The Godswar Saga (Omnibus)

by Jennifer Vale

  But the battle itself wasn’t over, and Tam quickly shifted his attention to Gor’s ongoing melee with Heist’s hired thugs. One of the big thugs had squirmed free of the pile and recovered his axe, and he was patiently waiting for an opportunity to hack down the annoying chagari the moment he had a clear opening. Tam didn’t give him the chance. With another flick of his wrist, the young man directed a searing beam straight into the mercenary’s chest. The man screamed in shock and pain, and his axe-flipped free of his grip as he reflexively clutched at the smoldering hole in his armor. Not that it made a difference; he was still dead before he hit the ground.

  The man’s partner, still grappling with Gor, gasped in fear and let his guard down enough for the chagari to finally wrench himself free. With a feral roar and an elbow to the chin, Gor slashed his claws across the mercenary’s throat, and a spray of red gore showered across his fur.

  Wincing away from the carnage, Selvhara summoned lighting to her fingers one last time. She twisted around towards Jason and Heist—

  Only to realize they were no longer there.

  ***

  A flash of light suddenly and unexpectedly lit up the forest around them, and in the corner of his conscious mind Jason heard the telltale sounds of Selvhara’s lightning and Tam’s fire as they retaliated at their hidden attackers. He might have smiled had Heist not landed two more blows in his chest and sent him reeling to the ground. Jason coughed as he hit the hard dirt, and a spurt of blood escaped his lips—along with most of the air from his chest.

  “Dukol!” Heist grunted in Crell, taking the opportunity to finally draw a slender sword from somewhere inside his coat. Their back-and-forth melee had eventually rolled them near one of the largest trees, but at this point Jason wasn’t really worried about finding cover from the archers; Sel and Tam could deal with the forest snipers easily enough. He was far more concerned about his broken ribs, his possibly punctured lungs, and, the armed man about to skewer him.

  He had exactly two lingering hopes. For one, it seemed Heist wasn’t much of a channeler; he had obviously survived Sel’s blast, but he hadn’t cooked Jason himself, which was a good sign. For two, the edge of the clearing was now only about ten feet away, and if he could maneuver Heist closer, he might be able to knock the man down the sharp hill and buy himself a few seconds to get back to the others.

  But all of that assumed he could survive the next few seconds. Heist didn’t waste any time in pressing his attack; he lunged forward with a simple thrust, and Jason barely managed to twitch to the side before the sword pierced the edge of his jacket and pinned him to the dirt. Grimacing, he shuffled his weight enough to score a quick right hook, at which point he rolled away as hard as he could, shedding his jacket and furiously trying to pick up anything he could get his hands on. By the time he hopped back to his feet, he was clutching onto an uneven, two-foot long branch and pretending it was a sword.

  Heist smiled as he lunged again. A few quick slashes reduced Jason’s makeshift weapon into a piece of kindling, but it did allow Jason to temporarily dictate their positioning. He leapt back to his right as he clumsily parried each of the attacks, and by the time his “weapon” was destroyed he was mostly where he wanted to be. Heist, seeing his opponent with virtually no defense, went in for the easy kill.

  But Jason’s left hand was ready. Just as Heist flinched to make his move, Jason tossed the bit of dirt and rocks he had grabbed into the man’s face. Heist stumbled—if only barely—striking forward blindly. His blade caught Jason in the side of his leg, slicing a clean new wound, but it cost him sure footing. Sidestepping and shifting his bodyweight, Jason slammed into Heist’s side and sent them both tumbling down the nearby decline.

  This fall was far less elegant than their earlier one, and it hurt a hell of a lot more, too. Jagged rocks and sharp branches lined the ground the whole way down, and by the time they splashed into the creek below both men were a bloodied mess. Jason’s eyes struggled to stay focused despite the pain ripping through most of his body, and he caught a glimpse of Heist’s sword lying a few feet away on the hillside, its point embedded in the dirt.

