It occurred to her that she might never get as far as speaking with Vachlan himself. Perhaps she would encounter a few expertly-trained minions, or greater numbers of ill-trained ones who would wear her down until she was exhausted. Either way, she was not sure if it would be a relief or a disappointment to avoid encountering her husband at all. It did not really matter if she saw him or not—she was here to recover Sionna.
She was positive that he would make that task impossible to achieve without going directly through him. Visola’s mind travelled to a video game which Corallyn had tried to show her on their brief stint on land. There had been layers of increasing difficulty one needed to defeat in order to recapture a stolen princess.
“This is ridiculous, Corallyn,” Visola had griped. “Playing this two-dimensional game isn’t going to teach you anything about military strategy.”
“That’s not what it’s about!” Corallyn had argued. “It’s supposed to be fun. You get to go through all these dangerous quests without actually ever being in danger.”
“How is that supposed to be thrilling for someone who is accustomed to actual peril?” Visola had asked.
Now, as she recalled Corallyn’s adorable dedication to that silly videogame, and the young girl’s laughter and celebration of every little virtual success, Visola felt nauseated. She would never have a chance to tell Corallyn that her video game actually was incredibly fun, and she had just been acting like a stuck up bitch because it was what she did best. These thoughts gave her a little burst of anger and she channeled it into her fighting technique, disposing of her next three enemies with particularly painful and gruesome methods.
These men were like ants! Why would Vachlan, who knew the level of her skill, have such poorly trained men guarding his camp? Either her presence really was not expected, or she was just in the outskirts of the camp, and would have to fight her way to the center. Possibly for several hours. She opened her mouth to give a loud and frustrated scream of exasperation.
Although the noise was somewhat muffled by the water around her, the scream seemed to intimidate the men around her as if it were a battle cry, and this made her chuckle, which further intimidated them. She shoved her sword into the chest of a man nearby, and leaving it there, used her free hands to speak in sign language to the remaining warriors.
“I need to sneeze,” she told them. She held up a hand, as if indicating to them that they should wait to resume the battle until after she had sneezed, and she acted as if the sneeze was building up. “Aaahhh… ahhh….” Visola could not believe that the warriors were actually waiting. Deep inside, she was cracking up. Who had trained these men? “Choo!” Finishing the sneeze, she pulled a handkerchief out of her Kevlar armor and began to daintily dab her nose, and the men finally began to see that she was mocking them. They sneered and dove forward to attack her.
She pulled her sword out of the floating enemy she had used like an impromptu umbrella-stand, and she went back to work at hacking apart the inexperienced little boys belonging to the Clan of Zalcan. Every time she felt a little bit guilty about wounding or dismembering a fresh-faced young warrior, she just thought of Corallyn and Sionna, and her guilt faded. She felt justified. When the first dozen men were incapacitated, Visola began to swim through the catacombs. She wondered where Sionna was being held, and if she could possibly find her. It occurred to her that if she had more people with her, backup of any sort, they might have stood a chance. She had not expected the defenses to be so sparse. After less than a minute of solitude, she came upon another group. This gathering was slightly larger than the first.
Her mind drifted once more to Corallyn’s video game, and she almost expected these men to be a precise degree more difficult than the first. It was a harder level now, right? Her character, having gained experience from defeating the last group, was supposed to have developed more health or mana points. Sadly, the process of learning and growing in the real world was not as immediate or as measurable as it was in the virtual world. The concept of mana, or spiritual energy, was one which she was extremely familiar with. The corresponding word used throughout all Inuit lands was inua, and the Japanese word for it was ki. Both concepts were paramount to battle, and often cited as the true determinant of who would be the victor in any match.
Although intangible, inua was believed to be present in all things, such as water and air, and in all plants and creatures. It was part of the reason that breathing water was considered to be sacred with contrast to breathing air—there was more inua in the water. Visola was not a very spiritual person, but she did believe that there was more to every fight than merely strength, skill, and intelligence. There was some kind of magic that she could not describe or understand; she became suddenly aware of its existence within her when she was pitted against an opponent, and whether it was called inua or anything else, she knew only that it was important.
