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

by Michael Wolff

  Orson buried his disgust with the enormous task unfinished. There were still the hundreds of versi to face. Mortals were too weak of stock to handle the violent bloodlust of Versi. It would have made the higher demons laugh even to think upon it. The other rangers shared his grimace. They slipped away from the celebration. There was sleep to catch, and the night was not young.

  X

  If they can do it, then so can I.

  Little had changed. One moment the ground was smooth as an artisan’s polishing, the next moment the flat plain became a ramp, cracked and jagged as though exposed to the elements for centuries. There were chambers that could easily fit a legion of castles, spire by spire. There were chambers so small only an earthworm could squeeze through. Looking down, Mykel fervently wished it was castles lined in a grid. Or cathedrals. Or the full population of Amden’s people. Anything other than the horrific sight burning into his eyes.

  The eggs. Another chamber of versi eggs. As far as the eye could see, in neat little rows. They even pulsed in rhythm. “John. John!”

  “Calm down.”

  “How are we going to defeat these things? There must be thousands of eggs.”

  “Tens of thousands,” the Weirwynd ranger corrected. Like this was merely a stroll through the market. How can he be so casual about this? “Don’t worry, Mykel. The Queen is tied to her children. She dies, and her children will die.”

  “Easier said than done.” Tolrep scratched his head. “It’s said no one’s ever successfully killed a Queen.”

  Mykel swallowed and got a mouthful of dust for his troubles. “That’s just an old wives’ tale. Right, John? Just a bedtime story.”

  “That is not the truth.”

  “Good.”

  “No one’s actually lived after killing a Queen. They all died of their wounds.”

  “Oh, great. I’m going to be the human sacrifice. Thank you ever so much.”

  “Stop being so gloomy. It’s depressing.”

  Tolrep rolled his eyes. “While this is all very interesting, am I the only one who knows we’re being watched?”

  “I was just getting to that,” Stromgald snorted.

  Okay. This was getting old. “Watched? What are you talking about?”

  Stromgald ignored the plea. “We know you’re there.”

  Mykel frowned. “Well, of course I’m here. Have you gone blind?”

  “Not you. Them.”

  “Them who?”

  “Us.” A cadre of men pursued the voice, following Stromgald in finding a seat. Safe in his silence, Mykel analyzed the new arrivals in time with their introduction.

  “I am Leon Gai of the Bloodline Gai. Elite of the Slayers.” A giant bear of a man; in the torch-light his red beard and mustache seemed ablaze. His jovial eyes seemed to take pleasure and amusement from the most menial of tasks, which suggested him to be a man of great appetites. His weapon was a quarterstaff, though the ends were wrought to mimic a snake’s head about to strike. Mykel could have sworn the lidless eyes were matching him stride for stride. Manna. What did you expect, LeKym? Slay the dragon without magic? Ludicrous. As ludicrous as one wanting to kill a near-immortal creature.

  “This is Richter.” Tall and stocky, with flesh white as pearl, almost as pale as his hair. His black attire only enhanced the specifics. His arms seemed too long from the rest of his body, and clutched within his abnormally long fingers was the hilt of a longsword sharp enough and more to cleave a man in twain. There was no doubt about the last; his eyes were deep pools of frozen blue. Here was a man that enjoyed his profession a little too much.

  “Trevor.” Another long-limbed man. Donned with the fur-cloak and wolf’s pelt-legging of the northern country, Trevor burned a hole in the horizon with his needle-tipped glare. A whip was coiled over the right shoulder, its diamond hardened head nestled in the middle of the coiling.

  “Simon.”

  At first the librarian thought it was a child that met his gaze. No, not a child. Only hunched like a child to better imitate a disarming innocence. Those eyes told the weariness of a life deep of pain and loss. The wide-bladed short-sword at his hip was smooth from years of use. From out of the dark he pulled a second blade. With keen skill Simon twirled both in such a way that it looked like the blades would slice through finger and bone, yet like magic the blades passed through like mist.

  “John Stromgald. Mykel LeKym. Mathias Tolrep.”

