Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  The sound of hooves hammering the landscape caused Stotaala to lift her head to see what was happening before her. Munne had opened both its inner and outer gates, and raised its portcullis. Kadrin knights had emerged and were riding hard, lances leveled. It was foolish bravado. Perhaps they think to die better here with lance and horse, than fighting within the city, sword against claw and spear. A futile gesture though it may have been, Stotaala respected the choice. It was the choice of a warrior to meet his fate with his life’s blood pooling with that of his enemy.

  The world stopped making sense. Stotaala’s vision went dark and spots swam before her eyes. She heard nothing but a high-pitched whine in her ears. She had a drunken feeling, like the world was wobbling beneath her. Instinctively she clutched Katiki’s fur for support, her spear forgotten, and her shield flopping loosely from her forearm. A massive weight briefly mashed her against Katiki’s back, forcing the breath from her lungs.

  As her vision cleared, Stotaala saw one of her sisters leap over her. The stripe-cats were meeting the Kadrin knights. Some pulled short to bat away lances and bite at horseflesh, others leapt the cavalry formation to attack from the rear. Stotaala sat dazed in her saddle, atop a raggedly breathing Katiki who was trying to drag herself to her feet. Katiki seemed badly hurt, but certainly alive and with spirit left to try to fight on. Stotaala was sure she had broken ribs when Katiki had rolled over the top of her.

  She watched as the battle passed her by. The knights were dispersed quickly enough by the stripe-cats, and left for the second wave of the Megrenn advance to finish off. The stripe-cats reached the wall, five times the height of a man, and leapt atop it.

  * * * * * * * *

  “… and once the stripe-cats entered the city, the defenses unraveled. Lord Grenorn and his family were evacuated on the Dragonhawk, and the Cloud Maiden is making ready to depart with as many of the senior sorcerers and knights as they can fit aboard it. I am taking it as my duty to remain behind until the last possible moment and destroy the speaking stone before it falls into Megrenn control. Until then, I will report as I am able.”

  Rashan scanned the report, hurriedly scribbled by one of the speaking-stone attendants who were listening for news from the Battle of Munne. “Get word back to that messenger. Tell him to surrender the stone to the highest-ranking Megrenn he can. Have him tell them I wish to speak with them. Under no circumstances is he to allow that stone to be destroyed.”

  “What are you thinking?” Dolvaen asked. He was sitting across the desk from Rashan, getting updates as they became available. It was a nervous, tense, maddening sort of waiting. Kadrins were fighting and dying across the Empire as the border war expanded. Munne was a major city, though, the first real conflict since Raynesdark, and it was about to fall.

  “Dolvaen, see to it that the wards on the future emperor’s chambers are secure and treble the guard, then meet me at the speaking-stone chamber,” Rashan replied, speaking quickly as his mind formulated a plan.

  “To what end?” Dolvaen seemed suspicious. Aside from a rage-addled killing sojourn after the assassination attempt at the wedding, Rashan had not left the capital since his return from the Battle of Raynesdark. Ever since the new emperor had been selected, the man had been under constant guard, and Rashan was loath to leave the vicinity of the palace for fear of assassins.

  “I do not abide well,” Rashan answered, apparently all the explanation Dolvaen was likely to receive.

  Once he had seen to the warlock’s instructions, and secured the emperor’s safety, the senior non-demonic member of the Inner Circle sought out his superior. As promised, Rashan awaited him in the speaking-stone chamber. At least, he was there as he said he would be. Rashan was not waiting.

  The warlock had his hands on the stone, lost in thought. The conversation, with whomever was on the other end in Munne, was brief.

  “Back out of the room. When the spell resolves itself, see to the safety of our own sorcerer, if I manage to get him, and kill or capture anyone else who comes along,” Rashan ordered hurriedly. A sphere of opaque aether enveloped the warlock, the speaking stone, and a good chunk of the room as soon as Dolvaen retreated.

  A few breaths later, the sphere disappeared. A speaking stone much like the one that normally occupied the room was situated in the middle of the room. The floor was set unevenly, as the chunk of Veydrus snatched from Munne was set just a bit differently from the chunk exchanged from Kadris. Three men stood about it as well. The one in black robes looked astonished and relieved, reacting with impressive presence of mind to dive past the looming Sorcerer Dolvaen Lurien, who was already chanting.

