Until All Bonds Are Broken

by Tim Frankovich

  “Sometimes, we don’t tell those closest to us about things, because we want to protect them,” Forerunner said for him. “Despite your misgivings about me, I feel the same way. I only want to help. To protect. And to restore. I am here for all the lost children of Antises.”

  And yet a few moments earlier, Forerunner willingly admitted to plotting to kick him out. His intentions still did not add up.

  “Well, then. Shall we have an agreement, Dravid?” Forerunner stood and held out his hand.

  Dravid hesitated for a moment, then held out his own hand. Forerunner took it and pulled him up onto his foot. He wavered, but Forerunner grabbed his shoulder with his other hand. He found himself looking into those extraordinary, starry eyes.

  “Together, Dravid. Together we will help you. And Seri. And all of Antises will be restored.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  MARSHAL LOOKED OUT over the battlefield from the edge of their camp. After a few moments, he sat on the ground, setting his sword beside him. He needed to think things through here.

  For the longest time, his thoughts had been only darkness. When Nian died, it felt like something else died within him, changing him. The death of Aelia had been horrible, devastating. But it had been in the midst of so many other events: his curse being lifted, the Lord’s power coming, fighting in the Otherworld. Nian’s death came out of nowhere. So pointless.

  Perhaps most important, Nian had been the last wise counselor left to him. Aelia dead. Talinir missing. Who could he turn to now?

  For a time, he tried leaning on Victor. But Victor wanted to lean on him! Wanted him to be some great leader of men. He glanced up as Merish walked by with a silly grin on his face. Marshal snorted. The curse squad hardly seemed the place to begin great leadership.

  No. Marshal had lived his whole life without aspirations. It was vain to imagine he could have them now, just because he no longer bore a curse. No.

  And yet depending on his own counsel led him only to the edge of that ravine. In retrospect, he felt foolish over that. Killing himself would not solve anything. Where would his power have gone, anyway, since he had no children? To Volraag? But he already had power. Would it only make him stronger?

  Stupid. He should have thought of that.

  Victor saved him. The Bond was broken. And yet Victor was still here, sleeping in the tent after that ordeal. Victor, his friend. His true friend.

  The dark side of his thoughts tried to warn him of Victor’s death. Everyone else kept dying. Why not him? Marshal fought back against those thoughts.

  Blessings. Nian’s final word. How to fight curses? Blessings. Marshal possessed great power. Greater than he imagined, if Victor had relayed Aelia’s words correctly. A King’s power. Somehow he should be using that power to bless people, to help them instead of hurting them.

  Nian also spoke of lifting all curses, an impossible task. Yet one he should be exploring, not sitting on a battlefield. He needed someone who could advise him, someone who understood magic.

  His eyes wandered to Volraag’s command tent. For a moment, he considered going to his half-brother and asking him to work together. But Volraag wanted him dead. Somehow, Marshal didn’t think he would have abandoned that idea, even though he now held the Lordship.

  The decanus from the next squad over, a man whose name Marshal had never bothered to learn, approached. Marshal waved in greeting, but did not get up.

  “Word’s come down,” the decanus said. “We fight again this afternoon.”

  “That soon?”

  He shrugged. “The centurion says his Lordship expects us to finish off the Rasnians this time. Then maybe we can all go home. In any case, have your squad ready.”

  Marshal agreed and the decanus left in a hurry. He never wanted to stay near the curse squad.

  So. This is what it came down to. Another battle. Marshal’s own muscles still ached from yesterday’s exertions. He knew everyone else felt as bad or worse, Victor most of all.

  “Enough of this.”

  He got to his feet and began to walk.

  Volraag looked across his table at the spy. Such a pathetic man. He would never waste time with someone like this if he didn’t need him. Such a worthless individual outside his nearness to his half-brother.

  “Marshal. You’re sure his name is Marshal?” Volraag hated repeating himself.

