Eve of Destruction

by C. E. Stalbaum

  “What I understand,” DeShane said, taking a step forward, “is that when all is said and done, you are a parasite. You aren’t much better than a Vakari, really, leeching off others to give yourself power and riches.”

  Chaval’s smile vanished, but DeShane didn’t give him time to reply.

  “It all started back at Valmeri,” she continued. Her voice was still glacially calm. “Right now everyone gives you credit for starting this Industrial movement, but it was my mother who set it all in motion. She was the one who actually dreamt up the technology that would change the future. She was the one with the vision to understand how it could shape the world. You were just a parasite then, too—a shill whose only real contribution was knowing how to sell her ideas to others. Then, when she finally realized what she had done and turned away from it, you were left with nothing. You had to find others to latch onto, other men and women with real innovation and ideas, and you’ve been leeching off them ever since.”

  Amaya just stared at the girl, her head shaking in disbelief. No one spoke like that to Chaval, not even General Hovien or other important people. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she studied Chaval’s face for a reaction. His eyes simmered with barely controlled fury, and she had the mental picture of a volcano on the verge of eruption…

  “How many of the inventions here in this Hall are actually yours?” DeShane pressed. “I looked at them as I walked up here, and after a few minutes I realized you didn’t come up with a single one of them yourself. Your only real invention was figuring out how to sell people on a lie—a lie that this technology of yours would suddenly fix all their problems. You convinced them that by stuffing themselves into your factories and working themselves to death, they might one day rise above it. But they never will. And you wouldn’t let them even if they tried!”

  “You speak of lies,” Chaval said, his voice little more than a dark whisper, “and yet here you are, standing before me as a mage. Even the best of you, your so-called priestesses of Edeh, have done nothing to curb the suffering outside of their temples. They hide themselves behind their holy books and their cryptic doublespeak, insisting that faith is the only shield we need against suffering—and all the while the masses starve and freeze in the streets.”

  “You drove the temples from your city,” DeShane countered. “You forced them to abandon this part of the country for fear of their lives.”

  Chaval snorted. “You really believe that, don’t you? You’re a pawn of the Enclave and you don’t even realize it. They wanted the people here to suffer—they wanted them to live in such misery that they would come crawling back to their false Goddess and spend their lives on their knees worshipping her—worshipping them.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “Isn’t it?” he asked sharply. “Even now the Enclave insists that anyone from farmer to spoiled heiress can go to the university and educate themselves, but how many Arkadians ever take, let alone pass, the Oath Rituals? If you want to speak of lies, Evelyn, you should start by looking in the mirror and appreciating what you represent.”

  DeShane slowly shook her head. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? It’s not about justice for poor torbo masses—it’s about revenge. Thirty years ago the magi turned their backs on you. They wouldn’t let you into their little club. And now you’re willing to do anything—to harm anyone—to get back at them.”

  “If that’s what you think,” he scoffed, “then you’re just as blind as your mother ever was.”

  DeShane stepped forward, her amber eyes glinting like an animal sensing weakness in her prey. Chaval, by contrast, still looked on the verge of eruption. His usual composure had waned; his arms and fists were trembling at his sides. Amaya could scarcely believe it. The calculating man, the legendary politician and entrepreneur, and a nineteen year-old girl was provoking him?

  “I don’t think so,” DeShane said. “It’s really quite simple. The Enclave hurt you. They prohibited you from taking the Oath Rituals at Valmeri, and they did their best to sabotage your early inventions. They wouldn’t let you be one of them, and you’ve been brooding about it for three decades.”

  “I never had any desire to join the Enclave,” Chaval growled. “None of us did. We knew what type of monsters they were even at that age.”

  “You thought that of the Enclave, but not the magi as a whole.”

  Chaval snorted. “There’s hardly a difference.”

  “Of course there is,” DeShane said. “Not every mage supports the Enclave, and not every torbo is a Dusty. You can’t just lump everyone into categories and expect the world to make sense.”

  “You don’t appreciate the extent of their control,” Chaval said with a bitter smile. “How could you? You’re still a child.”

  “Just like you were back then,” she countered. “And just like you, I’ve faced the pressure of wanting to be a part of something bigger than myself. I understand what you felt. You were part of the Seven, of this group with these lofty ideals and expectations…and then the Enclave took it all away from you. Then suddenly college is over and you’ve been left out of the club. Everyone else took the Rituals eventually, but not you. You were left to be a simple torbo—and it drove you mad.”

  “I have accomplished more than any of them could ever dream,” Chaval insisted. “I have built an empire in my name, and what have they done? What did your mother ever do?”

  “She married someone that wasn’t you,” DeShane replied coolly. “And for all your wealth, all your power, I bet that’s the one thing that still keeps you up at night.”

  Chaval stepped forward, his hands balled into fists. Amaya had seen him furious, but she had never seen him lose control. For a moment she thought he might leap forward and try to choke the girl with his bare hands…

  “You really are just like her,” he whispered. “So snide, so arrogant. You, the Avenshal, the one whose power will destroy the world, and you see fit to stand here and judge me?”

