“Of the War?” You’re not wrong.
“No. Well yeah, obviously. Something I’ve been thinking about.” A discerning glint flecked her eyes. “In all I’ve read of eh—escalations, the demons normally have a pretty good way of dealing with our new power. Like in the last when the greaters gained the ability to port. Got ahead of us more than few times from what I’ve read. What if now—what if it’s not enough?”
“Some sort of intuition you have?” asked Russ, honestly interested. “An understanding you’ve gained?”
Willa shook her head. “I haven’t been exposed to Fel enough. Just thoughts, trying to figure out how we beat one of them, let alone however many more there are like her. Because there have to be more, whuh—what with that humanoid affectation. Wish I could talk to the Un—dertaker.”
Russ silently mirrored her wish. “There probably are; Luffy assured me of that. And finding them won’t be near as simple as D’niqa. But I still think you’re right—what you said by the fire the other night. Once we get ahead of them, this will be their True End. You and yours are gonna make sure o’ that. I know it.”
“Me and mine?”
“Priests. Demonologists, too. Speaking of which, Kendra mentioned you guys pay a price of sorts for your study. She didn’t tell me what it was—said I needed to hear it from someone first-hand.” He let the question ask itself.
Willa’s ears perked up, but she looked around and quieted.
“I hope I’m not out of kind for bringing it up.”
She shook her head. “Not everybody understands, but demonologists’ curiosities are just—pure interest, mostly. The work we perform pertains not just to the demons themselves, but of a want to further understand the gods’ universe. This tiny part of it, at least. We graze the line between this world and theirs, and in doing so, we gain Understanding. We also become more susceptible to the Fel and its influences.”
“War-time Karlians always become exposed. That’s how I can speak Demonic. Gonna happen to everyone who fights.”
“It’s more than that. Until a few hundred years ago, Warlocks could freely practice their art so long as they didn’t hurt anyone. They were essentially demonologists, though we didn’t call them either name, and modern-day Warlocks are more fucked up. Our understanding of the Fel makes it easier to control demons, to master them, even. But no one likes to mention that it also makes the practitioner more likely to fall under the control of demons.”
“Seen that happen,” said Russ. He told her of a few days of culling on Yarnle’s west coast. Jeom himself had condemned the city and led the offensive into Alvilmedo, the streets of which had filled with people just standing around, waiting—until the Order arrived. Ash had cleared enough over the Corlane Channel by the third morning to see Zri Lidn’s peak on Aisilmapua, where it jutted from the horizon like a burning sword. “Like mindless slaves, though. Alvilmedo became an uninhabitable zone after that. We couldn’t get the nether to stop piercing through.”
“That’s why High Tower keeps close watch on us. Demonologists, I mean. Sometimes blisteringly so. Afraid we might just”—she gestured away from herself—“go off.”
They watched everyone for a few minutes. Their trickles of conversations became a harmony of voices that all focused on one thing. Russ thought it unfortunate that it took this—War and the threat of annihilation—to bring the peoples of Coroth together. But this alliance and unanimity existed on a faulted plate that awaited any fracture to split it. Uneasy tranquility plagued Russ’s thoughts and filled his gut with mock-adrenaline when he imagined this all fading away because of one fateful moment later that morning.
Willa leaned against the wall behind her, staring at the ground. “I caught what you said by the fire.” She glanced at him. “The day we left Karhaal.”
“Figured you had.”
“The Karlians—they saved me more than once. Believe me, I’ve talked with Madam Undertaker about what we’re doing and how it pertains to the Accords. She’s assured me those agreements are the dealings of man. Hers is work of the gods.” The corners of her mouth upturned, but not enough to make her smile. “But still, she and the king have muddied that all up. I thought when I joined the Order, I’d get to work hand-in-hand with Karlians, fie—fight the fight. But sometimes it’s like trying to cut a queue, like we haven’t paid our dues.”
“It’s not like that. Look, we’re all workin”—
Willa shook her head. Her purple eyes cast a knowing gaze, older than her years. “That’s how the Light and Ley worked at first. One didn’t want to join the other. Even with our additions to the Leydeh—Leydendum, it took years for us to summarize our findings, and that was with the Undertaker’s help. I spent a month at one point just writing.”