  “Fetru oglo daxgak sevdu wenlu.” Dolvaen’s fingers wove runes in the air before him, culminating in an imperious pointing gesture. Both the Megrenn sorcerer and general, by their attire and insignia, were fried from within as Dolvaen’s lightning tore into them. There was a brief flicker from about the sorcerer, as a ward gamely tried to protect its owner before giving up in defeat.

  “What just happened?” the Kadrin messenger wondered aloud as the smells of ozone and burnt flesh mixed in the air.

  “Warlock Rashan just took a holiday, I think,” Dolvaen replied dryly. “I imagine he may wish to speak to you upon his return. I will have someone find you quarters and fresh garments. If you have not soiled yours, you are a better man than I.”

  Dolvaen’s heart pounded in his chest. He had not cast a spell with deadly intent in over twenty winters. The war had suddenly turned real for him.

  * * * * * * * *

  “I wish I had dared stay longer,” Rashan opined. “But there is only so long I can justify being away when I hold responsibility for not only the stewardship of the Empire, but also the soon-to-be-emperor’s life.”

  “You enjoyed yourself, though, did you not?” Dolvaen probed. The warlock had been nearly giddy upon his return. “I killed two men, and I felt like vomiting afterward, the stench hit me so. It was all I could do to keep my composure in front of that sorcerer you saved. His name is Arrin Heartstone, by the way … one of mine.” Rashan understood that Dolvaen meant a sorcerer from a nothing bloodline. They were a pet cause of his. Rashan thought it to be one of the man’s few real flaws, akin to children who try to adopt each stray or wounded animal they find as a pet.

  “I cannot deny the thrill. A dragon among horses, feasting at leisure and slaughtering for the sport of it? Who would not revel in such dominion? Alas, these were not goblins, and there were real sorcerers out there among the Megrenn host. If one of them were to have been carrying the Staff of Gehlen, I might not have made it back at all.” Rashan had reappeared in the palace gardens, and ordered some guards to haul the Tower of Contemplation’s speaking stone back indoors, and stow it somewhere safe. Rashan had managed to get back to the one he had brought with him before working a second transference spell.

  “Aye, it will be a game of two hunters, you and this sorcerer of theirs who has the staff. Whoever finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time is done for. Thus a stalemate as each fears to act,” Dolvaen reasoned. “Excepting tonight’s adventure, of course.”

  “I saw the carnage I left in my wake, but I know the risk I took. I shall avoid repeating that folly. What I need are more weapons. We cannot face the Megrenn with their beasts and their alchemical magic if we do not counter with magic—real magic, not the stuff those Third and Sixth and Fifty-fifth Circle sorcerers out there were playing at,” Rashan ranted. He was growing frustrated and agitated. Dolvaen leaned ever so slightly away, just in case.

  “But Iridan just is not ready yet. I should have raised the boy myself. He avoided the trap of arrogance and entitlement too well. He lacks confidence and ruthlessness,” Rashan continued on.

  “Well, I hear that Brannis’s newly discovered Source is rather impressive,” Dolvaen joked. Potential or no, it took years to train a sorcerer, let alone a warlock.

  “Oh, I have already decided that I will test our new Brannis to see what he is ca
pable of. No worry of that …”

  Chapter 19 - Competitive Advantage

  Kyrus awoke to find that the wards that had surrounded his bedroom had gone away. He could see the Sources of a pair of guards standing outside the door, but suspected that they were there to keep others out, not keep him within. At the foot of his bed floated a message—not the paper and ink sort, but Kyrus understood its meaning clearly enough. It was a wooden chest that he remembered from Brannis’s past and atop it lay a wooden sword.

  Kyrus got up and lifted the lid of the chest, finding as he suspected he would, a suit of Brannis’s old armor. It was simple, battered, and smelled strongly of the light oil that kept it from rusting in storage. He—or rather Brannis—had not worn it in years. It was a suit that had fitted him well enough when he had commissioned it, but he had been a lad then, fully grown but not filled out. Had Brannis tried to put it on, there would have been fist-sized gaps at the sides, had the straps even reached to buckle it on. Kyrus’s face curled into an annoyed sneer as he realized it would likely fit him just fine.

