Spellship

by Chris Fox

  “You were saying about the signature?” Nara prompted. She liked Ismene, but the girl was incredibly distractible.

  “Sorry.” She released Pytho’s tail and focused on Nara. “Well, if we’re positive the ship is on this world, then perhaps its signature is hidden under Virkonna’s. She’s buried in the pyramid your Outrider friend is heading for. This ship, if it’s there, could be under the temple, too.”

  “If it is, how do we reach it? Are there tunnels that run under the pyramid?” Nara prompted.

  “Theoretically, yes. They’re called the warrens. But they aren’t policed. There’s drakes down there. Bandits. And worse. And, as far as I know, there’s no real map.”

  “So how do you suggest I get down there? Can I hire a guide?” Nara asked.

  “Maybe,” Ismene mused. She stroked Pytho’s neck. “The problem is that the only people who know those warrens are Outriders with something to prove. They go there to kill drakes, or other trophies. And they don’t like people from Shaya any more than my mother does. But I do know someone who might help. He’s a little…unorthodox.”

  “Unorthodox?” Nara blinked. “I don’t care if he’s got three eyes. If he can help me find the Spellship, than I’d love to meet him.”

  “He’s not that unorthodox.” Ismene gave a quiet giggle. “But he’s not from Virkon either. He’s from Ternus.”

  “Ternus?” Nara leaned back in her chair, curious now. “What would bring someone here from Ternus?”

  “Well, he calls himself an archeologist,” Ismene explained quietly, “but I get the sense he’s more of a scavenger. He looks harmless enough, but I watched him gun down six people. He’s not someone I’d want to piss off.”

  “All right, how soon can you arrange a meeting?” Nara asked.

  “You come back tomorrow at the same time, and I’ll make sure he’s here.” The way Ismene smiled left no doubt as to why she was confident she could get him there. The poor guy probably had it bad for the pretty archivist.

  “I’ll be here. In the meantime, let’s see what else we can learn.” Nara pulled the book closer again, and began scanning the page.

  27

  Voria Goes to a Party

  Voria had no idea what to expect when she arrived at the cliffside balcony near the very tip of Virkon’s highest peak. She’d known the stronghold of the Wyrms would be majestic, and it was: all tall fluted spires where Wyrms could perch, with magnificent statues sprinkled below those perches.

  She’d dressed the part, with her freshly pressed parade jacket dripping with medals. She’d even used a little illusion magic to enhance her lips and eyes, a conceit she’d never have admitted to, publicly at least.

  Curiously, not a single perch was occupied. Instead, the Wyrms had shifted to something resembling a human form. They talked and mingled, every Wyrm taller than she by at least thirty centimeters. Not a single one had hair of any kind, quite unlike Voria’s one brief look at Nebiat’s human form. Her long white hair seemed a rarity among Wyrms, and that aroused Voria’s curiosity.

  “Welcome, Major,” a tall, dark-skinned woman called. She approached, the sunlight glinting off her bald scalp. She smiled at Voria, but the smile was too wide for a human, and too predatory. “I am pleased you have come. I realize you will not recognize anyone, as we have adopted a more suitable appearance for such a meeting.”

  “Olyssa?” Voria guessed.

  “Indeed.” Olyssa placed a hand on Voria’s shoulder and guided her through the crowd. There had to be a hundred Wyrms here, all enjoying goblets of a drink that smelled of sharp spices. “Your arrival has occasioned much curiosity. We do not often receive visitors from the Temple of Enlightenment.”

  “Ah,” Voria replied drily. She glanced at Ikadra, which was still clutched in her left hand. Every Wyrm who saw it would realize she was a true mage, and it was natural to assume she must be from the Temple. She had studied there, so it wasn’t that far from the mark. “I must admit I am a bit puzzled. I expected a private council meeting, but this looks much more like a party.”

