William Wilde and the Sons of Deceit

by Davis Ashura

  There was also a cluster of stacked, marble platters near the cannon. Each one was nearly the same diameter as the barrel’s basketball-sized opening, and each one was a special type of nomasra.

  Now for the big test. William offered a silent prayer for their success and watched as Mayor Care stepped carefully around the weapon, apparently studying it.

  She came to a stop and addressed William. “I wasn’t present during the meetings when the weapon was reconstructed. Explain to me how it works.”

  William moved to the front of the cannon. “You load a shell into the muzzle. Right now all we have are these platter-types,” he pointed to the frisbee-shaped shells stacked in front of the cannon, “but we might be able to invent other kinds in the future.”

  Lucas Shaw tapped the barrel. “Why did you make it out of marble? Would steel not work better?”

  William answered. “According to the book we used, Treatises of Ranged Weapons, steel might be a better long-term solution, but for what we need marble will do just fine.”

  “And why not use black-powder cannon like I mentioned earlier?” Lucas asked. “I know the metallurgy might be beyond us, but not for those from the Far Beyond. We could have simply purchased what we need from them. Would that not have made more sense, since that design is essentially perfected?”

  Jessira looked up from where she’d been examining of the cannon. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but other than at extremely short range, I would think most asrasins could easily deflect nearly anything other than modern munitions.”

  Rukh spoke then, finishing Jessira’s thought in that creepy way they had. “Even at close range, they could probably do enough to deflect the full impact of the incoming shell.”

  Mr. Zeus nodded. “A skilled asrasin could do that.” He patted one of the platters. “They’d have less success with one of these.”

  “Why is that?” Mayor Care asked.

  Ward was the one to reply. “Because the platters are nomasras. They can be controlled from the instant they’re blasted from the cannon’s mouth all the way to the target.”

  One of Mayor Care’s eyebrows lifted. “Fascinating. How many does it take to operate one of these cannons?”

  “Five,” William said, “or several very powerful asrasins. The crew has to be skilled in all five Elements.”

  “The Spirit Adept is the one who controls the shell,” Mr. Zeus added.

  “A strange sort of cannon, is it not?” Bar Duba mused. He glanced up from his inspection of the weapon. “

  William smiled. “That’s because this one is unique.”

  “In that case, do we still call it a cannon?” Bar asked.

  “It looks like one,” Rukh said. “It shoots like one and damages like one, too. What else is it?”

  Ward mumbled something under his breath about, “Looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck . . .”

  “What did the ancients call them?” Lucas asked.

  “Firewagers,” Mr. Zeus answered. “A clunky name, if you ask me.”

  Mayor Care cleared her throat. “Why don’t we have that demonstration now?”

  “An excellent idea,” Rukh said. “However, a word of caution. We’ve never fired the cannon at full power. This will be the first time we see what it can really do. Perhaps it would be best if you waited below, on the sands.” He gestured. “William is the strongest one of us in Spirit. He’ll control the shell. Jessira is skilled with Water. I’m best with Air. Mr. Zeus will provide Earth, and Ward will do the honors by igniting the shell with Fire.”

  William waited for the councilors to descend from the platform before lifting one of the marble platters. “I’m loading the cannon,” he told the others as he placed a nomasra within the weapon’s barrel. He used a large rod topped with a wide piece of wood to shove the shell all the way to the bottom of the cannon.

  “Ready?” Rukh asked.

  Butterflies flitted about William’s belly. He took a deep breath and exhaled it, slow and controlled.

  Jessira sourced her lorethasra, and the scent of a mineral-fresh mountain stream filled the air. She formed a braid of Water, and it gurgled across her shoulders and forearms. Next came Rukh. The smell of iron replaced the mountain stream while a hissing braid of Air twined around his chest and pulsed down his arms. Now came Mr. Zeus, and a vanilla flavor wafted for a moment at the same time that a thick, ivy-like strand of Earth rustled around his stomach and waist. He gathered it in his hands and held it at the ready. From Ward arose the minty aroma of his lorethasra, followed by a sulfurous, white-hot braid of Fire that rippled around his chest.

