? This isn’t going to be a bedtime story.”

  “Just trust me. Stay hidden, but close to it. Don’t attack until I say so.”

  Stromgald chuckled. “You are made from stronger stock than I thought. Very well. Work your magic.”

  Mykel took a seat on a moderately-sized boulder and gestured the giant to do the same. The world shook as the giant took to a chair-like substance. Odd, that he oversaw the egg’s protection, and now not to give so much of a glance at the young he had tied to his charge. Then again, when one is a monster, not much was needed to rouse one’s ire.

  Here we go. “In the kitchen of the Hornless Bull...”

  Mykel went on and on. His voice was monotone, dragging every inch of boredom from the words. He talked about how some peach trees often die out in the summer, while pineapple trees flourished. Did you know that the peach and pineapple shared a common tree, while the blueberry and raspberry are resilient in cold climates? From the crystals that survived the hot rage of a volcano, to the fact that one of the greatest composers from ages past was deaf, Mykel droned on.

  And on.

  And on.

  And on.

  Finally, Argus’ hundred eyes closed. Stromgald emerged from the dark and with one mighty blow clove the beast’s head right down to the bulbous, orange-gold neck.

  “Impressive.”

  “Nice job Myke. I was about to fall asleep myself.” Tolrep squeezed his eyes shut and growled. “That didn’t come out right. I haven’t heard that boring a story in years...you know what? Forget everything I just said.”

  Mykel shrugged. “I was just following the stories of Hermes. Ancient deity from the Greek culture,” the librarian answered the ranger’s confusion. “I’m just glad it’s over.” Then why was Stromgald’s face still tight with unease? Why were Tolrep’s fingers itching at the hilts of his flintlocks? The threat was over...unless of course the danger was not yet gone. Unless this was the prelude of horrors yet to come.

  There was a chorus of squishes, echoing across the chamber like a massive bullfrog unleashing its trumpet of a belch. Only now it wasn’t a bullfrog. It was the eggs. Gods be damned, it was the eggs.

  They peeled back like the skin of a banana, black bubbles gurgling to the surface. Ebon hands shot forth to aid the destruction of its womb. A sudden hand on its shoulder spun Mykel with both khatars clicking to life. The same hand seemed to appear out of nowhere to dismiss the weapons with an almost casual gesture. The trio locked gazes, carrying out a message from veteran to greenling. Follow me. Stromgald led them back to the safety of the azure fire. Hidden within the blue shadows, the trio froze in horror.

  The fledgling demons destroyed the last of their flimsy wombs. They looked harmless, lacking the spikes and talons and even the burning red slits that housed their constant, predatory rage. Mykel was not gulled at the least. No animal was without savagery in the game of survival. The next few moments blurred into an eternity, with the demons describing just how savage they were.

  They came in waves, forms shifting like wet clay even as they launched to the attack. A monstrous wolf with dagger-like teeth twisted into a gigantic fox with nine tails blazing hellfire. A bloodthirsty ape with red eyes glinting tore and devoured the eye sockets of a rancor. Ifirit caught a massive medusa’s head across the face, ripping the misshapen beast into misshapen halves. And still more came.

  Ifirit’s joyful screech broke through Mykel’s lips in maniacal laughter. There was heat in the librarian, a raw pleasure searing reason to ashes. Yellowed tomes described the warrior’s trance, but the written word paled against the thrilling experience. Mykel was not the straw-armed cripple. He was the hero, defender of right, valiant and noble, a sentinel of justice.

  The versi shrank away in fear, for they knew him to be death personified. Ifirit danced to the rhythm of steel piercing flesh, the song of the ravens’ wings beating the wind, the cries of vultures circling above, waiting for the chance for dinner. Suddenly there were no more versi, and the red haze of a berserker’s madness shrank until the world returned to its native shades.

  “Damn.” Mykel had to work his dry mouth to speak. “What the hell just happened?”

  Stromgald chuckled. “Newborn versi are formless. They feed off the fear of their victims to transform. It is not uncommon for versi to take months’ time to achieve its final form.”

  “Oh.” Acidly he said, “Are there any more surprises you’ve yet to tell me?”

  “Trust me Myke.” Tolrep said while wiping his weapons clean. “If we told you everything going about this, you’d never get a night’s sleep again.”

  Great. Just great. Still, Mykel had to admit there was courage in him he thought not to exist at all. I will stay alive. Not just for that goal alone. He had to prove himself worthy of being an ally, had to prove to Stromgald and Tolrep, that there was something under the surface of the awkward librarian, then prove himself to Lazarus. The catechism rolled in his head, over and over.

  If they can do it, so can I.

  VIII

  “I’ve told you before, sir. The Slayers have been ordered to the cavern. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Orson worked his fingers from balling into a fist. It might not be home, but the Northlands embassy was the haven of every Northborn in Shiva. Briefly Orson dwelled on the act of tossing this buffoon on his ear. A man who could not recognize his own brethren was not a man at all.

