“The Godsoul is weak, fractured,” he said, “and you have no idea how to control its power. Your resistance only causes you more pain.”
Another rumble shook the warehouse, and this time Jason’s body vaulted into the air like he’d just been sucked up into a tornado. He whirled around in place so quickly it was all he could do not to vomit, and he watched in silent terror as Dathiel stripped away his protective magic as effortlessly as if he were peeling the skin from an onion. Once the shield had been completely dismantled, Jason plummeted back down into the pile of crates…and this time, it hurt.
His ankle twisted awkwardly on impact, and he barely had time to shield his face with his forearm before he crashed through another pile of wood. By the time he finally stopped rolling, he had to squint through the haze of red clouding his vision. He could barely even see.
But he could see…and out of the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of movement from the other side of the warehouse. There, crawling hand over hand through the piles of debris littering the floor, was Tam.
“Be at peace, Mr. Moore,” Dathiel said. “The pain will only be momentary…”
He leaned down as if to grab onto Jason’s head—and then he shrieked as a ball of fire exploded in his back and catapulted him halfway across the warehouse.
“I guess the gods are flammable after all,” Tam muttered as he propped himself up on one arm. “Good to know.”
With his free hand, he hosed down the other side of the warehouse with a continuous cone of flame. Dathiel leapt back to his feet and sheathed himself in another protective mantle, but his robe and tunic had already caught fire. Jason could feel the man’s pain echoing like a shockwave through the Aether, and he knew that now might be his only chance to strike…
Ignoring the agony shooting through his ankle and forearm, Jason hoisted himself up into a crouch and unleashed every last bit of power he could muster. The scintillating blast swirled together with Tam’s flame, and Dathiel screamed in exertion as his barrier threatened to collapse. Jason could feel the other man’s power weakening, and for a fraction of a second he was actually able to peek into the Watcher’s mind—
And then suddenly it was over. With a final tormented shriek, Dathiel’s barrier collapsed. He soared backwards and smashed through the warehouse wall like a small meteor, and when the debris cleared he was gone. Not dead, but gone. At least for now.
For a long moment it was all Jason could do to breathe normally and force himself to stay conscious. But then Tam groaned in misery, and Jason managed to lunge over to his friend’s side despite his broken ankle. Tam looked terrible—his pale skin had taken on a yellowish twinge, and trickles of blood had begun leaking from his nose. Whatever the demon had done to him, it was clear he wasn’t going to last much longer.
“God or not,” Tam muttered between labored breaths, “that guy was a real asshole. Let’s stick with fighting regular soldiers and bandits from now on, all right?”
“No promises,” Jason whispered placing his hand upon his friend’s head. “How do you feel?”
“Do you really have to ask? I’m just glad you don’t have a mirror.”
Jason bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The Aether no longer swirled around Tam now that he’d stopped channeling, but Jason could still sense a lingering aura of…something beneath the other man’s flesh. It wasn’t a normal Aetheric echo; it must have been the demonic corruption seeping into Tam’s veins. Distantly, Jason wondered if it had been there ever since Shanizaar. If so, he must have only now become attuned enough to detect it…
“You should check on the others,” Tam told him. “I think they’re just unconscious, but I’m not sure.”
“They’re alive,” Jason said, reaching out with his telepathy. He could sense their minds from here, and none of them looked visibly wounded—at least, not compared to Tam. “I’m more worried about you.”
“This place is falling apart, and the Crell will be here any minute. You should drag them out of here while there’s still time.”
Jason glanced back over his shoulder. His battle with Dathiel had destroyed plenty of crates and other storage containers, but the bigger problem was that they had set half the building on fire—a fire which was rapidly spreading across the wooden debris. It was already getting more and more difficult to breathe even with the open roof above them, and soon the smoke would be a bigger concern than the city guardsmen who were assuredly on their way…
“I have to figure out a way to stabilize you first,” Jason said with a determined grimace. “There has to be a way to undo this.”