  “A pleasure.” Richter’s eyes said otherwise, but Mykel pulled away just in time. “I must confess my surprise that you are here. Very few are able to navigate these paths with the skin still on their bones.”

  “I am a ranger,” replied Stromgald. From there the tale wound itself out. Everything from Mykel’s meeting to the fire that destroyed the Red Boar Inn, to the flight that night to Mykel’s finding the fifteen ranks, and finally how they came to be here. Mykel sighed as though he had been the one telling. The relief of that monstrous burden lifting the librarian’s shoulders was overdue, and he would not break way for the pointed glares surrounding him.

  “It is a fine tale,” said Richter. The rest agreed with solemn nods. “Still you should not be here. This is no place for outsiders.”

  “This is not a place for any man, native or no. Seven men are better than four. It is in our best interest to join forces.”

  “You would just be a burden –” Trevor’s words died on his tongue as suddenly the silver katana came out in a short but skillful display; by the speed it was difficult to see where the fingers ended and the blade began. Low whistles echoed off the walls at the display’s finish. “What about him?”

  Fear straightened the librarian. Idly he wondered if it were possible for a man to die of fear. Under hawk’s eyes, to boot. Slowly his mind turned scraps of yellowed tome, piecing together a display that was neither fact nor fancy, but a half-hazard melding of the two. Mykel could not count how many times he’d been on the verge of collapsing. Soon the librarian vainly wished he would fail. Anything to be free from the Slayers’ hawkish gaze.

  When at last the kata was spent, Mykel’s arms dangled at his sides, limp and useless. He had not the strength to stand. Instead he poured all the might he had into braving the demon-slayers’ gazes.

  “He might get us killed.” Trevor.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Leon. “He’s got great potential.”

  “He’s still a burden.” Trevor again.

  “Weren’t all you were, when we first met?” Simon asked. “You were risks too, but you proved your valor time and again. Stromgald. Can you vouch for this boy?”

  “I’m not a boy,” Mykel said before he could pull the words back. Anger lent him strength. “I’m not a sack of wheat to be tossed on a whim. I made it this far, didn’t I? I’ll finish this with you or without you.”

  “A firebrand.” Trevor laughed. “What about you, privateer captain? Will you not display your skill?”

  “No.” Surprisingly a dark cloud passed over Tolrep’s face. Trevor shied away in fear. “I’m not a monkey playing with cymbals.”

  Leon nodded. “Now, let’s move out.”

  Mykel shivered; the firebrand fading to give way to abrupt, paralyzing terror. “What have I done? I can’t...I can’t breathe...” Suddenly there was a hand upside his head, angrily pulling him to Tolrep. “What the hell was that for?”

  “You are dumber than a beached cow, you know that?” Stromgald fell back to join the two. “Stay at my side. I’ll need you two to guard my back.”

  “You don’t trust them either.”

  Mykel was rewarded with a rare look of shock. “You have skillful eyes.”

 
“Not really. They are men with power. Those who have power are usually corrupted by it. The greatest the corruption, the greater their need to hoard it, and the greater the suspicion grows.” Mykel shrugged. “Classic case of paranoia.”

  Tolrep barked a laugh. “Impressive. You might not die after all.”

  Oh, that’s real encouraging. Mykel quickened his pace. There was greater strength in numbers, a sage once said. When he wasn’t drunk. Which was all the time. Oh, shut it and get moving.

  Light both of torch and eldritch flame led them into a strange chamber. Here a glass-like dome amplified the moonlight till ethereal dust sparkled like fireflies; the light blazing as though the moon was pressed against the dome. Sorcery, the librarian concluded. A glance at John confirmed the notion, who then relayed it to the demon-slayers. Solemn nods all around, though the ranger betrayed a flicker of suspicion. At least I’m not the only one afraid. Lazarus’ words chimed in his head. Fear is a part of every man. It is merely a phantom. Let it pass through you. It is only powerful if you lend it strength.