“Goddess alive, I can’t imagine.”
“Enchanted text. An urlan would have done it otherwise. Gods, will I be glad to get past this. Means we’ll ho—hopefully press on to more important matters.”
That’s debatable. Russ found Grenn, who sat with his guard, huddled over a table removed from the main. “Speakin of being past this, I’ve got a favor of sorts to ask of ya.” He paused to make sure she listened. “I know he’s abrasive, to put it kindly, but don’t give up on Grenn. It might sound strange, but he’s—he’s gonna need someone, and you’re better than most.” Was that it—was that really so important? He tried to read the emotion on her face.
Willa watched Grenn. “He might not be dragonstone,” she said. A trace of levity threatened the corners of her mouth. “But there’s something there. I don’t know what. That man may be beyond my help.” Then her brow furrowed. “W—where will you be, though?”
“Grand Master-ing. I’ll be at Karhaal or wherever I’m needed. I won’t have time to mind him after I retake the Seat, not with an Order to run. And Grenn is—he won’t be the Order’s first choice to squire for me officially.”
“You’d think the Grand Master would get a say in that.”
“You’d think.”
“He’s awfully taken with that Passa woman anyway. Maybe he’ll end up back in Keep.”
Russell snickered. “Her today, another tomorrow, and a third the day after. It’s the one thing you can count on with him. He’s charming.”
Willa’s countenance returned to the subtle fury of her resting-face while she watched. “He’s really liked Rhine’s the past few days, I can tell you that.” Her watch beeped on the inside of her left wrist, and she tapped a few times on its display. “That’s me. See ya.” Before Russ responded, she left the tent.
Seven minutes later, he stood at the line, an arbitrary denominator one kilometer from the forest’s edge. The tacticians, especially Alerix, had argued about it for three minutes and forty-three seconds by Russ’s watch before Barius had swatted his hand through the map and said, “A thousand meters. It’s decided.” No one had challenged him.
Russ had gathered with the Lycans under their banner, a silver wolf on a field of gray. At times, as the cloth tempted the pre-dawn breeze, the wolf melted into the field, hidden. Unlike Jeom and Perinold and Raris—all War-time Masters for that matter—Russ had no sigil. Verrusen had wanted to give him one of a boar’s head, blackish-blue on a field of bursting gold. But Russ had demurred; under no pretense had he pretended he would ever need one of his own. War wouldn’t come again.
Away on either side of them, other satellites had erected the standard of their clan or faction. Nearest them, an embroidered black angel flew across a field of red. A few hundred milled beneath it. Further on, a copper trumpet played against a yellow sunburst that fluttered as floss in a nothing-wind. To their left, a partridge flew across a field of light green, a purple lobster in full plate wielded a scepter on a bed of ivory—under which stood Willa and a conference of Priests—and myriad other banners Russell had perhaps seen but not committed to memory. More, though, he’d never even glimpsed.
“Look at them,” Barius said, towering over the rest of the line. He spoke to the girl the battl
e-urlan had assigned to him and gestured to the demons at the forest’s edge with his hammer. “They won’t care about your inabilities—they will prey on them. Give them even one out, and they will take it from you, as easy as gutting a fish. But the ultimate glory is overcoming our weaknesses, triumphing despite them. You know your own, yes?”
The young woman held a sword in either hand. Her bone-white armor glowed faintly in the twilight. Barius had run her through a smattering of War-time training exercises. “My defense,” she said. “Always has been.”
“A true warrior of the Light focuses on all aspects of martial combat, so that the Goddess Karli can manifest Herself in this world through every swing and step and dodge and parry. But it’s better to excel at one than be shite at all. You are a good fighter. Use me as your shield and strike when right.”
The girl took import in his words, and they ran through another exercise, her swords ablur as they ricocheted off Barius’s hammer. She didn’t seem worried as Grenn did.