“If Sel couldn’t cure me, there’s no way in the Void you’ll be able to,” Tam replied with a cough. “No offense.”
“She couldn’t cure you because this isn’t a normal disease. You were corrupted by a demon.”
Tam blinked. “What?”
“That woman you spent so much time with in Shanizaar—she had been possessed by a demon. Dathiel put her there explicitly to try to weaken you before he confronted us.”
“But…” He coughed again and shook his head. “That’s the craziest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re Unbound, and he knew you were the only one who could seriously threaten him,” Jason explained. “I’m not sure why he didn’t have you killed outright—he probably figured it would change our plans too much and make us unpredictable.” He waved a hand. “But it doesn’t matter right now. There has to be a way to purge this corruption.”
Jason took in a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate on the strange aura inside Tam. It was almost like a dissonant echo that had fallen out of synch with the rest of the Aether; Jason felt as though he were pressing his ear up against a door to hear what was on the other side. The more he “listened,” however, the more he could isolate the aberrant vibrations…
Tam’s chest shuddered from yet another coughing spasm, and he reached out and clutched onto Jason’s wrist. “Just get the others, Jace. Sarina and Sel don’t deserve to die like this.” He tilted his head backwards towards the unconscious chagari just a few yards away. “Feel free to leave Gor if you want, though.”
“Just shut up for a minute,” Jason scolded. “I need to concentrate.”
“You need to go!” Tam insisted. “There’s nothing you can—”
Jason clamped a hand over his friend’s mouth and then closed his eyes. The aberrant vibrations grew so loud they drowned everything else out. The crumbling warehouse, the crackling flames, Tam’s continued protestations—everything faded into the background. Jason allowed the Aether to become his eyes…and suddenly the demonic taint was as obvious as a tar stain on white linens.
You can cleanse the corruption, Malacross’s voice whispered into his mind. It is a shadow, a reflection, just like the creature that spawned it—but it is still part of the Aether, just as you are now. Draw the shadow into yourself…and then return it to the light.”
“Yes,” Jason said. “I understand.”
Taking a deep breath, he reached out with the Aether and grabbed a hold of the corruption. At first, it resisted; the dissonant vibrations grew stronger and stronger until he almost couldn’t bear the noise. But then he finally broke through, not by muffling the sound—but by harmonizing it with the natural ebb and flow of the Aether. Soon the aura was indistinguishable from any other…and Jason’s eyes slowly reopened.
“What the…?” Tam stammered. On the outside, he still looked weak—his skin remained pale, and his eyes were completely bloodshot. On the inside, however, he was as strong and healthy as he’d ever been…a few bumps and bruises notwithstanding. “What the hell did you do?”
“I’m…I’m not sure,” Jason said, slouching back on his haunches. He felt like he’d just sprinted all the way from Shanizaar to Bal’Aqui on a broken ankle. “But I think I just performed a miracle and saved your life. Normal demigod stuff, you know.”
Tam let out a half-cough, half-chuckle as he sat up. “Figures. You�
�ll do just about anything to prove me wrong.”
Jason smiled and even started to laugh before a chunk of the ceiling collapsed barely ten feet away from them. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Can you walk?”
“I can certainly try,” Tam grunted as he pulled himself up. “I’ll grab Sel, you get Sarina.”
Jason nodded and lunged towards Sarina, but then stopped himself mid-dive. “What about Gor?”
“I can move myself,” the chagari grumbled. He unsheathed his claws and slowly hoisted himself to a knee. “But it’s so wonderful to know you care.”
“You were next on my list, big guy,” Tam said as he leaned over Selvhara and slung her wispy figure over his shoulder. “I promise. I just figured you could tough out the smoke a bit longer than the rest of us.”