  “I never said I was here to judge you,” DeShane told him. She extended both of her palms, and sparks of Fane energy crackled at her fingertips. “I said I was here to kill you.”

  Chaval laughed. It was not his polite giggle or his dinner party chuckle. It was a bitter and blackened sound that echoed off the walls of the arboretum. Amaya took a step backwards despite herself, and DeShane’s veil of poise seemed to lift for just a moment.

  “You couldn’t hurt me even if you wanted to, my dear,” he told her.

  “Because of your lackey, here?” the girl asked, glancing to Amaya. “I’m the Avenshal, remember. Do you really think one Talami harlot with a gun is going to stop me?”

  “No,” Chaval said, taking a step forward. “And do you think, my young Evelyn, that I would rely on a foreign slave for protection all this time?”

  Amaya winced and glared at him. Was he just baiting the girl now? Did he really have a death wish, talking down to a mage like this when he wasn’t even armed? Amaya was his only protection, and demeaning her was hardly—

  And then, in a sudden epiphany that sent a chill down her spine, it all clicked neatly into place. Amaya turned to face the girl, and it was clear by her expression she had come to the same impossible conclusion.

  “You’re a mage, aren’t you?” DeShane asked breathlessly. “All this talk about hating them, all your thugs hunting them down and killing them…you never took the Rituals, but somehow you learned to weave anyway.”

  Chaval smiled. He flicked his wrist, and a brilliant flash of white light exploded around him. When Amaya blinked away the afterimage, Chaval was encapsulated in a sphere of energy, his entire body rippling with magical power.

  “I knew you would come here, Evelyn,” he said menacingly. “Just as your mother said you would. She knew you would seek revenge; she knew that you would wish to protect your friends from what you feared you might become. But the truth of the matter is that you cannot possibly defeat me—not here, n
ot without embracing your full potential.”

  Chaval gestured broadly to the plants around him. “This building teems with life even as the city around it withers. You can feel it—I’m sure of it. You can taste the raw power here, and you know you could use it to destroy me. In the end, that’s the only way you’re going to survive. It’s the only way you will taste vengeance.”

  DeShane took a step back and her body stiffened. All the momentum she had gained—all the confidence she had worn like a second cloak—abruptly vanished as she started in horror at the man in front of her.

  “You’re insane,” the girl breathed.

  “On the contrary,” Chaval said, “I exist in a state of perfect clarity. Your mother helped me reach it once before she betrayed me, and now, thirty years later, her daughter will do the same. There is only one way for you to get what you want, and that means becoming exactly what you fear.”

  DeShane glanced outside the glass dome to the fires on the horizon and shook her head. “You don’t care about any of this, do you? This isn’t about revolution or technology at all.”

  His smile widened. “You were right all along. This is about revenge—revenge, and truth. I will reveal to the world the evil that is the Enclave. I will show them the lie that is the Fane and the charlatan that is their beloved Goddess. I will teach them that their one final hope is to turn against the magi and purge them from this world.”

  Chaval opened his palms, and the room exploded in a flash of light.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Glenn Maltus pressed himself more tightly against the alleyway wall as another volley of gunfire thundered from across the street. A few moments later a pair of cannons joined in the cacophony, and a nearby building crumbled into a flaming pile of rock and debris. At this point the Steamworks soldiers seemed utterly unconcerned about firing into civilian buildings if their opponents were using them as cover.

  They weren’t, of course, which might have been the most tragic thing about it. The squads of Enclave magi were prowling about the streets cloaked in magically-deepened shadows or other such illusions. They wouldn’t get pinned down in straight-up battles if they could avoid it—Enclave units were built for tactical, surgical strikes, and that played perfectly into this type of urban warfare.

  Maltus wondered idly if Wilhelm had planned this entire assault himself, and if so, how long it had been sitting on his drawing board. Weeks, probably, and perhaps even months—so far the Enclave strategy bore all the hallmarks of a calculating, methodical man who thought in cold numbers instead of lives.

  “This is a massacre,” Gregori murmured. “Simon’s people aren’t trained for this type of fighting.”

  “Few people are,” Maltus said, wincing as several nearby screams were abruptly cut short by another explosion. “The Council knows that.”

  “How could they do this?” Jean asked softly. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself as she crouched between them. “How could they willingly order this slaughter? Don’t they know what the Exarch will do once she hears about it?”

  Maltus pursed his lips. “If she hears about it. I doubt their plan involves leaving survivors to tell the tale. And even if it does get out, it will be too late for the Exarch to do anything about it.”

  “She’ll renounce them. The entire church will.”

  “Will they?” he asked gravely. “They’ll see a country with no leader and a government on the verge of complete collapse. They won’t be able to keep the peace without help.”

  “Not to put a damper on this cheerful speculation, but I don’t think this is the best time,” Gregori said between labored breaths. He was even more out-of-shape than he’d been at Valmeri, and that was impressive. But he was handling himself well, all things considered.

  Maltus nodded. “You’re right. After the next break in fire, we should make our move.”

