by Andrew Rowe
The deflected sword rose again, but Taelien stepped forward and slashed it in half. It faded into nothing a moment later.
War lowered his hands, moving them together to form a triangle between his fingers.
Taelien hurled the sword he’d captured in War’s direction.
War seemingly ignored it entirely; it shattered in mid-air about ten feet away from him.
Taelien felt a twinge of warmth in the air around him.
That was his only warning.
The heat that enveloped him a moment later wasn’t precisely fire.
If it had been, he could have defended himself with comparative ease; flame sorcery was one of the two types he had the most practice with.
These seeming-flames burned black.
Disperse, he commanded as they rose to envelop them. He could sense them in the same way he could feel the swords that were not truly metal.
But, much like the false metal swords, the incendiary sorcery did not respond as easily to his command.
His entire body was surrounded by flame, and his will was the only force that prevented him from being consumed.
Disperse, he attempted again, but the heat only pressed closer. His skin and hair began to burn.
Agony, and with it, anger.
Through the anger, instinct.
End, he commanded.
The false flames ceased to be.
Taelien growled, his fist tightening around his weapon’s hilt. His pain was distant in his mind. His focus was on his enemy now.
He stalked forward, raising the sword over his right shoulder. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.” A smile crossed his face in spite of the pain.
As The Wandering War began to draw his own weapon, Taelien charged.
Not this time.
Taelien raised his weapon in a high stance, preparing to swing.
War swept a hand through the air. A wave of invisible force blasted Taelien backward several feet, and he fell short of striking range.
It didn’t matter. Taelien swung his blade downward in an arc, projecting a silvery wave of cutting force.
War frowned, side-stepping the attack.
Taelien twitched his off-hand.
The shockwave followed War’s movement, slicing through a boulder to reach its target.
War reacted at the last instant, sending a burst of motion out of his hand to knock the wave off its trajectory. The shockwave passed behind him and dissipated harmlessly.
“Fascinating. It would appear you’ve learned to control your weapon’s aura.”
Taelien raised the Sae’kes and pointed the tip directly at his opponent. Only a single rune was glowing on the surface. For years, he had mistaken the number of runes for an indication of his degree of mastery over the weapon. In truth, their function was quite different.
The runes were not a display of his power over the weapon; they were designed to restrain the annihilating essence within it. They would glow only when the sword’s destructive power was being properly contained.
Taelien smirked. “I’ve been training. Satisfied?”
The Wandering War laughed. “Oh, dear cousin, I’m only getting started.” He stretched his hands out wide. “You’re not the only one who has new tricks.”
The ground below Taelien began to ripple. Taelien recognized the feeling of stone sorcery at work.
Taelien jumped forward just before the stone spikes burst from the ground.
I’ll need to remember that trick.
He landed in a crouch ten feet away from War, swinging as he stood and projecting another shockwave from his blade.
War had drawn his own sword, a black-bladed weapon with ruby runes glowing on the surface. The harvester braced to deflect Taelien’s attack.
Split, Taelien commanded the cutting wave.
The shockwave separated into three, spreading out and converging on War from different angles.
As Taelien expected, War spun and managed to disperse each of the three attacks with swings of his own weapon.
That, however, gave Taelien all the time he needed to close the distance.
He has the advantage at a distance, but not here.
Taelien swung downward. War stepped back, avoiding the swing entirely, and sent a burst of flame at Taelien with his free hand.
Taelien slashed through the fire, dispersing it, and parried War’s follow-through thrust. The motion brought the two of them closer together: enough for Taelien to thrust his left hand forward.
An ordinary punch wouldn’t have had any chance of damaging a Harvester of War, but Taelien wasn’t using a fist. His left hand was enshrouded in the same type of aura that surrounded his weapon, forming a blade-like point a few inches in front of his fingers.
The aura cut.
War stumbled back in surprise, an open wound bleeding freely on his right arm. “Unexpected.” A grin crossed his face. “Delightful.”
His counterattack was, for the first time, too fast for Taelien to stop.
He blurred forward and slammed a fist into Taelien’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. His next strike hit Taelien in the jaw with his pommel, snapping the swordsman’s head back.
Taelien fell to the ground, his ears ringing and his vision swimming. He barely managed to roll to the side as War swung his sword downward, then failed to block the follow-up cut.
War left a gash on Taelien’s right bicep, a near match to his own injury.
For Taelien, the cut was a painful one, making it difficult to continue to lift his sword. He pushed through the pain, but with the knowledge that every moment would continue to drain his strength.
War showed no sign of even slowing down.
I can’t beat him in a battle of attrition, Taelien realized. And he seems to have a counter for almost every skill I’ve developed.
I’m going to have to improvise.
War took a step back, allowing Taelien to slowly rise to his feet and assume a defensive stance. For a moment, it looked as if he was granting the swordsman a reprieve.
Then War lunged.