  They passed by a floating game board covered with intricate patterns of black-and-white scales. As she watched, one of the Wyrms crooked a long finger and a scale flared on his arm. It rose and moved to the board, then clicked into place. The move surrounded a section of white scales, and a bright, magical light flared. The scales disappeared then reappeared in a stack in front of the dragon who’d placed the scale.

  “What are they playing? It looks a good deal like Go,” Voria asked, intensely curious. She paused to peer at the scales. She’d played Go back at the Temple; every student had. It was one of the safest ways to test them against each other, and allowed those with less physical aptitude an arena in which to dominate their more scholarly peers.

  “It’s called Kem’Hedj.” Olyssa paused. “It is also known as the oldest game—so old that we do not know when the first game was played. As I understand it, your Go is descended from our game. The two games are not at all dissimilar. The primary difference is that our game boards continue to expand as they are played. There is a game on the south slope that has been going on for seventy-four years. It covers nearly a kilometer.”

  A pair of tall females sauntered over. The taller had her arm draped over the shoulder of the shorter, who huddled against the taller woman’s side with an adoring smile.

  “That staff you carry,” the taller woman boomed. She leaned forward, her focused eyes studying Ikadra. “How did you come by it? He is fabulously old. Countless millennia.”

  Only in that instant did Voria realize the magnitude of her blunder. She’d brought her staff, because she was a mage and that was what mages did. She hadn’t been thinking strategically enough. Ikadra wasn’t a mere staff. He was a key—a key to the vessel she sought on this world. She couldn’t afford to pique curiosity about Ikadra. She didn’t want to draw any attention to him, if she could avoid it. Perhaps leaving him behind would have been the better decision after all. Too late for that now.

  “Oh, such artifacts are common on Shaya,” Voria lied terribly. “This staff has been in my family for generations. I don’t really know where it comes from.”

  “Would you be interested in selling it?” the tall woman asked. She turned those unsettling eyes on Voria as she awaited her answer.

  On the far side of the room, behind the tall woman, stood a pair of hatchlings. Krox hatchlings. Their dark scales glinted in the sun, marking them as the only draconic figures in the entire crowd. Everyone else was old enough to possess the ability to morph.

  Her eyes met with those of one of the Krox, the one also carrying a staff. He held her gaze for an instant, then delivered a slow, respectful nod. Voria considered for a moment, then returned it.

  Her attention was pulled to the second Krox, who boomed a raucous laugh and drew distasteful glances from neighboring Wyrms. That one wore a spellblade, and spellarmor. Such equipment marked him as a child in the eyes of Wyrms, as Voria understood it. But that didn’t seem to deter him. He downed another goblet of the spiced drink, then snatched a haunch of meat from a passing tray.

  They might not be the same hatchlings Aran had encountered recently back on Shaya, but it seemed an awful coincidence for an identical pair to be on Virkonna, at this precise party.

  “No,” Voria said as she turned back to the tall woman. “The staff is not for sale. My father gave it to me, you see, and he recently passed. Olyssa, I realize this is terribly rude, but would you excuse me? There’s an urgent matter I desperately need to attend to.”

  “Of course.” Olyssa’s expression went carefully neutral. “We have another party scheduled in two days time. Will you consider attending? Many Wyrms will be disappointed they missed you.”

  “I’ll return for the next party, I promise.” And she meant it. But right now she needed to get out of here, and get Ikadra into hiding. She had no idea if the Krox knew what the staff could do, but if they did, and if they now knew she had it, she could
expect a response.

  28

  The Temple of Virkonna

  The shadows circled Aran’s underwater perch for over an hour, but thanks to his air magic he simply stayed submerged. He waited until the last shadow departed, then cautiously swam to the surface. He was, as far as he could tell, alone.

  Nothing bothered him as he guided his armor to the left bank and followed it south. The sun was creeping toward its zenith, but the high walls provided perpetual shade—at least until he reached a break in the canyon.