  Each braid formed by the other magi was thicker than anything William could have managed on his own. He took a final steadying breath. Here it goes.

  He sourced his lorethasra and created a thick braid of Spirit. It swirled around his forehead, noosed around his throat, and swept down his arms. From there, it pooled in his hands, laying like a limp rope. He nodded his readiness. “Go!”

  The other four magi united their braids upon the nomasra within the marble barrel. The shell lit up, easily visible through the weapon to someone who could see lorasra. William attached his braid of Spirit to the munition and closely watched it. The nomasra expanded and took on the shape of a ball. With time and practice, William knew he’d be able to transform the shell into whatever form he wanted, but for now, he’d stick with a hollow globe that would break apart on impact.

  The shell glowed, filling with the power from everyone’s braids, but William’s Spirit locked it in place. The nomasra vibrated within the cannon, and the glow deepened. William knew he couldn’t hold it much longer. He had to release it, or it would explode in the barrel.

  He thinned his braid, and the shell erupted out of the cannon with a thunderous boom. The explosion rumbled through William’s stomach and rocked him. Nevertheless, he maintained his balance and his connection to the nomasra. He directed its movement and shape with his thread of Spirit.

  In the midst of its flight, he transformed the marble ball into an arrow and sent it shooting skyward. At the peak of its arc, he transitioned the nomasra into a ball and juked it right and left. The shell lost power and speed the farther it traveled. It also became more difficult to control. William sent the munition toward the water, and when it was only yards above the waves, he clipped his thread of Spirit. The nomasra struck the ocean with a dull plop. A second later, a plume of water blasted twenty feet into the air.

  “My God,” Mayor Care whispered, sounding appalled and impressed at the same time.

  William silently echoed her sentiments. Nausea filled his gorge when he considered having to use such a weapon against flesh-and-bone foes. Nevertheless, he was also proud of the work he and everyone else had done.

  “A terrible weapon, but necessary,” Rukh said. He faced William. “Can we miniaturize them to use as rifles?”

  “We could,” William said, “but only a thera’asra would be able to use something like that.”

  Rukh’s mouth thinned, and he nodded in understanding. “Of course. Because only someone able to strongly and simultaneously wield every Element could power it.” His brow furrowed, and he studied the cannon. “We need thirty of them ready in two months, along with crews trained to use them.”

  William silently swore at the amount of work he’d have to put in to meet Rukh’s request.

  Adam’s Spirit traveled once more to Seminal, and upon his arrival, he slowly drifted toward Shet’s palace. It was a fortress now, built onto the ledges of the same titanic mountain that he remembered from his previous visits, the one that dominated all the other peaks surrounding it. Halfway up the slope rose the bones of the citadel proper. The fortress’ tall towers and walls melded perfectly with the menace of the mountain on which it perched, ascending in jagged climbs and flanking a ribbon of road that snaked upward from a grim, shadowed valley. Down there, where the very sunlight seemed afraid to penetrate, the fortifications continued with many parts lik
ely burrowed deep into the bones of the mountain.

  Adam scowled. He didn’t want to be here, even in Spirit only, facing the bleak citadel that gave the appearance of swallowing the light, that carved darkness into the heart of the world like a black, gangrenous cancer. This terrible place was the home of Sinskrill’s so-called god, the one who intended to return to Earth. The being who promised to bring his rule to Adam’s home. He shivered at the notion.

  An instant later, he forced discipline to his thoughts. Such traitorous musings couldn’t be allowed. At least not here. They’d be reflected on his face and in his voice.

  Adam clenched his figurative jaws and girded his loins. Report to Shet, allow no fear to show, and then leave. That’s all I need to do. Anything else can wait for tomorrow.

  He descended to an open courtyard where, on the far side, Shet reclined upon a throne made from the jaws of a dragon. A black spear lay across his lap, and his presence, his power, dwarfed everything around him. All the proud necrosed, elegant vampires, and black-eyed demons collected in the courtyard huddled timidly in comparison. Even the red dragon slumbering beside Shet’s throne, with his massive, horned head resting on his clawed forearms, didn’t come close to approaching the lord’s power or his puzzling sense of charisma and menace.