  Unfortunately, Heist had apparently seen it first. He rolled to his feet with a grunt, his face twisting in ire, and he caught Jason across the face with a boot just as he was trying to stand. Jason’s head banged into a rock, and he nearly lost consciousness. By the time his senses returned, he was lying on his back with Heist holding the blade right in front of him. He was now officially out of tricks and out of time.

  “You should’ve taken my offer,” the man said between breaths, leveling his sword. “Though after what he said about you, I doubt Mr. Slaan will much care if I bring you to him as a corpse.”

  “Just get it over with,” Jason muttered.

  Heist smiled, and his muscles tensed as he lunged forward—

  And then a stroke of lightning cooked through the air and burned a hole through his chest. His sword clattered against the rocks, and his body swiftly followed.

  “Nice timing,” he murmured, clutching at his aching jaw. Selvhara didn’t waste any time; a gust of wind stirred beneath her feet, and she half jumped, half floated down to meet him.

  “Stay still,” she told him, inspecting his myriad cuts and gashes. “You should be dead.”

  “I’m a good target dummy, what can I say?”

  “You need to be more careful,” she scolded even as her hands flashed with healing magic. Her face was twisted in a scowl, but beyond her motherly concerns he could see a deeper and even more familiar pain lurking behind her eyes. She looked the same way anytime she was forced to kill someone in self-defense or otherwise. Once, back at the start of the last war, Jason had often seen the same expression on his own face after a battle.

  But not anymore.

  “He would have killed me,” Jason soothed. “You didn’t have a choice.”

  Selvhara didn’t reply. Sighing, he closed his eyes and let her work. A soothing pulse cascaded across his body, and one by one the worst of the lingering aches faded away. His jaw was still sore, and his temples pounded like someone had smacked him with a tree trunk, but otherwise everything seemed to be working all right.

  “What happened to the others?” Jason asked into the silence.

  “Most ran off,” Tam said, rubbing at his own wounds. “A few are dead.”

  “We need to find Slaan,” Gor cut in, walking down next to them. “I’m going to feed that wretch his own entrails.”

  Jason bit down on his lip, his mind racing now that he wasn’t so distracted by pain. He and Slaan—Professor Jacob Slaan, technically—had never really gotten along. The man taught at the Cergar Historical Academy here in Galvia, but he was a third-rate scholar at best. But he also happened to have stumbled on information Jason needed, and a few months ago they formed a semi-official business arrangement over a variety of Hassian artifacts. They hadn’t departed under the best of terms, but a few little scholarly debates here and there were a far cry from tipping off thugs to come and kill someone…

  There had to be more to it. The problem was that they might not have had time to figure it out.

  “Slaan can wait,” he said after a moment. “Right now we need to get to Selig and unload as much of this as we can.”

  Tam glanced down to the pouch at his friend’s waist. “Heist knew about the cube specifically. How is that even possible? Even you didn’t know it was in there.”

  “That’s the real question, isn’t it? He knew about the ruins, obviously, but I don’t know how he could have known about the cube.”

  “Slaan must have learned something after you parted ways,” Sel reasoned as she leaned back against a stump, visibly exhausted. “He may very well know what the cube is.”

  “Forget the cube,” Gor growled. “If Heist was really a Crell Imperator, then we might not even make it into Selig. Sovereign Verrator will know exactly what transpired here, and if he believes it’s important enough, he will dispatch troops.”
>
  “I doubt he’ll go that far,” Jason whispered, wishing desperately that he believed it. He had expected this dig to be a huge find, but he hadn’t expected anything like this. All over one little box…

  He sighed and closed his eyes. Gor was right: assuming Heist really was a Bound servant of the Sovereign Verrator—the imperial governor installed to oversee the day-to-day governance of Galvia—then that meant the authorities would also know exactly who had killed him. As if their channeling abilities weren’t bad enough, the Bound were also walking spies. Their Ascendant patron could hear and see everything that took place around one of their servants if they were so inclined, which meant that Jason and the others might have already been marked as wanted fugitives.