  “I should be able to mask us until we get to 2nd Street,” Gregori told them. “Assuming the Enclave didn’t just level the entire hotel, that’s where Karyn and Janel should be.”

  “Goddess protect them,” Jean whispered.

  Maltus glanced down to her. “Are you all right to move?”

  She scowled at him. “I’m younger than you, you know.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said as another burst of cannon fire obliterated a building farther down the street. “Just focus on the destination, and try not to think about—”

  “You don’t need to coddle me,” she growled, standing up. “I spent three months as a missionary in northern Poleria and another six in Talam. I’ve seen war and death. I know what to do.”

  He nodded. “All right. Then let’s go.”

  They dipped back out of their cover after another volley of gunfire and dashed across the rubble-strewn streets. Between the moonlight and the flaming debris, it was easy to see where they were going, and Gregori cloaked their movements behind elongated shadows and other visual trickery Maltus himself barely understood. His old friend had definitely perfected his craft over the years.

  “With the north bridge burned and the train station likely buried, there aren’t many ways left to get out of town,” Gregori commented when they ducked into another alleyway and waited for a contingent of nearby soldiers to pass. “I’ll bet there’s going to be a rush on the Zefrim tower soon enough.”

  Maltus glanced over his left shoulder to the distant tower and two massive balloon-like ships slowly floating in to dock with it. If Simon had any sense whatsoever, he probably had a garrison of a few hundred soldiers guarding it. Despite its centralized location and heavy defenses, the Enclave would definitely go after it, and probably soon—this entire attack was about fear, after all, and no image would sear into people’s minds quite like that of a flaming Zefrim crashing to the ground next to its tower.

  Two minutes later, the three of them had pressed themselves down behind a crumbled pile of bricks across the street from the hotel. Maltus had already prepared himself for the worst—he’d half-expected to find the entire building leveled. Thankfully, it wasn’t…yet. The battle for the hotel was over, however, and they were staring at the aftermath.

  Maltus pursed his lips. A small squad of magi had secured the door, and they hunched down behind a toppled statue on the front steps. Scattered all around them were the charred and broken bodies of soldiers, but not all of them wore the same uniform. Many were Steamworks, but some wore the blue coats of the Arkadian army—Janel’s personal defense force.

  And the Enclave had destroyed all of them.

  “They’ll have sent others inside to deal with Janel and his guards personally,” Maltus said. “They want to make sure the job gets done.”

  “We have to get through them,” Gregori murmured. “And quickly.”

  Jean glanced at both of the men in turn. “We can’t hurt them. They’re our people.”

  “They were, once,” Maltus said. “Now they’re insurrectionists and murderers. And we have to get Karyn and Janel before they’re overwhelmed.”

  Gregori sighed. “So it all comes down to this. I suppose I always knew it would, one way or another.”

  Maltus pressed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He had known it too, even if he hadn’t come out and admitted it to himself. He’d already gone against the Enclave’s wishes, and there was no way the Magister’s Council would take him back. But this…this was taking it to an entirely new level. He was going to have to fight and perhaps kill other magi. It was a terrible and final threshold to cross.

  It was also the only way they might be able to save an old friend—and the only chance they had at all of saving Eve.

  “I need one of your illusions,” Maltus said.

  Gregori frowned. “What?”

  “I’ll see if I can get past them without harming anyone, but I need to look like a magister.” He glanced down to his simple pants and tunic. “This isn’t going to cut it.”

  “Glenn…” Jean whispered.

  “It’ll w
ork, but we need to hurry,” he assured her. “Can you do it?”

  Gregori nodded and opened his palm. A wisp of blackish smoke curled around Maltus’s body, and suddenly his outfit had been replaced by a black uniform with a crimson sash. If he hadn’t known what he was actually wearing—if he couldn’t feel the buttons of his tunic pressed against his skin—even he would have believed what he was looking at.

  “Just give me a minute,” Maltus told them, “and stay here.”

  He closed his eyes and called to the Fane. He wrapped himself in the strongest kinetic barrier he could muster then further reinforced the shield to protect against extremes of hot and cold. It wasn’t a perfect defense, but ultimately nothing was—and he had to hope that if these soldiers weren’t willing to back down, they would at least by unprepared for the power he could unleash.

  But first things first. If this had any hope of working at all, he needed to get them off their guard, and for that, he needed to do more than simply walk up there like any old torbo. He stared at the front steps of the hotel and touched the Fane again. He let himself be swept away by its currents as they washed over the entire city. Navigating them was difficult, not unlike steering a ship in the midst of a great storm. But if he focused on a particular point, a single glowing star in the heavens beckoning him in the right direction…

  And with a flash of blue light, he materialized on the steps next to the magi soldiers guarding it.

  “Report,” he ordered.

  The four soldiers leapt back nearly in unison, and their hands crackled briefly with power before they took a real look at him. Hopefully they were just as awed by his Fane-shifting ability as he expected—and just as convinced by Gregori’s illusion.

  “We’ve secured the entire block, sir,” one of the men said. “Scarlet team had already slipped inside by the time we arrived, but we were told to hold this position.”