Gor grumbled something under his breath as he sifted through the nearby debris, but Jason was no longer paying attention. He ran a hand across Sarina’s forehead, then hoisted her up into his arms. She was alive and breathing more or less normally, but judging from the cuts and bruises on her head, something must have smacked into her during the fight. He considered trying to channel and heal her, but even though he’d just performed a miracle with Tam, Jason still didn’t trust in his abilities enough to risk pausing inside a collapsing building.
Instead he ignored the pain in his foot and lumbered outside, the others following closely behind him. Fire horns blared in the distance, and he had no doubt that the local guardsmen would show up any second. If they couldn’t get out of here soon, they’d all end up in a holding cell…and with the Imperium here in force, sooner or later they’d end up in the High Sovereign’s dungeon.
“Where to now, chief?” Tam asked between breaths. The color had already begun to return to his face. “We can’t exactly sprint through the streets with a couple of women slung over our shoulders.”
“Not the main streets, anyway,” Jason agreed. “We should be able to hide out in the slums for a while.”
“You’re certain you don’t wish to use this?” Gor asked. He reached out his arm, and nestled in the crook of his paw was a large, milky-white gemstone. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t this the entire reason we left Solaria?”
Tam gasped in surprise. “Is that the Eye? Where in the hell did you find it?”
“Sitting amongst the debris,” the chagari said, eyeing the gemstone covetously. “You can thank me for retrieving it later.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not going to help us,” Jason murmured. He ran his hand across Sarina’s cheek, then took a deep breath and tried to sift through the memories of the past few frantic minutes. “It doesn’t work like the legends claim—it can’t actually track anyone down.”
“What?” Tam stammered. “How do you know that?”
“While we were fighting, I was able to peek into Dathiel’s mind. The window was only open for a second, but I learned some things…” Jason shook his head. “The Eye isn’t a beacon and never was.”
“So then this trip really was a complete waste of time,” Gor growled, his claws closing tightly around the gem. “This relic of yours is worthless!”
“It still bears a potent enchantment, but I don’t know what it does,” Jason said. “It doesn’t matter, though. I still know where my father is.”
Tam frowned and glanced between the two of them. “But you just said the Eye doesn’t work.”
“It doesn’t, but we don’t need it. While I was in Dathiel’s mind, I was also able to catch a glimpse of a few of the Watcher’s secrets. Evidently they have operatives embedded all over the world, including Galvia, and they have been keeping a close eye on my father. That’s where he is right now.”
“I could have told you that all along,” Gor grumbled, though he seemed slightly less annoyed. “But Galvia is a huge country.”
“Yes, but his demons have been operating in Ashenfel,” Jason explained. “The Watchers are convinced he’s going to attempt to take back the capital. They believe he has a plan to raise an army somehow.”
Tam pressed his lips into a thin line. “So what does that mean for us?”
“What it means,” Jason said, gently brushing Sarina’s hair from her face, “that it’s finally time to go home.”
Chapter Thirteen
“War may be the fire in which Asgardians are forged, but if history has taught us anything, precious few of the Northmen are truly capable of enduring the heat.”
—Baron Pavel Korvich, 1783 A.G., shortly before his army’s defeat at Frostgarde
In the eyes of most Torsians, especially those dwelling along the continent’s southern coast, Asgardia was a country filled with brawny, mead-addled barbarians who wanted nothing more than to fight and fuck, usually in that order. At best, Asgardian warriors were seen as foolish, honor-bound mercenaries; at worst they were dismissed as downright brutish thugs. Yamatan playwrights in particular had always demonstrated a fondness for the “intemperate savage” character archetype in both their dramas and tragedies, and some Talishites believed that the only explanation for the ferocity of Asgardian women was that they were tainted with the blood of demons.
The truth, naturally, was a bit more nuanced. While the “men of the north” did cling to many ancient warrior traditions, in reality they weren’t all that different from Galvians or Solarians or even Crell. People were people no matter where they rested their heads, the old saying went, and the politics of the Asgardian clan and family structure were every bit as byzantine as the Alliance Council or the old Galvian Royal Court. The clan lords were both cunning and ruthless in their own way, and Ethan Moore had no intention of underestimating them.