  Of course, technically they were all already marked as wanted fugitives here, just for different reasons. He was the son of a perceived war criminal, Tam was a renegade Unbound, Gor was an escaped slave, and Sel…well, the Crell had never been particularly fond of the elysians, and certainly not those who had helped the Galvians during the war. They had dubbed her people “elves” as a racial slur.

  “We’ve managed to keep a reasonably low profile so far, and they’re already looking for us,” Jason said. “Besides, in all likelihood Heist was just a local nobody who thought he could score some easy gold on the side and then milk some prestige from the Sovereign. You’ll note that his goons weren’t actually Crell—this wasn’t an official mission.”

  “Anything involving an Imperator is an ‘official mission,’” Gor countered. “They can’t exactly sneak around behind the Sovereign’s back. He knows where his minions are at all times.”

  “He also has hundreds of other Bound servants to keep track of, and even an Ascendant’s attention is finite,” Selvhara said. “It’s also worth pointing out that Heist seemed to be avoiding channeling whenever possible. There could be a reason for that.”

  “Sneaking behind his boss’s back,” Jason said. “Interesting.”

  Gor flicked out his claws in disgust. “Speculation is just as pointless as sitting here. Whatever we do, we need to do it quickly.”

  “We could head to Taig instead,” Tam suggested. “It’s a bit farther away, but maybe that will throw off any potential pursuit. And if we can’t sell everything there, then we can just push on to Lyebel.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Jason murmured. Taig was only about half the size of Selig, and he wasn’t likely to find nearly as many interested buyers…but as long as they could unload some of their cargo, they could easily pack up the rest and make haste for Lyebel where the market would be dramatically better anyway. “Let’s just hope the horses are okay…”

  Thankfully, they were. Heist seemed to have put them asleep with his magic, which explained why they hadn’t gone berserk during the fighting. A quick spell from Selvhara got them back on their feet, and she gave them a small snack to help convince them that everything was all right.

  “Let’s get everything packed up,” he said as he surveyed the still-smoldering embers from the battle. “We obviously can’t stay here, and Taig is almost sixty miles away.”

  Gor and Tam set off to work without further protest, but Selvhara eventually slipped up next to him. “If we do have trouble getting into the city, we should consider contacting the Resistance,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll have agents this close to Lyebel.”

  “No doubt,” Jason whispered. He had no intention of talking to anyone in the Galvian Resistance if he could help it, of course—the thought of spending time with his father’s old war buddies made him sick to his stomach. Not because he didn’t like them or because he didn’t share in their cause, but because he didn’t want to have to deal with their inevitable guilt-tripping. After his father died, everyone had expected Jason to step in and claim General Moore’s mantle, but of course he hadn’t. And he never would.

  “Just keep it in mind,” Sel said, squeezing his arm. “They’re good people, and you know they’ll bend over backwards to help you.”

  That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Jason thought to himself. He watched in silence for a few moments as the others put out the remaining fires and retrieved their belongings, but eventually he let out a deep breath and got to work. The sleepy little town of Taig was waiting for them, and it was time to get moving.

  Chapter Three

  “Ours is not an alliance born of convenience, but of companionship. We stand united against the dark forces of the world, be it tyranny, injustice, or the reckless misuse of Aether. Together we are a force for righteousness and a sacred fist of judgment. Let no evil stand in our way.”

  —Salien Orothar, King of Solaria, 1525 AG, before the Conclave of the Last Dawn

  Darius Iouna, General of the Sixth Solarian Legion, decorated war hero, combat veteran, and scholar, rarely felt powerless. Twelve years ago, he had been a soldier at Lyebel during the final battle of the Ash War. Six years ago, his unit had crushed the Placite rebels in the far eastern corner of the country. And only two years ago, he led his nation’s forces at the Serogar Gate, destroying an army of cultists bent on resurrecting an ancient demon. At only thirty-five years of age, he was the youngest man ever to wear the crest of an Alliance General, and he was one of the most respected military minds in all of Torsia.