  The spy nodded. “I’ve heard him called that by Victor any number of times.”

  “But he speaks.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Volraag rolled his eyes. “Because the man I’m looking for was cursed. He could not speak.”

  “Oh, he’s cursed all right. I mean, look at him! He says he’s not, but Victor says he got the scars from a curse-stalker! Why else would it come after him?”

  Volraag looked to Otioch. “A curse-stalker.”

  “It would make sense, sire. And don’t forget the scar-faced man at the temple.”

  “I haven’t.”

  His brother’s moves did not make much sense. Somewhere after that peasant village, he had encountered a curse-stalker and received the scars. Then he somehow eluded Kishin, one of the greatest assassins in Antises, came to Reman, of all places, and destroyed the temple when he gained his father’s power. Then, after supposedly being freed from his curse, he… ended up a conscript in the army? Something did not add up.

  “Pay the man and send him back,” Volraag told Otioch. He glared at the spy. “And keep your mouth shut about this.”

  “Yes, your Lordship. They never pay attention to me, anyway.”

  Volraag left the command tent and strolled outside. Rathri slithered up beside him.

  “Shall I bring you his head?”

  “Not yet. There’s something I don’t understand here, if it is him. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What better place for him to hide?”

  Volraag gestured as he spoke, playing with the vibratory power at his command. He did that more and more lately. It felt right. It felt good.

  “No. We’re not dealing with some schemer here. He’s an uneducated peasant! We should not attribute brilliant plans to him.”

  “Never underestimate a target,” Rathri said. “I always take that into consideration. And thus, I’m never surprised.”

  Volraag climbed up onto his viewing platform. “We should not overestimate, either. No. There is still something I’m missing. I need to think before I act.”

  He looked out over the army’s camp and the battlefield. His spies told him the Rasnian forces were all but broken, held together only by the threats of their commanders now. One solid push should end this. The order had already gone out. But should he try to deal with this Marshal first? Was it really his half-brother?

  Otioch climbed up beside them. “I’ve done as you said. The spy will go back to the curse squad and stay with them.” He hesitated. “We’ve been putting the conscripts at the front lines so far. If you wish to keep this one alive, it might be best to hold them back this time.”

  “And risk our regular soldiers? No. Lord Tyrr might be desperate now. And desperate men do desperate things.”

  “If that’s true, this could be a bloodbath.” After a moment of silence, Otioch added, “Curious.”

  “What is?”

  Otioch pointed. “It appears we have one man walking out onto the battlefield.”

  “What?”

  Volraag leveled his spyglass and looked. “A conscript by his clothing, but he has some insignia on his shoulder. A decanus, probably.”

  Rathri sneered. “Military control at its finest.”

  “No…” Volraag continued to stare at the lone figure walking with slow, steady steps toward the center of the disputed land.

  “Sire?”

  The figure’s face turned, looking straight at him. Scars.

  “It’s him. Marshal.”

  Simple, really. If another battle happened, many more would die. If the other decanus spoke true, and the Rasnians
were broken, then many of them would die. Otherwise, many on both sides would die.

  Either way, Marshal had enough of death.

  He began summoning the power, letting it build up within him, filling his arms until his hands ached with the vibrations. He had not attempted using his powers this much since the temple and the battle in the Otherworld.

  By now, he knew he had been noticed. If he didn’t start, some centurion on a horse would be on top of him in short order, commanding him back. He didn’t want to hurt even one of them unless necessary.

  He turned and looked toward Volraag’s tent and platform. What would his brother think? What would he do? Ultimately, it didn’t matter. He made his choice. This battle would end. Now.

  Marshal pulled his hands in to his chest, then pushed outwards. The ground erupted in front of him. Really, Lord Tyrr had given him the idea with his little wall and that trench. Time to create one of his own, of a sort.