Not today. Not with the fate of Galvia hanging in the balance.
“Make certain you remain at least a hundred yards from the building at all times,” he whispered to Kar’zhel as they approached Frostgarde’s aptly-named “Wind Quarter” where an ever-present gale swirled off the sea and nearby bluffs. “In fact, just stay right in this spot. I’ll summon you if you’re needed.”
Master is too cautious, the demon whispered into his mind. The Northmen shamans are no threat to us.
“Probably not, but your ‘brother’ is already in position. Having more than one of your kind lurking in the same place is just begging for trouble. Now stay put.”
The demon obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and Ethan took a deep breath and pulled the cowl of his brown hood more tightly about his face. He had arrived in Frostgarde yesterday morning, and with the help of a few newly-summoned minions, he had already learned everything he needed to know about the city’s major political players. Clan Lord Torvald Halfren, the son of one of his old contacts, spent most of his time here managing his ships and assets, and Ethan was more confident than ever that he’d soon call this ambitious young man an ally. The pieces were already in place—all that remained was for Ethan to maneuver them about the board correctly.
He smiled as he made his way across the district. Frostgarde itself was surprisingly gorgeous, especially for a city filled with barrel-chested brutes. Built upon the northern shores of Lake Lyebel, Frostgarde had long served as the most important military and trading settlement along Asgardia’s southern border. Goods from Galvia, Solaria, Crell, and Numen flowed into the massive port, and ever since Lyebel’s destruction during the Ash War, Frostgarde’s coffers had swelled beyond anything the High King could possibly have envisioned. The result was that most of the Asgardians who lived here were much wealthier—and worldlier—than their counterparts living in the plains or countryside. They were still proud of their warrior heritage, but they were also cagey enough to realize that their nation’s future was much more dependent upon the flow of foreign coin than the sharpness of its axes.
What they were apparently not cagey enough to realize, however, was the laughable state of their security. In the span of just a few dozen hours, Ethan had been able to glean everything he could possibly want to know about the daily routines of the clan lord and his
entourage. He knew where they ate, he knew where they slept, and even knew what whores they fucked when they weren’t on duty. If he’d been a Zarul agent, he would have been able to eliminate almost every important person in this city well before imperial galleons began bombarding the harbor. The local shamans simply weren’t trained to deal with enemy channelers.
Evidently, the years of peace had not been kind to the warriors of the north. Ethan had almost started to question his decision to bring them into the war in the first place, but at this point he was out of options. The Mon’Gardoth were his only realistic option.
A few minutes later he reached the Crescent Bridge Counting House, an establishment that had nothing to do with bridges or banking. In reality, it was something of a hunter’s lodge crossed with a back-alley fighting pit. Here the wealthier, older, and mostly male denizens of Frostgarde came to relive their glory days by drinking, swapping stories, and then gambling on fist-fights of younger warriors. Ethan could hear the ruckus inside long before he approached. For the average citizen, the misleading name on the front of the building was something of a private joke. The two enormous men looming in front of the doorway, however, were not.
“There’s no charity for you here, old man,” the one on the left growled as Ethan started up the steps. “Try the almshouse on the north side of town.”
Ethan smiled and pulled out a small pouch of coin from inside his robes. “I don’t require charity. I just arrived from Lyebel, and I’m here to meet a friend of mine.”
The guard grunted derisively, but his partner’s surprisingly nimble hand lashed out and stole away the purse. “No foreigners allowed,” he said, smiling toothily. “Now leave.”
Ethan sighed. He could have destroyed them both with a single spell, of course, but killing two of the clan lord’s warriors probably wasn’t the best way to ingratiate himself. Instead he chose the simpler option: he reached out with his telepathy and picked out the information he needed directly from their minds.
The Godswar Saga (Omnibus) Page 108