  Yet here, staring out the immaculate marble window of the King’s Tower, he was a pauper.

  Regardless of what he said or did, none of the men and women seated around the Table of Lords would take heed. They were fools—arrogant, blind fools who had seen history repeated time and again over the decades yet refused to acknowledge its patterns. Eventually, they would pay the price for such short-sightedness. But not today.

  “Your arguments have not changed, General Iouna,” Lady Savilen said. “I fail to see why you expect us to give you a different answer.”

  Darius turned back to the table, doing his best to keep the frustration off his face. The speaker was, like virtually everyone here, in the twilight years of her life. Savilen had a calculating aura about her he admired, but she was as stubborn as the rest of them when it came down to it. She lorded over the Laquoor province, a heavily populated, largely urban area within the Solarian Alliance, and her word carried great weight within these walls. But while she understood politics, she had never seen a battlefield in her long life. At half her age, Darius bore scars from three separate conflicts and had more field experience than her or any of the others. It was, perhaps, what he hated most about the Lord’s Council: their complete and utter detachment from the world around them.

  There were seven seats at the table, six for each of the lords that ruled over Solaria and one for High Priest Kaeldar, the Voice of King Tyrius Areekan. It was an archaic tradition, this council, but it was something the Alliance had always taken pride in. It had existed in principle since their ancestors had taken up arms to fight against the evil gods and their heretics millennia before. At first, the Council had been filled with knights loyal to Sol, the great Immortal who had forged their righteous empire in the first place. Since then the Council had become part of Alliance politics in one way or another, with the most recent change being the elections of provincial lords to fill the seats rather than the nation’s warrior elite.

  The king, for his part, was ultimately the heart of the country and the chosen successor to Sol. Ostensibly, he was merely the religious leader of Solaria, and he was only rarely supposed to involve himself in direct matters of state. In practice, of course, no one was more important.

  Areekan was an Ascendant, one of a handful of individuals throughout the world with the ability to empower a caste of Bound servants to channel Aether. He carried within his ancient body the spirit of Sol and the memories of all those who had come before him on the throne. This “divine spark” of power burning inside him allowed him to hold the country together, to link his mind with thousands of his priests across Solaria at all times. These men and women were entrusted with enormous responsibilities, from m
aintaining the mental and spiritual health of the Solarian people to allowing instantaneous communication from one border of the country to another. Without them, Solaria couldn’t exist. And without Areekan, the Bound could not exist.

  So while the Council may have technically wielded all the political power within the Alliance, everyone knew they were merely subjects of the king like everyone else. The only genuine restrictions on the king’s power were the tenets of Sol, and while Darius had never been completely comfortable with that arrangement, many centuries had passed since an Ascendant king had grievously misused his authority.

  The Council, on the other hand, seemed to abuse their power on a daily basis. Not in practical terms, of course, but in situations like the one confronting them now. They faced a genuine imminent threat, and these politicians were too consumed in their own ambitions to see it. They refused to take risks that might jeopardize their status and popularity, and at times it made him sick.

  Darius often wondered if the knights of old would have been blind to such dangers. Somehow, he doubted it. Politicians and generals saw the world in dramatically different ways, and they probably always would. Regardless, none of this idle speculation changed the reality of the moment: convincing the Council to go to war with the Crell Imperium preemptively, without signs of an overt offensive, was impossible.

  It was also the only way they could save their homeland.

  “The arguments remain the same,” he said finally, trying to make eye contact with each of the councilors in turn, “but our window of opportunity grows narrower each and every day. The Imperium continues to breed dragons and groll at an alarming rate, and they are conscripting peasants and hiring mercenaries even faster than during the Ash War. If we do not act soon, we will lose our chance to mete out justice to the Sovereigns.”

  “Justice,” Lord Alistan scoffed. “You mean war, General. You are still talking about launching an unprovoked attack. That is not the way Solaria functions.”