Tempest of Bravoure

by Valena D'Angelis

  Karlus’s grin reappeared. “But you have to come home when the fight is over.”

  She fell even more silent, switching places with her own shadow. The thought crossed her mind—what if her father’s army could be exactly what Bravoure needs to be saved? Could she even trust her father? Could she even bring herself to hold up her end of the bargain? She had never thought she would, one day, consider coming home. Ahna frowned. If she could do this without signing a deal with this demonic figure, or whatever Karlus was, she would. She had to try to do this without him. If she failed, the Sharr army would be her next bet. Karlus seemed to have no interest in her answer, for now. He turned around, ready to leave her and Veraniel at the heavy steel door. His guards ambled behind him as stringless puppets would. He did not lay eyes on his daughter again.

  Ahna was alone with Veraniel when the old dryaa cupped her hands. It took a moment for Ahna to realize Veraniel was slipping something in her palms.

  “Take this,” Veraniel whispered.

  Ahna looked at the object. It was a small cobalt talisman marked with an occult symbol she had not seen in ages. “That’s the—”

  “The Caged Wings,” Veraniel said. “It’s a soul sigil. It can withhold a wandering soul. But be careful, Meriel, for when the wings go free, so will the soul, and it will vanish forever.”

  Ahna clenched the talisman hard. She did not want to open her hand in fear that she might instantly lose it.

  “How did you...” She wanted to ask how Veraniel had summoned a soul sigil so quickly, but she could not finish her sentence, her voice barred by the clog in her throat.

  “Your mother...I’ve seen her in my dreams. She told me you’d come. She told me to give you this.”

  Ahna was neither shocked nor surprised. Nothing surprised her anymore. This was way beyond what she could comprehend, so she preferred to remain numb for fear of wasting her thoughts to losing her mind. “What did Karlus mean about my mother and me?” That was the one last thing she wanted to know.

  Veraniel looked left and right. There was nobody else at the end of the corridor, but she was still making sure. “I wish I could explain more. Your mother was always so mysterious, so determined. She devoted her entire time at the Circle to studying the Code of Life.”

  Veraniel spoke of Skaiel Arkamai with respect, but most of all, with longing. Like she missed her dearly. The old dryaa opened the steel gates and motioned for Ahna to get in.

  “Go,” she called.

  “Tell me first what my mother found,” Ahna said, and Veraniel swallowed. “Because she found something, didn’t she?”

  Veraniel paused, her hand on the door’s edge. She then looked deep into Ahna’s purple eyes and smiled. “There was something much older than arcane flux in her blood. A form of magic that has long disappeared. Most magi attribute it to the Ancients, but your mother referred to it as Primeval Light in her texts. And us ritualists typically call it—”

  “First Magic?” Ahna’s eyes opened wide. It could not be…

  “Your father coveted that power,” Veraniel added. “That’s why Skaiel ran. Now, go. Go before Karlus changes his mind and decides to keep you here locked up forever.”

  Ahna had too many questions. But first, she understood that absent flicker she had seen in her father’s eyes. She understood Veraniel’s urgent but reserved attitude. Something was going on here in Mal. She had been let in too easily, too quickly. He had granted her access to this place much too fast. Whatever was happening, Ahna needed to act fast. Not only because she and Thamias might be in danger here, but also because she was on a ticking clock, having but moments after she would find Cedric’s soul to return it where it belonged.

  * * *

  The doors closed behind her, and she stood in the darkest of places. A round chamber submerged in a substance so black, it was as if light had never existed. It was not long before Ahna heard the screeches of a thousand terrors howling for her.

  “The scourge, the deserter, the one who cannot let go.” They clawed the walls of her mind like steel blades on a chalkboard. “You are lost. You are desperate. You are—”

  Ahna gathered all the strength she had left in her mind and called, “Sivor sileh hastan Sahalek.”

  Only one creature was of interest to Ahna. She wanted it summoned, the one demon she had once met here, during a baptism of blood of three siblings who had made one fateful promise.