  The monsters spread out from Shet in arcs of importance, and they turned as one when Adam alighted. He scanned them. Closest to the throne were the demons, followed by the necrosed, and then the vampires. Hovering on the fringes of the court were gray ghouls wearing tattered clothing, and at the very periphery of Shet’s orbit were the scourskins, vermin who did nothing more than feed on therasra.

  Adam steeled his spine and marched through the courtyard of horrors. Terror lined his stomach as hissed promises of violence whispered to him from the various monstrosities. He did his best to hide his fear and display nothing but resolve. He strode forward and finally reached the dais. There, he fell to a knee.

  “Rise,” Shet commanded, “and tell me news of my home.”

  Adam relayed what Brandon had learned. “In addition,” he said, “we learned the names of the World Killers. Rukh and Jessira Shektan.”

  “Rukh and Jessira Shektan.” Shet seemed to taste the names. “I know not these two, only what I have gleaned regarding their nature.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Adam said. “We will incinerate them and all of Arylyn in your honor.”

  Shet smiled. “I’m sure you will try, but what will I do when I come home if my great enemies are already defeated?”

  Adam blinked, uncertain how to respond. “Will you not rule the mahavans, your people?”

  Shet nodded, and the smile flittered away. “Of course, but though I will soon come to reclaim my birth world—two years hence—matters on Seminal require my attention. Those who dared claim Seminal for their own during my long sojourn, resist my guidance.”

  Adam couldn’t help it. His curiosity was piqued. “Shokan and the Lady of Fire are dead, and the World Breakers are on Earth. Who else dares contend with you?”

  “Those who will beg me for death,” Shet promised. “The Holy Seven, my greatest titans, shall be unleashed, their power fully unchained. They will bring ruin upon my foes. None shall be spared.”

  Adam dared again to question the lord. “Who can chain the Holy Seven?” An instant later he cursed his boldness and waited with bated breath, certain Shet would punish him for his temerity. Axel would have.

  The lord surprised him, however. Instead of smiting him, Shet deigned to answer the question. “Long ago, my Holy Seven were placed in an endless sleep by the Orbs of Peace, creations of my greatest enemy.” His grim visage caused Adam to involuntarily shiver. “In time, there arose others upon Seminal who falsely named themselves gods. They still think to rule this world, daring to defy my might and my law.” His voice throbbed, tolling like a bell and gaining power. “But I am the restless tide, vast and endless, and I will wear away the will of my foes.”

  Adam took in the figure of Shet, the power of the being, as evident as a thundering cataract. He understood then why the god was worshipped. A part of him wanted to do so as well.

  Right then, a large figure—taller than Travail, nearly the size of Shet—heavily muscled and wearing only a kilt and a set of broadswords on his back, thrust past the gathered monsters and crashed to a halt next to Adam. He did not kneel and spoke without being given permission. His voice sounded deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. “The human wishes to speak with you,” the figure announced. “Again.”

  Adam stared at the thick-thewed monstrosity. He knew him only by description but there could be no mistaking that face, the scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his collarbone, the ghost-white, short-cropped hair that stood in stark contrast to his ebony-dark skin: Sture Mael, a figure out of legend, much like Shet himself, one of the Holy Seven.

  “Our time is ended,” Shet said to Adam. “Leave us.”

  Adam bowed low.

  “Before you depart,” Shet said, “how goes the construction of the firewagers? I told your Servitor how to build them when last he visited us.”

  “We work to create that which you taught us. It will not be long now.”

  Shet wore a sly smile. “That is good. Be off now.”

  Adam bowed low once again and ascended straight off the courtyard. He didn’t think he could stomach another passage through the corridor of horrors. As he rose he saw a figure in white approach Shet, a knight. He’d seen the man during a previous visit, the last one, in fact. The warrior marched forward confidently and untroubled, smooth and with no wasted motion. Elegant as a jaguar. Though Shet and Sture towered above him, they did not dominate him.