Taelien stepped forward, gripping his hilt with both hands to withstand the force of the parry. The wound on his right arm screamed on the impact, and his left-hand’s grip was already weak. He barely maintained his hold on the weapon.
Barely, fortunately, was enough.
Shatter, he commanded War’s sword as the blades met.
He knew that breaking an enchanted weapon with metal sorcery was nearly impossible. He’d never succeeded at it before.
And so, when he issued that command, he drew from something else. Not his ability to manipulate metal.
He called on the power in his right hand, the same essence that matched the cutting aura of his blade. The power that he’d used to break War’s false flames apart.
War’s sword shivered.
The Harvester fell backward in shock, breaking the contact between the two blades. His weapon remained intact, but Taelien had felt something happening within it.
War was a blur as he flew backward, a dozen floating weapons appearing in his wake.
I scared him, Taelien realized.
Unfortunately, he considered as the whirling blades approached, I don’t think he’s going to give me a chance to finish the job.
The spectral weapons were easy enough for him to sense and counter now, but he was exhausted. He willed them to break, but nothing happened. His body no longer had the strength to pay the cost.
He had to settle for just trying to throw himself out of the way.
The swords twisted in the air and arced toward him.
Taelien’s first parry was lethargic, but adequate. The wound in his arm deepened.
The second was barely deflected, loosening his grip. The third knocked the Sae’kes out of his hand.
Nine more swords descended, inches away.
His strength was gone.
He knew a way of reaching for more.
For nearly a year now,
he’d known that the Sae’kes aura was somehow leaking into his body. It seemed to be the source of the strange dominion in his right hand — or perhaps that dominion was the reason he was capable of wielding the sword at all, and it had grown stronger through decades of use.
It had only been in the last several months that he had been actively practicing the use of that dominion, learning to use it to control his sword’s aura and to mimic it without using the sword at all.
His connection with the sword was stronger now than it had ever been.
He knew he could draw more of the weapon’s power into himself intentionally.
He also knew that would have a terrible cost.
The aura he had developed was already disruptive to defensive sorcery, prematurely shattering spells that were designed to defend him. That had grown worse. His aura seemed to be gradually wearing away at anything he was in contact with, causing items to degrade more quickly than they normally would.
But that side effect was trivial in comparison to the true cost; as that dominion grew stronger, Taelien changed.
Even now, he could feel it — the urge to destroy his enemy utterly, leaving nothing behind that could threaten him in the future.
And he knew that in the destruction of a powerful entity, he would gain new strength.
The sword’s desire. Annihilation.
I can’t risk losing control over myself.
Nine swords approached, and he refused the strength to stop them.
Instead, he turned to War and raised his hands. “I concede this round.”
The swords didn’t stop.
Body of Stone.
Stone essence flooded into his body, empowering his muscles and skin. It was one of his least favorite techniques to use in a fight, since the stone essence slowed his movement, but it was an effective last-minute defense.
The first three swords impacted against him, but left only shallow scratches against his reinforced body. After that, War waved a hand and the remaining swords dissipated.
Taelien took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t fight effectively in this state, but showing weakness seemed unwise. “I’m done fighting for now. We can resume this another time.”
War scowled. “You injured me.” His voice was uncharacteristically introspective in tone.
Taelien pressed his left hand over the wound on his arm. He needed to word this carefully. “Yep. I think I’m catching up to you. I’ll give you an even better match next time.”
He had some ideas for how he might accomplish that. There was a technique he’d been practicing for gathering as much destructive essence as possible around the blade, compressing it, and then releasing it in a single powerful strike — but it was both time consuming and too inaccurate to use in a fight. He needed several seconds just to charge the essence to use it, and ordinarily, no opponent would give him that much time to simply concentrate his power.
Maybe with more practice, I can get that technique into a more usable state.
War tilted his head downward. “I will look forward to seeing what you are capable of next time, cousin.”
Taelien gave a curt nod, trying not to make his relief evident.
Fighting dangerous opponents was among his favorite activities, but he was in a poor place to continue.
It was dark, but even in the minimal light from his fallen weapon, he could see that the gash on his arm was severe. Not deep enough to cut to the bone, fortunately — he never would have managed to continue holding the sword at all if that had been the case — but bad enough that it could be crippling if left untreated.
“I need to treat my wound now,” he told War.
“I will assist you.”
Taelien blinked. He thought he understood War relatively well, but occasionally, the entity managed to surprise him.
It made sense when Taelien considered it for another moment. War wanted him in fighting shape so they could battle again as quickly as possible.
The cloaked figure sheathed his sword and approached. Taelien lowered his guard just a bit; he found it unlikely that War would launch a surprise attack now that their fight was over. This wasn’t because War was honorable — rather, War simply had a completely different idea of morality, and whatever led to the best combat would please him the most.