Russ’s squire faced the demons’ line. “Are you gonna run me through anything?” he asked, slightly strained, fiddling with a trinket on his waist guard. “Though I don’t suppose it would help, right?”
“Yeah,” said Russ. “You’re probably about as good as you’re gonna get for now. Besides, I need to tell ya something.” The morning’s first waypoint had come upon him, and he put the verity of his intentions in his trust of the Goddess and his gut. “And there’s no easy way of going about it.”
“What?” Grenn said, offhand. “You expecting to die?”
Russ spoke matter-of-factly: “No one expects to die. It just happens. But in case I do, I need you to know what I’m about to tell ya.” Unlike when he got it from Jeom, he wanted Grenn to agree to it first.
“Cripes, Russ, what is it?” He sounded annoyed, like a fly wouldn’t let him be.
“My half o’ the way to the Tomb.” He didn’t wait for Grenn to respond, though the young man’s attention snapped toward him. “Regardless of what happens, I’m not goin after it.”
“What?” Fear and surprise tarnished Grenn’s face. “You can’t just abandon us. We’ll all be lost without you—been lost. Besides, if I find it, what in the hells’ll I be able to do with it?”
“You’ll find a way. Jeom knew about it during the last War, and he didn’t need it then. Maybe we won’t need it in this one. It’s not my story either way.” Russ yawned, then a sly grin spread across his face. “I will be here to run the Order, by the way. You and Willa were both concerned about that, thanks.”
“You haven’t even been back a week. Forgive our unease.” Then Russ’s words pinched his right eye. “You talked to Willa about this?”
“Not this, but it got to the same point in the end.” Calm spread through him, an antithesis to the morning they faced. “Need to let Kendra know, too, if you ever see her again. She’s got the other half, and there are transference magnitudes that need observed. I was never clear on it. She’ll probably know what’s up as soon as I pass it to ya anyway.”
“Russ, please.” Grenn shook his head. “I can’t handle this right now.”
“What, do ya need to meditate first?” Russ looked toward the forest, where thousands of tiny eyes gazed upon him. They knew him, they targeted him, and if they could help it, he and everyone here would die today. “I need to pass it on, Grenn. If you don’t think you can handle this, tell me.”
“I don’t know if I can handle anything, man.”
“Grenn.”
The young grunted, but his misgiving morphed into sound loyalty. Solemnity set his jaw, and he threw his hand away from himself. “All right. If you think it’s best, just do it.”
Russ turned toward him. “You listening? Because once I pass it, I shall know it no more.”
Grenn nodded.
Even though no one paid them attention, he stepped toward Grenn, met the young warrior’s gaze, and spoke quietly. “Then hear: Where those who do not walk meets those who walk only on air, you’re halfway there. Look to the ground, then to the sky, and to the horizon, your eyes will pry.”
When Russell finished, a pill of dulcet realization dropped into his gut. Half of the secret he’d made all those years before—gone. He breathed, the last of his material ties stripped from him as he prepared to face the hell on Coroth that awaited him across the field. Relief chased even that recognition.
“Can anyone else know this?” asked Grenn.
“No.” Russ knew it true. “Not even if they saw into my mind. Plus, magical thoughts? They’re not worth the trouble of stealing. Kill ya as soon as serve ya.”
Grenn took a deep breath, and the crease returned to his brow. “Goddess.” He looked west, to the dragon’s wing that shone in its blue and purple and silver. It had burnished in the night. Red and gold sung amongst its graces and lit the night against the darkness that spread before them. “What do ya think that thing is?” he said.
“A celestial phenomenon,” said Russ. “Nothing more.”
“Mm.”
In his youth, Russ had found the uncanny alluring—exciting, even—the idea that the world didn’t just have mundanity on offer, that everyone could feel special by virtue of living if the world could just be a little more fantastic. After all, who doesn’t wish to find secret power within themselves or discover mystical happenings never seen in the world before? But his father had drummed that out of him as fancy, not for the mind of a man. The man who became his true father had shown Russell that the world could be perfect because of its ordinariness, should one just keep searching for it.