  Sahalek, a Trinity demon. Her demon.

  There was silence followed by a bright ray that beamed from the ceiling and immersed Ahna in the most unnatural light. A voice buried in her memories called to her, challenging her, but the words were inane. She heard them but could not make sense of them.

  “Sivor sileh hastan Sahalek,” she called again.

  She had to scream when the light became too much to bear. Her entire perception distorted, and she could swear the light now came from her. The entire room exploded in millions of prismatic flashes. Her eyes perceived nothing, and yet everything, then nothing again.

  “Take me to the Hollow Earth!” she shouted, but her words were in reverse.

  The light split in shards of blue, gold, silver, and white that cut through her skin yet left no blood. She wanted to check her wounds but saw only her hands. She tried moving her head, but the strain forced her to stare back deep into an abyss of motionless light.

  Her voice was no longer hers. And she was no longer herself. She could see her body floating in mid-air, being ripped apart by the sheer pull of Terra. Then she felt a warm hand reach out to her, and she welcomed it. It landed on her shoulder, then slid to the back of her neck, and gripped it tight. It had no skin and felt like scorched flesh. The figure materialized in front of her, still holding her, and stared deep into her eyes. She could not stare back—its face did not exist.

  But the longer it stared, the calmer she felt. And once she had let it in, welcomed it entirely, Ahna realized she was no longer in the Orator. The place opened in a vast terrain of black and white, where there was no wind nor sound. She was right where she should be. She had been in the Hollow Earth all along.

  Father and Son

  14

  Siege II

  Berius had already left the room sometime in the middle of the night. Luky had awoken before Jules. He strapped his tailored leather cuirass to his chest. He pulled up his linen sleeves for more dexterity and dived into his boots. He picked up his knife from Jules’s nightstand and tossed it in the air before sheathing it in the scabbard hooked to his belt. He was ready to march out of the room.

  “Hold on, Councilor,” Jules called. “Where are you going with this?” he asked, pointing at the scabbard.

  Luky rounded his yellow eyes and blinked once. “To the battlefield!” He raised a fist in the air as he spoke.

  He was expecting everything but a frown, which is exactly what Jules gave him. “You’re staying here, furball. There’s no way I’m letting you out there.”

  “But—”

  Jules raised his tone. “No buts. It’s dangerous.”

  Luky crossed his arms, and his whiskers twitched. “Not as dangerous as eternal night!”

  “Probably much more,” Jules said. He realized how loudly he was speaking. His overly emotional reaction did not do him any good. He was anxious, afraid, and he was in no world going to let Luky add more to his distress.

  “I want to fight!” Luky insisted. “I started the Wolf Pack!”

  Jules crouched in front of Luky and laid both his hands on the catling’s shoulders to reason with him. “The previous you started this, Luky. And I don’t want you to end up like him.”

  Luky was silent for a moment. He knew what Jules implied, but he did not wish to acknowledge it. He found something to say to keep Jules talking. “You mean regenerated?” He smiled with all teeth.

  “I mean dead.”

  An awkward silence invaded the room. The truth of Jules’s words echoed like crashing boulders. He was so stern, which was so unlike him
. Even he admitted so.

  “This is your ninth life, Luky, and you know what this means.” This is the last one you’ll ever get. It was too painful to say that last part.

  Luky’s ears folded, and he looked down, feeling guilty. Jules pulled him into his arms and held him close, to comfort the catling and himself.

  “I’ll be back,” he whispered, and Luky instantly wrapped his little arms around him.

  “You don’t even have a second life,” Luky said with a trembling voice. “So you have to watch out more than I ever did.”

  Jules had to look to the ceiling to hold in tears. There and then, he made a promise to the boy-lynx that he would return whole. Luky latched onto him a little longer simply because he did not want to let go.

  Footsteps approached them and stopped by the door’s threshold.

  “Let’s go,” Cayne said.