  Before him stretched a long, very open road. It stretched all the way across the next valley, a massive bowl ringed by low mountains. Near the center of that bowl stood the pyramid from his visions. Multi-colored sigils dotted the golden slopes, glinting in the sunlight. It was utterly massive, dominating the center of the valley, and overshadowing every surrounding peak among the hills ringing it.

  Aran had pictured some sort of gauntlet he’d have to run. A running gun battle, or ambushes in canyons. He had not expected to see an organized war camp at the base of the pyramid.

  “Let’s get a better look,” he whispered absently, channeling a bit of fire into his armor. He zoomed his vision in on the camp, which was mostly made up of humans. They waited on a trio of enforcers—hatchlings, he guessed.

  Two wore the black-and-grey of the Krox forces, but the third wore an outfit identical to Astria’s. That gave him pause. Did that mean he could disappear from sight? Aran had to assume it did, and he’d need to find a way around it.

  “That was really stupid, going into the water,” a disembodied Astria said. “You could have been attacked by another fangmouth. The first one almost killed you.”

  “Hey there, sis.” Aran continued flying along the road, following it toward the temple. In a way, it was definitely anticlimactic. No one in the camp moved to intercept him, they merely watched as he approached. “I know you can’t help me, and this isn’t really help. Why aren’t they attacking?”

  “Because they have honor?” The way she asked made it clear she thought he had none.

  He raised an eyebrow. “So, it’s cool to attack me with overwhelming force, just not until I’ve almost had my face bitten off and have walked across half the planet?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You are just loads of help.” Aran risked rising a few meters higher off the deck. He increased his velocity, using a mixture of void magic for gravity, and fire magic for thrust.

  This was the first time he’d really been able to open his armor up, and he was pleasantly surprised to find she was nearly as fast as the Mark XI. Fast, light, small, and powerful. It seemed like the armor had no drawbacks, which meant Kazon was right about this stuff being next-level. It was the future, without a doubt. If there was a downside, he hadn’t found it.

  Aran continued toward the pyramid, and noted that the humans around the camp had begun moving. Most were trotting toward the pyramid, fanning out by level. He flashed back to the memory Neith had shown him, the one of Aran and his sister battling on those very steps.

  He dropped back to the ground and slowed his flight as he approached the base of the pyramid. He didn’t know if there would be some sort of formal ceremony, or if people would just start attacking. No one carried any ranged weapons, so there was that small blessing. This would be a very short battle if all his opponents were armed with spellrifles.

  “I count fifty-six,” his sister whispered from a meter or so away. The words were ripped away by the wind, yet somehow he still heard them. There was magic involved there, he was certain of it. Air magic, by the feel.

  “I don’t see how I can take that many,” he called back. Now that he was closer, he could see more detail. Every human was armed, almost all with swords. A few used daggers, and one carried a heavy mace. Every last one had the bearing of a life-long fighter, though their weapons were crude—not the high-end Inuran tech he was getting used to.

  “Most do not possess magic, though all will be skilled fighters. They have never seen armor like yours. Use your mobility,” she instructed. “The war mages, the real threat, will wait until you have bled yourself on the lesser targets. Then they will finish you.”

  “So the leader studies how I fight, and hopes I get wounded on the way up. Solid strategy. Worst-case scenario, I have to expend some resources before facing them. Best case, they learn enough to take me down fast.” Aran slowed further as he neared the pyramid, then glided into a walk. He slowly approached the steps leading up to the first level.

  The three dozen or so combatants on the first level all wore the same white outfits with blue trim. Their faces were uncovered, and they ranged across age and gender. All bore the same hard eyes, though. All stood with the same practiced stance.

  His stance. Drakkon stance.

  Aran adjusted his spellblade on his hip, still not used to wearing it. He considered using the spellrifle, but if the guy up top was assessing his abilities, he wanted to reveal as little as possible. If these guys really didn’t have magic, they were going to go down faster than the slaves had back when Aran and Kazon had faced the tech demons.

  He could beat them, but that wasn’t the point. The more he narrowed his responses, the less he gave away.