  Progress was humiliatingly slow. It took five-and-thirty minutes of convincing the green squires that no, they weren’t phantoms disguised as men. Orson took in one last breath of the winter air before marching into the council’s donjon. His only hope was that the elders were in high spirits.

  They were not in high spirits.

  For the council, it was bow and flourish, and probably more for the satisfaction than for tradition. Orson never learned this weakness, and so matched the gazes of the elders. It gave a few moments for weighing the scales.

  The first shock were the glimmers at face and arm and chin, chest and finger, and everything in-between. Shiisaa. It was an open secret that the Northborn elders were of Weirwynd stock, but never had this secret shown so brazenly.

  “We have been summoned by a child.” The celsius, Alexander Lume. His Frost-white gauntlets were named the Snowflakes, and they were said to freeze any opponent with but a single touch.

  “Not just any child. Do you not remember? The Antas Incident. The fall of Hefrat.”

  “You have some nerve to show your face here, son of Hefrat. We thought it clear that you would never again return to our village.”

  William and Wesley Tarnoff. Twins born on the day of the summer solstice. Enshou, a rarity amidst the northern people...and a curse, as well. Tossed into an abyss as infants, the twins grew to manhood within the hellish labyrinth. When they reached the age of adulthood the pair clawe
d their way back to the summit of their former home. Those who still remembered the abominations pissed and shat their pants at one and the same time.

  The Northborn had a right to be afraid. The enshou twins could have just razed the village to the ground, but they decided mercy. Now every Northborn child shivered at the thought of the fiery rag across William’s brow, and the soul-searing eyes that it hid. Perhaps even greater fear was wrung from Wesley and the crimson scarf at his neck. The stories said that when the matter was dire Wesley ripped the scarf away to unleash a dragon’s breath upon his enemies. Thus, the enshou enjoyed a comfortable stalemate with the council.

  “You should have stayed under the rock you were hiding, little man. Manhood cannot mend the crimes you committed.”

  Cyril de Indall. Born of the seventh month of Dryad, on the seventh day of Luna, on the seventh year of the Amden calendar. Cyril showed a very strong affinity for Geo, though he knew nothing of his heritage until the Dynan Mine incident. The titanic strength of his Geo-blessed magic saved his fellow miners from the mine’s collapse after years of neglect. “State your business, son of Hefrat. Be quick so we do not have to lay sight upon you again.”

  Orson took a deep breath. “I have come to save you all.”

  For a moment, silence. Then laughter. Booming, exploding, rib-clutching laughter. William toppled over his chair to rattle breath from wrinkled lips, growing fainter and fainter with each laugh, until the enshou was still. Only Wesley noticed, and even for him, it was barely worth a glance. Snoring bubbled up to claim the laughter. William was asleep, not dead.

  Orson’s face reddened at his helplessness. He could kill these fools in an eye-blink. Only the death of six elders would bring every inch of steel to wait for the inevitable slaughter outside the council chamber. He worked fingers until the laughter faded from the council, until they ceased curling into claws all their own.

  “Prey tell what exactly are you saving us from?” Wesley’s eyes boiled with simmering heat, catching the party’s gazes and holding them as though immersed in paralyzing molasses. Orson had to work enough spit to answer.

  “There’s a Versi nest outside the town –”

  “We know this. Scouts have been giving us daily reports of its inactivity. The Slayers had been dispatched.”

  So, the scrawny runt of a guard told the truth. Orson almost felt a twinge of guilt. Almost. “There’s a Queen in that nest.”

  “And how would you know, boy?”

  “My comrade is a jord. He does his magic thing, and I do the killing.”

  “I see. And where is this comrade now?”

  “In the nest.” The silence delivered an icy revelation. “It’s your nest, isn’t it? Your god-damn ritual. Something to justify your own superiority.”

  “It was a rite that you abandoned, boy. You have no leave to speak on such matters.”

  “I abandoned it because I got tired of seeing my friends be consumed by a threat you created.”

  “It is the path our people have walked for three hundred years. Your disgust will do nothing to change it.”

  I’ll kill you all. “There are fifteen ranks of Versi coming right behind us. Heading straight here. You have to arm yourselves.”

  “Our scouts have received no such warning.”

  Orson ground his teeth so hard that it echoed like thunder. “Did it not occur to you that they might be dead? It’s a Queen. It’s her nest, her children coming after you. They are her extension into the world. Have any of you even pondered this possibility?”

  “Your words mean nothing.”

  As though the word was a cue the walls suddenly rippled outward, and when all was still the elders were gone. This visit has ended. Just like that. Smug bastards hadn’t changed a bit. Orson didn’t speak of the council’s implications. Not until they reached the inn, and even then, the Northborn warrior was hesitant. But the other two weren’t going to let it go, not with Stromgald’s life at stake.