That didn’t mean Taelien was going to let his guard down entirely, however. He knelt and retrieved the Sae’kes, sheathing the weapon and belting it back on.
His arm could barely handle even that bit of use.
“I am capable of searing the wound shut,” War offered.
Taelien shook his head. He had made that mistake before. “I have a medical kit in my bag. Do you know how to sew a wound shut?”
“Yes. Treating battlefield injuries is an acceptable application of my dominion.”
Interesting.
Taelien tore through the wreckage of his tent to find his backpack, then pulled out the medical kit.
“Sit,” War instructed.
Taelien complied.
“Hold your arm still and use your other hand to press the wound together. I will clean it first, then sew the wound.”
The Wandering War was nothing if not efficient.
He gave Taelien a series of curt instructions as he repositioned him, then used the medical kit to clean, stitch, and dress the wound.
Taelien shivered as the rain continued to pound on the pair throughout the process. The Wandering War appeared unbothered.
“You are suffering from both blood loss and hypothermia.”
Taelien nodded weakly. His vision was swimming again.
“Drink your water and put this on.”
The Wandering War shrugged off his massive cloak and offered it with a hand.
Taelien blinked. “You won’t be cold without it?”
War’s expression was neutral. “No.”
Taelien accepted the cloak and slipped it on without any further hesitation.
The inside was warm. Not just the warmth of clothing that had been pressed against skin; it radiated heat, almost enough to cause discomfort.
He could sense a hint of power within the cloak, the same type of sorcery that War used to conjure his floating blades. The Dominion of War itself, Taelien suspected.
Does that imply the cloak is actually a part of him? Or is it something he enchanted, deliberately or simply through close contact?
At the moment, it didn’t matter.
It was warm.
He took a drink of his water, as commanded. The water sent another chill through him, but the cloak helped to compensate.
“Now, we must go.”
Taelien blinked. “...Go?”
War nodded. “The others are waiting.”
Taelien pulled the cloak tighter around him. “I’m not sure I’m in much of a condition to move.”
War gave him an appraising look. “That is regrettable, because you will have to. Your assignment cannot be delayed.”
The swordsman quirked an eyebrow at that. He didn’t bother pointing out the fact that War had caused that delay. “What do you mean?”
“The man of many mirrors will know. I am simply to bring you to him.”
Jonan?
I shouldn’t be surprised. Being ambushed at night in the middle of nowhere? I should have suspected his involvement from the beginning.
Taelien sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He salvaged his supplies from his ruined tent, changing his socks for the soaked-but-not-mud-encrusted pair he had worn earlier, and then slipped on his boots.
His right arm still throbbed, but the salve that War had applied diminished the pain somewhat.
“Very well. Take me to Jonan.”
***
Miles passed.
Taelien’s wound burned.
The rain continued to pour down on the pair. The Wandering War’s cloak helped alleviate the chill, but it was insufficient to evaporate the water that already clung to Taelien’s clothes.
> The swordsman trudged on. If he was alone, he would have found shelter for the night, but the present situation did not permit rest. The Wandering War had no need for sleep, and Taelien suspected that displaying weakness would be a potentially fatal mistake.
It was in the deepest part of night, where the nightfrost was hidden by the trees and the dawnfire still slumbered, that they reached the building.
It was a three-story wooden structure, alone among the trees. There was no paved road to the door, only a dirt path barely distinct from those used by game animals.
Nevertheless, there was light visible within, and that might have meant they had a fire going.
Taelien approached with more haste than caution.
The sign over the door read, “The Perfect Stranger”. Taelien’s lips tightened, the name triggering a memory.
I’ve seen a tavern with that name before... in Orlyn, maybe?
He shook his head. It didn’t matter right now.
Before his hand reached the door, it swung open.
Asphodel stood in the doorway, the purple crystals that served as her hair glimmering in the tavern’s light. She looked much the same as when he’d last seen her, with a thin frame and moderate height hiding tremendous physical strength. The hints of grey in her hair reminded him of how much she had sacrificed in their last clash with Sterling and his followers.
Taelien blinked. “How...?”
She tapped a finger to her forehead. “Oracle.” From her tone, it was clear she felt that was a sufficient answer.
Taelien was too tired to care.
A louder voice came from behind Asphodel. “Scrape your boots off before you come in! If you get mud on my floor you’re going to clean it yourself. You can use the rag next to the door.”
Asphodel gestured downward, then stepped out of the doorway.
Taelien found an already-muddy rag next to the door, sighed, and bent down to begin wiping off his boots.
Another figure brushed past Asphodel to lean over him while he worked.
Her black eyes immediately signaled her as rethri — and one of the rarer varieties. Black eyes usually signaled a bond to shadow, death, or one of the deep dominions connected to them.
More unusual were the tattoos that stretched across nearly all of her exposed skin. To Taelien, they looked like they might be runic, but he hadn’t seen this particular style on anyone or anything else.