  He charged up the steps, and leaped into the air when he neared the top. Three of the swordsmen advanced, their weapons held high. Aran matched their pose. He already missed the extra strength and speed Neith had infused into his Mark XI. He’d have to do this the old fashioned way.

  Aran glided forward and brought his blade town in a brutal chop at the first opponent. She rolled backward, but Aran grabbed her with a tendril of air and pulled her onto his blade. It pierced her chest, and she staggered backward clutching at her chest.

  He was fairly certain the wound wasn’t fatal, but there was no way she’d be back in the fight any time soon.

  Aran carved a bloody path through the next pair, slicing a hamstring on the first warrior, and crushing the kneecap of another with a savage kick. He was mildly surprised by how easily the men went down. He’d grown used to fighting enforcers and war mages. Un-enhanced combatants didn’t have a chance.

  He flowed into Drakkon style, dancing from combatant to combatant. At least two were masters, definitely better than him at pure sword play, but neither had a suit of spellarmor to deflect blows, nor did they possess a powerful spellblade. Aran cut them down ruthlessly, one after another.

  Within moments the entire first tier was clear, and Aran stood amidst groaning men and women, panting.

  “You know,” Aran began as he flicked the blood from his blade, “we could just end this right now.” He stared up at the hatchling in the magical suit two tiers above him. “Do you really want me to waste time killing all your buddies?”

  “They are merely fodder,” the hatchling roared. He flapped his wings behind him and walked to the edge of the fourth tier. “I believe you are entirely too confident. You will not reach me. You’ve yet to face my war mages, or the two retainers the Krox were kind enough to lend me.” He indicated the pair of enforcers on the third level.

  Aran tore his eyes away from the hatchling. It wasn’t easy. He had used the word fodder—the same word Thalas had used to describe the marines back aboard the Hunter.

  He’d go down, but first Aran had to deal with the enforcers.

  That was probably where Aran would face the most trouble—well, other than the hatchling with the stealth suit. That ability might be the end of him, if he made it that far. But to do that, he’d need to stay focused.

  One level at a time.

  This time Aran walked slowly up the stairs. He took his time reaching the second level, because he knew no one would attack until he reached it.

  A quintet of hard-eyed fighters waited. Each wore the same white outfits as the warriors on the level below, but these all had a patch on the shoulder. A patch just like he’d seen in his vision, just like they wore on Shaya.

  The patch of a war mage. A patch h
e’d still not earned the right to wear, at least, not since the mind-wipe.

  “These ones are more dangerous than they appear,” Astria breathed into his ear. “Do not underestimate them.”

  “I won’t,” he murmured back. Aran had never faced a Virkonnian war mage. Outriders, he guessed. Well, he’d never faced one outside of his sister. And now he was fighting five at the same time.

  Of course, this time he had his armor.

  Aran surged toward the right flank where the smallest of the combatants waited. Underestimating an opponent based on size was a rookie mistake, but these people had never met him. They couldn’t know what sorts of dumb things he might do.

  Sure enough, a small, dark-haired man gave an eager smile and rushed forward to engage. Past his companion, unsupported. Aran shifted to the right, keeping the short man between him and his partner.

  The little man leapt into the air, soaring several meters over Aran on a plume of air. As he darted down, his blade began to crackle with lightning. It was exactly the kind of attack Aran might have used. If the blade connected, the lightning might paralyze him, and that would give the other four war mages time to attack.

  Aran shot out a hand and caught the sword. The energy played over his gauntlet, smoking briefly as they fought for control of the weapon. Aran yanked the sword to the side and rammed his own spellblade through the shorter man’s heart. He flung the body at the man’s partner, rolling to the side to avoid something that flashed in the corner of his eye.

  A tall woman had thrust a hand in his direction, and discharged a thick bolt of blue lightning. It tracked his flight, grounding into his right leg, just above the right knee. The energy scorched a hole through the armor, and Aran roared as it poured into his leg. Tears streamed from his eyes, and all he could do was take short, shallow breaths.