  Mykel denied the fear any sort of surrender, and suddenly the versi plunged from the shadows for murder. Pain flashed across his ribs. A spin brought him face-to-face with a grotesque green hound with a siren’s body fused at the waist to the monster’s tail.

  Diplocephalus.

  Mykel rolled to evade the clamping fangs that would have bitten his head off. How he came to his feet without stumbling he didn’t know. As he came up he aimed a savage kick to the creature’s snout, allowing Ifirit to plunge deep into its’ head, cleaving it to the jaw. Twin roars pierced the air, one shrill and one howl, as the beast crumpled. Mykel was vaguely surprised his was the one not shrill.

  Instinct prickled goose-flesh on his neck. A woman bared to the waist smiled seductively, though the giant rose that was her lower body negated her charms. Mykel ducked under the poisonous barb from her fingers. Ifirit slashed across the rose, and the monster writhed and screamed, decaying until only a charred rose petal remained.

  The librarian turned at a bestial growl to see a giant warg coming straight at him. Somehow Mykel crossed the divide in one bound. A downward slash caught the beast by the snout, but the angle was wrong, the landing was wrong. The blade only sliced tendons instead of hewing the bone. Mykel gave a growl as his ankle twisted under him and he fell to the ground with a thump. The warg’s fangs sped towards him, only to have blood gurgle from the throat. Ifirit ripped free from the deathblow, wet and hot and laughing. The beast’s unnatural haste had been its doom.

  And suddenly Mykel was alone. By the gods. Mykel collapsed, boneless. I’m alive. Such as it could be called. It was as if he was a dying ember of fire; any moment now a sharp gust of wind might come and blow him out. The battle remained thick in his head, a haze of blood and heat and steel. And fear. The books talked of many things, but not that. Not the great dragon of fear, rearing its maw to bath the unwary in yellow flame, flame that slid smooth as it strangled courage and life away. Nowhere did he feel the sweeping kind of fire that the books talked of. As a matter of fact, there was a great deal of things the books conveniently forgotten to mention. Funny, that.

  Everyone was alive despite the damning horror of nightmares given flesh. Mykel could have sworn he saw John winking at him. We just cleared a battlefield and he’s winking? Tolrep was eyeing him with a new respect. I’m not an apprentice to be judged. On the other hand, both ranger and privateer had been warriors since Mykel had been biting ankles. The wink and analysis were both compliment and warning. Don’t get too cocky.

  Minutes later they arrived at a three-forked path. The silence added an ominous feeling to the air, as did the hollow darkness that was the path’s mouths. Mykel had to fight down his imagination of the horrors lying in wait.

  “Three guys, three paths.” Tolrep said. “Looks to me we’ve got an easy choice. Here.” Tolrep turned to Mykel, balled his fist and shook it in time of chanting backwards from three and then thrusting his fist between the air between them. “You’re supposed to make a move.”

  “Make a move on what?”

  “You know, Rock, Paper, Scissors.” Tolrep peered at the librarian as though seeing him for the first time. “It’s a game. Don’t tell me you don’t know what Rock Paper and Scissors are. He doesn’t know Rock Paper and Scissors,” he said to Stromgald before returning Mykel’s gaze. “What rock have you been living under? How...Never mind. I’ll teach it to you.”

  “Okay.” Mykel couldn’t see the purpose of playing a game during all this danger, but if it hurried things along...“Why does Paper beat Rock?”

  “Paper covers Rock.”

  “So? How does that make sense? Covering a rock doesn’t do anything.”

  “Look I didn’t make the rules, all right? Now just do the way I showed you, okay? Good. On three. One, two, three!” Tolrep smiled. “I knew you’d go for Scissors. Take the right path.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the deal. You pick the side, play the game, and make the choice depending on you won or lost.”

  “Oh. So, it’s a bet.”

  “Sort of.” With uncanny deftness Tolrep fashioned a torch from flint, rags and an impossibly lucky find of petrified wood. “It’s not perfect, but it should serve. Since you lost, you go that way. If you find something, come back here. Stromgald, you do know the principle of the game, right?”