  She was smiling, but it was obviously forced. She was too stressed to smile properly. Luky released Jules and looked at the two with bulging eyes.

  “He’ll be back within no time,” Cayne said to the catling. She took a few steps toward him and patted him on the head. “Once we take the castle, you’ll be the first one to know.”

  Luky responded with a forced smile as well. He unhooked his scabbard from his belt and held it in his paws, looking at it wistfully. The boy-lynx turned around and went to sit on the bed, his feet barely touching the ground. He looked lost.

  Jules looked at him, a warm feeling in his heart. The catling he had taken care of and seen grow for the past two years was braver than most. Jules was more proud than he had ever been.

  “See you soon, Councilor Luk Ma,” he bid with a smile. This one was genuine.

  Luky mirrored his smile, first with his yellow eyes, then with his lips and whiskers. His heart-shaped nose twitched a little, which made Jules smile even more.

  * * *

  The Wolf Pack’s army descended the streets of Bravoure toward the Castle of Gold. Their march echoed within city walls like the hooves of savage horses. The rattling of blacksteel sang its rhythmic music as Cayne and the clan leaders led the battalion. When the sun finally dared show itself, its rays turned the soldiers into a sea of gold.

  Before them, the drawbridge had been lowered, and they stood face to face with the Bravan Army. Thousands of archers on the castle’s tower pointed their bow and arrows. Cannons were posted at the frontline on each side. Everyone was ready to strike, but nobody moved. Only the wind swayed sand off the ground of no man’s land.

  Luthan stared at a fixed point ahead of him, at the tip on one of the gold-plated conical towers. His mind had trapped him on a single train of thought, one that had kept him awake all night. His wife was back, and he was so close to seeing her again. After this battle, he would go to the Dwellunder himself. He did not care if he risked his life in the process. He was risking his life here, and that was not dissuading him. His wife had been returned to him after fifty years. He had been forced to wait for another ten. He was going to get her back, even if it took burning the entire Dwellunder to the ground. He could not just wait for her again.

  “How long do you think they’ll sit there staring at us?” Jules asked him, pointing ahead, pulling him out of his brooding thoughts.

  Luthan adjusted his vision to stop staring at that invisible point. “Until we make a move.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  Luthan was still too distracted to say anything else than, “You should ask Cayne.”

  Both of them stood behind the clan leaders, with Cayne as the closest to them. She had heard their comments. She turned her head over her shoulder to address them.

  “They’ll strike us with arrows first,” she said. “We need to raise the shields at my signal.”

  “I know,” Jules retorted. “But what are we waiting for?”

  Cayne looked back. “I want to see Corax.”

  It did not take long before General William Corax showed himself. He appeared out of his sea of soldiers, right at the other side of the drawbridge, in his blacksteel plate. His armor was adorned with the Bravan Army’s golden coat of arms, the Crest of Ghydra, the mortal dragon-god who had come to die beneath the Castle of Gold.

  Only when she saw him did she finally exhale, but something else caught her attention and breath. A group of men in long dark purplish robes gathered at the general’s tail. They gazed ahead of them, at the pack of Wolves amassed by the gates. Cayne locked eyes with one of them.

  Cultists. It had to be.

  “Are those magi?” Jules asked, alarmed.

  Luthan frowned and shook his head. “No. No way the Academy is getting mixed up in this.”

  Cayne wanted to speak, but she was stopped by the general’s call from the other side.

  “The castle is armed to the teeth,” he warned. “You are outnumbered at least three to one. We have the high ground, archers, cannons. Surrender now, and we can end this peacefully.”

  This was not unexpected. This was a firm and final warning. Cayne’s fear manifested itself. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end, but she had to control it. She had to use it to fuel her courage.

  “No one is running, Corax,” she shouted. “You brought this upon yourself. Now you pay the price.”