  No, Kyrus decided. I will not play this morning’s game. He can give me a proper order if he wants me to obey. Brannis thought to match wits with Rashan, pass all his little tests and see through his ruses. I will hold things together here best I can, for now, but I will send him back his grand marshal as soon as I am able.

  Of course, I should still go see what he wants of me.

  * * * * * * * *

  “A fine morning for a friendly sparring match,” Rashan commented despite the cool, rainy weather that few would have chosen to describe as any sort of “fine.” “I see you have not dressed for it, however.”

  Kyrus wore one of Brannis’s outfits. It hung loose about him, just as Brannis’s old too-small armor would seem to have been his size.

  “I heard rumors in the halls on my way down here that Iridan returned late last night,” Kyrus said. “You can spar with him this morning, instead of me. I still do not feel quite up to swordplay yet.” Kyrus looked about, noticing that a larger number of spectators than usual had turned out to watch the practice session. Nearly the whole of the Inner Circle was in attendance. There were a number of other prominent members of the Imperial Circle as well, not to mention a few knights, the hangers-on at court, and a number of noblemen that were in the city for the impending coronation. Some were down around the outskirts of the courtyard. Others looked down from the balconies surrounding it.

  “I had not expected to be your opponent this morning. I had expected you to be Iridan’s.” Rashan smiled to him. “Iridan!” the warlock shouted out into the courtyard, where Iridan was conversing with his new oathfather. “Look who is up and about.”

  “Brannith!” Iridan called out, smiling and revealing a handful of half-regrown teeth, giving him the look of a schoolboy. He jogged over to see his friend. “I had heard about your acffident.” Iridan paused, rolled his eyes in frustration and tried again. “Ac … ci … dent. You all wight? You wook wike you been rung out wike a woffcwoff.”

  Kyrus frowned, fairly certain that he had just been compared to a damp rag. Did everyone in Acardia think of him thus as well, and just never said anything since they had no expectation that he ought to be otherwise?

  “I ought to be fine, Rashan tells me, though I have seen better days.” Kyrus tried to keep in character as best he could. In truth, he felt fine. He had slept well, for despite an unfamiliarity about it, the bed was finer than any he had slept in. His dreams had reassured him as well. Brannis would find passage off Denku Appa unless something odd befell him, and he had even rid himself of the attentions of the island girls.

  Why had I not thought of that? he wondered.

  “I had ffought Raffan was joking, or toying wiff me when he threatened to pit you againfft me thiff morning. Now I see that I could probabwy knock you over wiff a bwoom,” Iridan joked, clearly enjoying seeing a Brannis that he might be able to defeat in a fight.

  “Well, as I had no other opponent prepared for you this morning, and Brannis is not going to oblige, perhaps we will skip the sparring this morning … unless of course you would prefer to challenge me,” Rashan offered.

  Iridan took a half step back away from his father, clearly not amused by the prospect. There was no trick to be used against Rashan, no clever ploy to find victory against some foe he fought on unequal ground, using only his skills with a blade lest he render the contest moot with fire or lightning. Iridan shook his head, enthusiastically declining.

  “Very well then. Get out there, and I shall send you an opponent from among our esteemed spectators for this morning’s draw.” Rashan smiled, shooing Iridan out into the midst of the courtyard. Kyrus noticed that four extra basins had been placed around and filled with water. Kyrus wondered whether Rashan might finally think Iridan was ready to face him. He looked about to see who else might be chosen.

  Dolvaen was on one of the upper balconies, gazing down. Iridan had never bested him, and he had long said that he thought Rashan would require that of Iridan before he ever drew against the warlock himself. Caladris was talking with Shador on one of the low terraces—Caladris at least was a possibility, though Shador might acquit himself well if it was him. The rest of the Inner Circle were all there, he realized. Perhaps Iridan would be facing more than one …

  Kyrus felt a nudge at his back. “Go get him,” Rashan whispered.

  Kyrus’s eyes widened and his knees went weak. Not me!