On the night Jeom took his Walk, Russ and he had sat in a makeshift parlor in the ruins of Ogden, propped up by the Order as a provisional command in South Borliee. Order had returned to much of the world; they’d found the main hive, high up in the northern Newnton Mountains in a cliff face overlooking the Swoen Sea, and the War had wound to near its end. They’d joked and laughed, their levity coming from a place of honest calm. Even Jeom had drunk his share of beer for the excitement, despite how dry he’d often left his lips.
“Everyone always wants what they can’t have,” Jeom had said, nursing the last of his drink, which they’d shipped in from a brewery just north of Vqenna in Buckaby. “But you, Russ, you’ve always had it whether you knew it or not. You’re one of the lucky ones.” It had been easy to feel good. Nearly five years, and their time at War had neared its end.
Jeom got up to leave a few minutes after finishing his bottle and casually told Russ a riddle. “Just something to think on,” he’d said, and then intoned the words Russ had given to Grenn.
In hindsight, it became so obvious what Jeom had done, and despite what the old Master or anyone said about Russ, Jeom had grace and surety that he didn’t, even in artifice. Those words had chewed a hole in his mind, not just that night, but over the last two decades. He’d even blamed them in part for Lillie’s disappearance; the world had been nothing but uncanny since the morning after Jeom had given them to him, when he heard his old friend had died during the night and the demons’ invasion had ended. Praise the Goddess, he could no longer remember them, no longer take his mind’s eye to the place where—
And now, he faced the uncertainty of this day, sure at least of what he’d done by his own conscience.
“So what are we waiting for here?” asked Grenn.
“A standoff,” Russ said. “Watch.” He waved toward the forest. “They can’t do anything to ya, not yet. Wanna murder—and believe me, they will if we give ‘em a sliver of chance—but right now they’re just waitin for us to fuck up. Feinting in a way. I think that’s a new one, what do ya think, Barius?” He pointed to a demon that walked a slathering hound by a chain.
Grenn made a sound like “Heh,” but Russ didn’t think he’d found it funny.
“Yes,” said Barius, “except a lot of those dogs are walking on two legs as well.”
“Those big guys must be twenty feet tall,” said Grenn. “What the fuck? I
thought these fights were different, but they’re just—standing there.”
“That is because the demons are pussies,” Barius said. “M’keth has fought us too many times and lost to not know this is a pointless endeavor. They specialize in guerilla tactics, only coming out when they have an advantage. But their masters are smart. Fight us on the line, with honor. It is the only way they could ever truly win”. He looked at Grenn, who had to crane his neck to meet Barius’s eye. “By taking our honor, they could steal something more prized: our glory.”
“It will be M’keth’s hubris that wins us this War,” Russ said, thinking of the stone in his pocket, what he’d told it to do. “Always is.”
“Honor’s not gonna keep us alive, though,” Grenn said.
“Then it would give you a good death,” said the wolf. “This is something I’ve never gotten out of the people in Borliee. You hold no contention for it.”
Grenn’s voice strained again. “I’ll take being alive over honor any day. A girl’s warm skin under my hand”—
“Pray you never have to match your actions to your words. The Karlians of Old held it above all else.” He turned back to his charge. “Again.” They went through a parrying exercise at half-speed.
“This is better than them having raided Tanvarn by night,” said Russ. “You think this is bad, try huntin ‘em through city streets surrounded by rubble and body parts you thought you’d never see separated from a person.”
“Rather’d be doing something than waiting for a fight to break out.” Grenn squinted his eyes. In the low light, Russ could barely follow the young man’s gaze, but one of the gargantuans stopped its pacing and hung over the demons’ line, its hand held over its brow like in a salute. Then it went back to its trot, adding to the din that carried to them, knocking branches off trees with its face and shoulders, batting at flying beasts that came to nag it. “That big fucker keeps looking at me. Goddess, this is so fucking scuffed.”
“That’s not even the worst of them.”
“Shit.” Grenn stepped back and bent over, his hands on his knees. He dry-heaved a few times, then steadied himself. His breath caught in his chest. “Cripes, I can’t even puke. Couldn’t eat this morning, either.”
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