  Corax roared a loud and guttural laugh. “What have I done that’s so bad, Captain Falco? Bravoure has never been so stable and peaceful—”

  “You forced your peace!” Cayne accused. “The only reason you have peace is that the people are terrified to oppose you!” She shouted louder than he did.

  Jules placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. It would be useless to shout her lungs out here, right before the battle. She was only wasting her energy.

  “No one is surrendering, Falco,” Noah, who stood beside her, said with poise. “We’re all waiting for your signal.”

  Cayne checked Helena and Anir, who stood in a line next to Noah, along with more clan leaders who had joined. Everyone looked back at her and gave her a single nod of promise. Perhaps three-to-one was a bold statement to make, because behind her stood all the clans together, united. Cayne was humbled by their faith in her.

  She turned back to Corax, resolute, prepared to face him in battle. On her back was strapped a scabbard that sheltered the Royal Claymore. Cayne raised her arms to seize the blade’s white hilt with both hands, her slowed breathing matching her allure. She unsheathed it slowly, and the blade slid with a delicate metallic song. When she brandished it in front of her, the golden light of the steel reflected in her coal eyes. Cayne clenched it, transferring her resolve and pride into this holy weapon of legends.

  This was her signal.

  * * *

  “Patience, General Corax,” Father Gale said. “All will be revealed soon. The Wolf Pack will be neutralized, as planned.”

  “They have my weapons and armor,” Corax growled, pointing at the army that stood at the gates of the Castle of Gold.

  The cultist’s voice stayed calm and controlled. “As you just told them, they are outnumbered. Now is not the time for doubts.”

  “I know we’ll crush them, but it’s going to take a waste of my time. These animals fight without the fear of death.”

  What’s this? The she-wolf, the one who has confronted him even in his sleep, carried a weapon that flashed across the horizon. Corax was first blinded by its light, but then, as the radiance dimmed, he squinted to take a look at it.

  What in Hell was this? Some kind of magical weapon? How?

  Corax has no idea. He needed to get closer. The sight of this weapon evoked a certain sense of fear like it preyed on his insecurities. Even the cultist next to him looked surprised.

  “What the...” Corax muttered.

  “General,” the man next to him said. He held a field-glass in both hands and peeked through it. “Their leader is holding some kind of weapon.”

  “Give me that,” Corax said, pulling the lens out of the man’s hands, then he looked for himself.r />
  He gasped when he saw it, the claymore that flared like a beacon of holy light.

  “By...the gods...” he stuttered.

  “What is it?” the cultist wondered.

  General Corax grasped so little of what he was seeing, but looking at that weapon was like looking at a legend itself. It was not a mere tool the woman yards from him held. It was an emblem.

  The Royal Claymore. Corax damned well recognized it from the texts. An artifact still revered in the Bravan Army. One that every soldier had heard of. The weapon carried by the Great General—last seen in the hands of Joshua Sand, High Commander of the Resistance. How was this possible? The claymore was supposed to be lost, everyone knew that too! It had died with him.

  His soldiers had seen it too, and they could not stop staring. They were petrified by an insurmountable tide of pure awe.

  “What are you waiting for?” Corax shouted at his men. His own voice scratched against his throat.

  They looked at him with stunned looks and dangling swords.

  Corax yelled once more. “I want that weapon out of her hands!” He raised his head to the towers behind him. “Archers! Fire!”

  The marksmen heeded his order. They stretched their bows and prepared to release deadly poison-tipped arrows. The cultists noticed the general’s reaction to the sight of this weapon. They calmly retreated to the back of the company, silently, almost unnoticed, like their work here was about to start.

  * * *

  Cayne heard the general’s call. She raised a fist in the air, waiting for the archers to move to end her signal. When they did, she lowered her fist as though she cast the heaviest of stones.

  All fighters behind her simultaneously raised their shields, aligning them like cards, placing them above their heads in defensive formation. The arrows crashed on the shields like steel drops of rain. The force almost became too much to bear. When the rain ended, all shields lowered, and the Wolf Pack charged.