  The power flowed out. A deep channel began to form in front of him. Marshal spread his arms apart. He didn’t want just a big hole. He wanted a trench, a ravine. And more than that. The channel expanded in both directions, tearing apart the ground, throwing cascades of dirt into the air. To his surprise, the dirt beneath the topsoil turned out to be red. He wondered if those back at the camp could even see him any more, with all the dust clouds he created.

  Marshal laughed. He strained to use this much power, but even that seemed remarkably simple. He had expected this to be much harder. How much power did he have?

  Deeper. Wider. He kept the power flowing. The barrier needed to be large enough to stop conscripts, regular army, cavalry, everything. Even a trench would not be enough. He began to push forward at the same time. The red earth piled itself high on the other side of his trench. Higher and higher.

  He walked now, side to side, continuing to release his power. The trench grew deeper, the barrier higher. He could only guess at how much earth he moved. On the edges of the battlefield, he uprooted a handful of trees. That took more strain.

  In fact, the strain was becoming serious now. His arms hurt. He had broken his finger bones the last time he unleashed this much power. But that had been in uncontrolled blasts. Here, he considered each motion carefully, expending what he needed for the job at hand.

  At last, he let his arms fall to his sides. As the crimson dust began to settle, he surveyed his work.

  A trench at least twenty feet deep ran in a jagged line across the battlefield. The Amnis River already flowed down into it, stirring up the mud and making it even more of a hazard. On the other side, he had piled the dirt, every bit of what he had dug into one long barrier that barred the way.

  Marshal knew Volraag or Lord Tyrr could probably undo all of this work just as easily as he had done it. But it would serve, at least for now.

  Victor appeared at his side. “Ahhh… let’s get you out of here before they all come for you.”

  Marshal nodded. “I’m done with war.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE SPYGLASS EXPLODED in Volraag’s hand. He didn’t even glance at it. His chest tightened as fury rose within.

  “That was impressive,” Otioch said. He noticed the spyglass pieces falling to the platform. “I, uh, meant the display on the battlefield.”

  “Send as many troops as it takes,” Volraag ordered. “Take him.”

  “I will give the order, but I suspect it will be difficult to enforce.”

  “Do it. I will come myself, as soon as Rathri here brings Tezan. We will put an end to this.”

  Both of his Guards hastened off the platform to obey.

  Volraag ground his teeth. Marshal. Here all along. The reasons no longer mattered. Even the reasons for his current actions, impressive though they were. Volraag had not attempted anything on that scale. Surely, he had the capability now. Lord Tyrr had done something similar with the trench the soldiers discovered. Volraag knew his power equaled either of them. Didn’t it?

  A whisper of power fluttered to his left. He whirled, hand instinctively going to his sword hilt. Curasir stood beside him. His normal eye flicked to the hand on hilt, then back to Volraag’s face.

  “I think you’d find your power a slightly more effective defense,” the Eldani said. “Though, if a sword is well-made, you can use it channel your power. Have you discovered that yet?”

  Volraag ignored the question. “Why are you here? I need to go after my brother. He’s here.”

  Curasir cocked his head. “Really? That’s who did that? Fascinating.”

  “I don’t have time for idle talk.” Volraag started to the ladder.

  “The way to the portal is open.”

  Curasir’s words brought him to a halt. He turned back. “What are you saying?”

  Curasir pointed out to the battlefield. “Your brother dug it up. You can reach the portal now.”

  “Where?” Volraag looked out toward Marshal’s handiwork.

  “Near the eastern end of that new trench. A short descent, and you can be there.”

  Volraag nodded. “Excellent. I will deal with my brother and then come.”

  “You may not have time for that.”

  “Why?”

  Curasir pointed further south. “Lord Tyrr knows. Why do you think he’s fought so hard here? Brought in the last of his wild magicians? He wants the portal. If you don’t go now, he may bury the entrance, undoing your brother’s work, or… more likely, he will attempt to sneak in himself and discover its secrets. Its power.”

  “But you promised it to me.”