  The last of the words were lost on the librarian. The torch cast golden shadows upon a corridor that snaked this way and that. The path was dotted with sharp wedges of stone that bore an eerie resemblance to a dragon’s fangs. Stop that. This is important. Focus. A flicker to the ceiling revealed no sign of bats or other animals, and yet the hairs of Mykel’s nape froze. The versi seemed made from the darkness. They could be here right now, waiting eagerly to strike. Stop it. If they can do this, then so can I.

  Strange, though. The further Mykel ventured, the less he believed the cavern was molded by nature. Granted, the place had been twisted by manna for ages. It was natural to see moonlight stream in from invisible windows, or walls to suddenly shift into unknown symbols as Mykel searched. Still, the place reminded Mykel too much of Amden Castle, corrupted by Sutyr’s rituals. How long ago was that? Three weeks? It felt like three years.

  The path ended at a hole several feet above a kind of central chamber. Strange. The path hadn’t twisted upwards. Manna, you fool. This place is saturated with it. Then voices crept from the lower openings. Mykel smothered the flame and lay flat on the crevice and hoped his knees weren’t knocking.

  “So. How much did this thing cause?”

  “A lifetime of blood and pain.”

  I know that voice. Mykel edged to the opposing curve of the mouth, where the moonlight was in better radiance. Impatience shook him as he strained his vision. The chamber throbbed to the crack on bone against bone, the yelp of the fallen, and the alternating rhythm of laughter and cracking bones. By the time the moonlight shifted to bath the chamber, Mykel already had a good idea what was happening.

  John Stromgald was on the ground, writhing in pain as the Slayers took turns in beating him to a pulp. Mykel felt something tearing his brain. It was shocking to see Stromgald now, without his favored weapon, just as mortal like the people he fought to save. Ifirit responded to his building anger, stretching cat-like after a long nap. We’ll kill them.

  We will save John. He twitched as the thought struck home. You’re really losing it, LeKym. Stop talking to yourself. He needed a plan. He needed Stromgald free. But how? Thoughts flew in every direction vague and scattered. It was hard to think while edging horizontally from the shifting moonlight. If any of the Weirwynd looked up, then...Wait a minute. A coin. He could mirror the moonlight off the copper in his pouch; let John know
he was here. Even a piece of a plan was better than nothing at all. Oh, you’re going to get it now. Just wait you bastards. Just you –

  “You’d best put your hands where I can see them, Myke. I’d hate to blow your good hand off.” A metallic click shook the entire chamber. The flintlocks. Tolrep. Damn.

  “Stand up. Don’t move.” Tolrep’s fingers rifled along Mykel’s person for hidden weaponry or other malicious items. “You don’t carry much for a ranger.”

  “I’m not a ranger,” Mykel snapped. “I’m a librarian.”

  “A librarian?” Tolrep gave out a roar of a laugh. “How the hell does a librarian – no, it doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway.”

  “Was it all a lie?” Somehow, he found the strength to meet that hawkish glare. “Your crew, the mutiny, everything?”

  “Let me tell you something. A versi Queen excretes honey. Didn’t know that, did you? Very rare, very expensive honey. I know dozens of fences who would sell out their mothers to get a piece. I’m going to be a very rich man. Now get moving.”

  A sharp shove sent Mykel over the edge. Pain came in short bursts; most likely from hitting every rock on the way down. The final impact gripped him with a searing pain. Come on LeKym, you’re stronger than this. Get up. Get the hell up! Before he could put the thought to action a boot planted itself in the small of his back, followed quickly by the familiar metallic click. “Don’t be a hero, Myke.”

  “Nice job, privateer. I’ve half a mind to offer you a role in our ranks.”

  “No thanks. I’ve already got one impossible job. Just give me my cut and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Oh, one tiny problem. The Slayers never share the take!” Four blasts of elemental energy hurled the privateer into a far wall, the ancient stone cracking in a spider-web from the impact. Bootsteps neared and passed; Mykel dared not move. Pleasure flashed through him. If I’m going to die, at least I’ll be taking that bastard with me.