  “The Northlands are a savage place. Nature is against you. You never know when a hailstorm will strike. Avalanches can chase you down the mountain from a mere whisper. A Northborn must be strong if he hopes to survive.” Orson’s eyes squeezed tight against the tears leaking down his cheeks. “That is what the Demon’s Gauntlet is for.”

  A deep breath allowed him a moment’s respite against the sadness of summoned memories. “To become a man in the eyes of one’s peers, young boys are sent into what is called the hal’ch’ronga. The Spawning Ground. If the boy can fight his way into the cavern’s headstone and come back alive, then the boy is recognized as a man.

  “The rite’s dark little secret...the reason why I left in the first place...is that the ritual contains the breeding and distribution of versi.”

  “What?” In Sylver’s face the northern ranger saw the horrible shock that put him to his knees when his friend Nosro came back ruined. The top of his skull had been sliced open, his exposed brains jiggling with each step. Blood leaked down from the stump a man’s arm should have been. Sharp claws had plucked and then ripped free his right eye. They bathed him in flame once he died. Raptor’s sudden words tore through the trance.

  “Hmm? What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what?’ How is this even possible?”

  “Certain men known as the Hunters capture and bring the demons from a small nest burrowed deep into the mountainside. They dump the versi into the warmest cavern they could find and send the boys to become men.

  “I ran because I got tired of watching my friends go into that gullet and never came back. I stole my father’s steel and ran until I couldn’t run anymore. That is why they think me a traitor.”

  Cold, frigid silence hung in the air, final and terrible as a child dead in the womb. Orson’s words roamed about aimlessly, denied the story from which they sprang, until belief wormed their way about the heart. “Who are the Slayers?” Raptor asked.

  “They’re the elite. They’re the ones the elders send out if the versi population exceeds normal expectations. They purge the whole cavern so there are no survivors.”

  “By the gods...John is still in there!”

  “Don’t worry, Sylver. The Boss can take care of himself. Hell, there’s been a lot deeper tangles than this stupid ceremony. No offense.”

  Orson shrugged. “None taken.”

  “So, what do we do now? Councils take their time deciding stuff. Say! You think they serve Winter’s Nip here? It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent beer.”

  Sylver pinned Raptor with a glare. “With everything going on, you think of beer? How can you be thirsty at a time like this?”

  Orson grabbed Sylver’s shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “There’s nothing we can do, Sylver. Torturing yourself with “what ifs” will drive you mad. We did as Stromgald commanded. Now we must trust him to handle the situation. He always does.”

  Both rangers stared at Orson. The Northborn were not known for having a tender, caring side. After a moment Raptor cleared his head and smiled. “Now that that’s settled, how about that embassy?”

  “You go.” Orson said. “I have...I have something important to do.” And he left before either of them could utter a protest.

  Raptor was right, much as Orson hated to admit it. The Council had been alerted for hours now. Orson fumed that it would be hours still when they decided the necessity of seeing him. If they got that far. He had been a thorn in many a side growing up, and now those self-same victims were in power, carrying their grudges as though they happened yesterday. Though Orson would trade all the hours of rambling speeches if it meant not doing this enormous task.

  In the end, the choice was made for him. As he fough
t the paranoia an elderly man came from the small, squat house and started around the bend where the deer meat was smoked. A flicker of a glance stopped him in his tracks. Wrinkled hands fumbled for eye-glasses, followed by a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Orson Zephyr.”

  “Thomas Haley.” They met halfway and shook hands. Orson smiled to hide his shock. Haley was old. His face was all creases and folds, and spotted with an army of small dark blotches. The bones of his hands stood out in stark relief, the flesh too thin to contain them.

  “Yes.”

  Orson blinked. “What?”

  “Yes, I’m old. Ten years does that to a man.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that –”

  “Come come, lad. You’re too old for excuses. Why don’t you come in?”

  The thought froze all the hair on Orson’s nape. “Is she...”

  “No lad. She’s at the cemetery. She’ll be there for a while.”

  The cemetery. Orson felt a stab of guilt straight through the heart. I should be there. He’d tried, many times. The graveyard gates were as far as he’d gotten. His boots wouldn’t obey save to turn and walk away.

  The chink of chinaware brought Orson’s gaze to Haley cradling a white plate in each wrinkled hand. “Let me –”

  “Shush boy. The day I can’t handle my own plates is the day they put me six feet under.” Which wasn’t far off, if his shaking hands were any indication.

  “So, tell me boy. What have you been doing all these years?”

  Orson grunted. What hadn’t happened, was the real question. Orson sketched a story while treating himself to the meats and cheeses Haley provided. “I was in this desert called Nublos. Don’t ask; I don’t know either. I was escorting this family who’d escaped from somewhere...”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t need to know.” Orson gritted his teeth. Dammit! How was it that a wrinkled old man could make him doubt the things he’d dismissed without a second thought?