  Curasir lifted his hands. “I told you I cannot stand against the power of a Lord. If he comes first, I may have no choice.”

  “If he comes, I’ll deal with him.”

  Curasir smiled. “A battle of Lords. Beneath the ground. That would be something to see.”

  Volraag glanced down and saw Rathri approaching with Tezan.

  “A battle may not be necessary.”

  “As you say.” Curasir noted the approach of the other two. “Be careful of that assassin. His goals may not align with yours in the end.”

  “He does everything I ask of him.” Volraag wasn’t sure why he argued. He never trusted Rathri himself.

  “Do not mistake obedience for loyalty. At any rate, I will see you when you open the portal.”

  “And how do I do that? You never told me.”

  “I’m sure it will be no trouble for you.” Curasir took a step to the right and vanished.

  Volraag wanted to break something. Everything happening at once, and out of his control. Not at all how he had foreseen this day progressing. Still, he would adapt. One could never anticipate everything. He took one more look in the direction he had last seen Marshal. Otioch would have to handle him, for now.

  He vaulted over the railing of the platform and dropped to the ground, unleashing a short burst of power to slow his impact. Rathri nodded in approval at his landing.

  “Shall we find the whelp?”

  “No. We have a more important job.”

  Volraag led Rathri and Tezan toward the new trench. Around them, the after-effects of Marshal’s power continued: slight tremors in the ground, red dust clouds sometimes whipped up into small whirlwinds. Nature itself seemed angry at the abuse it had suffered.

  Abuse seemed a good word for it. Volraag had taken a look at Lord Tyrr’s trench, before the earthquake collapsed much of it. Tyrr carved it with care and precision, for its intended purpose. Marshal, however, tore the ground apart with reckless abandon.

  “A magical temper tantrum,” Volraag said under his breath. He coughed and pulled his tunic up over his mouth and nostrils to keep out some of the dust.

  “Who did all this?” Tezan asked. The other two ignored him.

  They reached the edge of the trench and looked down. Everything about the new gorge looked rough and unnatural. Rocks, roots, and odd shaped combinations of brown and red dirt formed an endless variety of protrusions, holes, and a generally uneven
landscape.

  Volraag surveyed it all. “There.” He pointed. Nearly hidden in a lower portion of the trench, he spotted an opening larger than most. A cave. He started down over the edge.

  Rathri took his arm. “Wait. Look over there.”

  Volraag looked. The Amnis had been trickling into the new gorge since Marshal finished. Where Rathri pointed, the water pooled up, encountering a significant barrier in the uneven surface. Given enough time, the water pressure would break down the barrier and send a significant mudslide cascading down the ravine… and into the cave entrance.

  “We’ll just have to hurry,” Volraag said. He resumed his descent.

  “Seriously?” Tezan said. “This is insane, even for you.” Rathri gave him a shove and he started to follow.

  In his youth, Volraag roamed the hills surrounding Reman for miles in every direction. Much to his guardians’ worry, he descended into a number of caves. Some had been huge disappointments, reaching only a few dozen yards beneath the surface. But twice he found caverns much larger and more extensive. As he continued the difficult climb down, he kept an eye on this cave entrance. Something about it seemed different from the others he had explored. It looked too symmetrical, too even.

  Tezan slipped and slid almost past him. Volraag stopped him, but the impact almost knocked him off the side of the gorge. He channeled a small burst of power behind to push himself back against the wall. More dirt crumbled around him, sliding down into the trench. If he weren’t careful, he could create a substantial landslide.

  Near the bottom, Volraag jumped the final few feet. His feet landed in soft red dirt and sank. He shook his way free and took a few steps toward the cave. While they were at the top, he heard constant shouts from both sides’s armies as commanders sought to determine new courses of action, and soldiers demanded explanations. Here at the base of the gorge, those shouts could no longer be heard. The silence added to the unnatural feel of everything.

  Tezan stumbled beside him. “I assume we have a reason for this.”