  His only experience in a draw was the one time Brannis had done it in his final days at the Academy. Brannis had felt like he had showed up to a horse race with a child’s toy stick horse for a mount, and Kyrus remembered the feeling vividly. Brannis had never even been able to watch a draw, and now Kyrus was being thrown in against Iridan, who was working his way through the ranks of the Inner Circle—and near as Kyrus could figure would rank around fourth or so among them, were they holding to the Academy’s method of determining such.

  Kyrus sleepwalked to the middle of the courtyard, his thoughts running to escape the crowd of curious eyes that pursued him. He wants to see what I am made of. I just told myself I would not get caught up in his tests. I refused to don Brannis’s armor. And now here I am. I wonder if I had sparred, would I have been spared this, or would it have been even worse, being roundly thrashed by a “warrior” that Danil could probably best?

  “Is thiff a joke?” Iridan called out to Rashan. “I heard about hiff acffident and his Ffourff, but reawwy? Try him againfft ffomone from ffe Academy, wike you did wiff me and ffordfighting.”

  “Just look at him,” Rashan called back.

  Kyrus blushed, knowing that everyone was now probably ogling him in the aether. He could only wonder what they were seeing, but when he scanned the crowd, he saw people blinking away their aether-vision, or squinting at him with pained expressions—even though squinting the eyes did nothing to help when viewing the aether.

  “You see,” Rashan stated. “Now prepare yourselves, both of you.”

  Rashan paused a moment for them to compose themselves as they readied for the draw. Iridan looked wary and was not looking straight at Brannis—or Kyrus—at all. Kyrus felt ill with nerves. It was un-Brannis-like of him but he could not help himself. He had nearly seared his skull dry in his first attempts with aether. I knew nothing of what I was doing. He had lost control in Marker’s Point and destroyed a neighborhood. I was panicking then but this is just a game, a practice … I will be safe. He had drawn the Source right out of men. They were thugs, right beside me; these are sorcerers and Iridan is the closest, ten paces away. He had burned down a ship, but that just proved he was just a firehurler. This is not about skill; it is about power and endurance. I held back the sea. I can do this!

  “Draw!” Rashan commanded, and Kyrus was shaken from his musings by the curious feeling of aether rushing away from him. Kyrus had been using his draw for months, but it was the first time he had ever experienced anyone else fighting him for control of the
aether. Startled and a bit disoriented, Kyrus made an attempt to pull back.

  There was really no trick. Iridan was not pulling very hard at it, and Kyrus matched him. You have always been a good friend, Iridan. Thank you for starting out going easy on me for my first try. As Iridan gradually increased his draw, so did Kyrus, keeping them as evenly matched as he could. Kyrus could not tell how long they had been at it, but watching in his dual aether- and light-vision, he noticed something he was unprepared for: Iridan was struggling.

  “Hold!” came the call from Rashan. Instantly the even flow of aether to the two combatants turned into a torrent flowing solely to Kyrus. It took a moment, but Kyrus collected his thoughts, and stopped his own draw as well. He looked on in dismay as he could see the strain on Iridan’s face. A light rain fell, but Kyrus could tell Iridan’s brow was wet with sweat as well.

  I feel nothing, Kyrus realized. This aether is no burden at all. I must have had tenfold as much passing through me on the Denku Appa beaches when I walled off that Katamic Sea storm, and tenfold that when I sent myself here.

  Kyrus swallowed, wondering what he ought to do. Though he had never watched draws, he understood the etiquette. Iridan had let off a show of force the first time he had claimed victory at the Academy’s tournament; doing more than just blowing steam from the basins was gloating. Worse yet was to do nothing afterward. Holding onto one’s aether beyond the end of the contest was a sign of contempt. Kyrus could easily have managed such a feat, he knew.

  Four basins, the four on Kyrus’s side of the courtyard, shattered as superheated steam exploded from them. Kyrus went to one knee, as he had seen other defeated sorcerers do, swaying slightly and breathing heavily. Steam erupted from Iridan’s shortly thereafter, the victor making no further claim of dominance over his vanquished opponent.

  Iridan walked unsteadily over to Kyrus, and offered him a hand up. “Well fought, Bwanniff,” he congratulated Kyrus. Kyrus muttered something gracious back, and the two of them went off to a corner where a table was set with refreshments to replenish them after their match.