  Adam wondered who the knight could be. What kind of man can face both Shet and Sture and remain unbowed?

  The man known as Cinder Shade remained on one knee before Lord Shet, who sat on his white throne on a black dais. Sture Mael loomed nearby, his posture threatening, but Cinder paid him no mind. Shet’s lieutenant wouldn’t dare touch him.

  “Rise,” Shet intoned.

  Cinder rose to his feet and met the Lord’s gaze. Unlike the Spirit of Adam Paradiso, a man Cinder had once known, he didn’t tremble in terror when facing Shet. In fact, no emotions marred Cinder’s equilibrium. For now, Shet could destroy him, but it wouldn’t always be the case. The time when Cinder could stand against the Lord would come soon.

  “The human grows bold,” Sture growled.

  Cinder twisted his head to stare at Shet’s greatest lieutenant and flicked him an appraising glance up and down. He took in Sture’s dark skin, his short, white hair, and the brutal scar running from the corner of his mouth to his collarbone. He remembered delivering that scar. It had been years ago, centuries or even millennia. It was a flicker of memory, fleeting and fast, come and gone so quickly that Cinder couldn’t determine if it was true recollection or a figment of his imagination. He sniffed once in dismissal of Sture before returning his attention to Shet.

  Sture stiffened in outrage. “Bold indeed.” His hand went to his massive sword. “Allow me to instruct him on the proper etiquette of humility,” he begged Shet.

  The monsters at Cinder’s back stirred. They hissed and sought to outdo one another with promises of the cruelest deaths.

  Cinder had no concern for their reactions. Fear had no place in his heart. It never had, not even in his childhood. It had always been thus. From his earliest memories, few emotions had ever plagued Cinder. He had been a formless husk, a boy discovered in the elven forests with no memory of himself.

  Shet chuckled. “Set aside your anger,” he told Sture. He leaned forward in his throne. “What news do you bring, slave?”

  Cinder didn’t allow the insult to touch him. In many ways, the description was apt. He was a slave. All humans born in the elven forests were branded as such.

  “Anya and I have discovered another Orb,” Cinder said.

  Shet steepled his fingers. “Where is it? I don’t sens
e it upon your being.”

  Cinder kept his words smooth and even. “The spiderkin possess it. They hold it deep in the heart of their mountains.”

  Shet grimaced. “I share the mountains with those vermin.” He gestured around him to the peaks rising on all sides of his citadel. “The Dagger Mountains are mine, but the spiderkin refuse to accept my authority. They will pay.”

  “Only after we destroy all the Orbs,” Cinder said to the so-called god. “Until then, you can’t move against them. You lack the power.”

  Sture snarled inarticulately in outrage, and the vampires and necrosed surged.

  Shet held up a hand, holding his monsters and lieutenant in abeyance while his face emptied of emotion. Cinder sensed him gather his lorethasra as the scent of gardenias filled the air. “Be very careful of your next words.” The Lord held a blistering braid of Fire, one that could melt a mountain.

  Cinder tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I meant no insult. I merely speak truthful advice, doing as you instructed in your holy book.” He quoted from Shet’s Council. “Fear not to speak the truth. Your true friends will always hear your words.”

  Shet offered a crooked grin, one full of malice. “You think me a friend?”

  This time, Cinder did choose his words carefully. “I think only a fool would ever lie to you.”

  “All too true.” Shet grunted. He let go of his braid, and Cinder breathed out a sigh of relief. “How do you and your elf princess plan on obtaining the Orb?”

  Cinder smiled. “I was trained to fight the spiderkin.” he reminded the god.

  Shet smiled in return. “Ah, yes. Your training in the Third Directorate.”

  Like all denizens of the elven forests, Cinder had been tested in the spring of his thirteenth year. It had been a sunny day, cool and windy, when his life had forever changed. With his testing, when he’d died and been reborn, the elves had learned that Cinder could bond to metal, a rare talent for any, especially a human.