As long as she had water to breathe, and particularly big fish to fry, she did not think that her inua could be depleted. It was the drive that kept her body going when its physical energy was low. She had learned something from Corallyn’s silly game. The simple visual representation of life force as two distinct types of health actually aided her focus and gave her a new way to process the battle. It also gave her new thoughts with which to occupy and soothe her mind to make her less intimidated by the dozens of men who had just caught sight of her.
Visola felt guilty for wasting time with the goofy sneeze, and any part of the fight which resembled having fun. This was not the fun type of battle. She had to get to her sister. This time, Visola did pull the rifle off her back, and prepared to systematically dispatch of the next group of men. When she began to fire, she was careful and swift with her marksmanship, for she did not want to allow the crowd to get close enough to swarm around her. Even as she shot her enemies, she thought about Vachlan. Would she have to fight him too? In hand-to-hand combat, or with firepower? She remembered his skill and speed. She remembered that he had usually won their mock sparring matches, but much had happened since then. Visola was much less soft. This would be different.
She was no longer an inexperienced neophyte; she was a seasoned warrior. Thanks in part to Vachlan himself. While Visola had been mushy, malleable clay when they had first met, the unbearable heat of his betrayal had baked her into a hardened masterpiece of sculpture. She was stronger now, and more resilient than she ever had been. Her courage was approaching fearlessness. She had even gone against Aazuria. She shot the final man in this group who was able to move.
Once all the men were either killed or too wounded to be a threat, she stared at them with disappointment. In Corallyn’s games, after one killed an enemy, they sometimes dropped an item which could be of use. While this might have been intended by the creators of the games as a metaphor, here on the battlefield it was a reality that one simply needed stuff. There were plenty of weapons for Visola to plunder, but nothing of higher quality than her own. What I wouldn’t give for a protein bar right about now, she thought to herself. She considered rummaging through the armor of the men for scraps of food, but this would have made her feel like a vulture. She was not in Zimovia for the protein bars. She was there for her sister, and she could ignore her growling stomach until she reached her goal.
If she had been patient she would have hunted for a snack, and she would have crawled into a secluded nook for a nap to refresh her energy after the long journey. Those would have been the wise things to do. However, Visola was so wired by the stimulation of the fight, and so intoxicated by the forward momentum of making progress, that she was incapable of stopping. If she stopped, she feared she would not be able to access the surreal grit and determination she felt again.
She began navigating through the tunnels again, trying desperately to access the mental map that she had created years ago. She had an excellent sense of direction, but it became difficult when all caves looked exactly the same. Occasionally she would come across pockets of more guards a
nd warriors. She wondered why they were so clumped together instead of being spread out all around. It gave her time to rest between bouts of battle. It was like the occasional all-out sprint instead of a constant, tedious marathon. This was perfect not only for Visola’s personality, but for her physiology.
At some point, she became conscious of the fact that she was running out of ammunition and energy. She had not known she would need to do this much fighting; she had anticipated that her enemy was expecting her presence, since he had gone to such great lengths to summon her. She switched to super-efficient mode, which consisted of making as few motions as possible, and disabling her opponents quickly, with the least calorie output. Visola found herself sheathing her larger sword, and using two medium-sized ones to sever spinal cords. This was the pinnacle of efficiency, and even somewhat merciful—if you turned a man into a paraplegic instead of killing him completely, he could still read a book.
It carried on this way for some time, until Visola began to feel bored. The catacombs and connections of caves stretched on for miles and miles, and she could be at this for days! She was yawning while fighting, and struggling to keep her eyelids open. That is why when she rounded a blind corner, and found herself swimming into a very large open space, she was startled by the fact that her enemies were congregated in this area by the hundreds.
She considered feeling her usual strange combination of fear and excitement, but all that she felt was tired. As they noticed her, one by one, she realized that she could not turn around and swim away. They would certainly catch her. She could not rely on her weapons or skill anymore. A dozen at a time by hand was one thing—twenty at a time with the rifles were manageable too. But hundreds of men in one very large, very open space? She sighed and threw her rifles and her larger swords down before throwing her hands up. She would have to talk her way out of this one.
A massive blonde warrior who wore decorative dark armor, replete with endless strands of shark’s teeth, beckoned her. She assumed that he was a leader of sorts. These men seemed more civilized than the ones she had met in the caves, and by virtue of that alone she assumed that they were the more highly trained squadron. She could do nothing else but follow the warrior’s order and swim forward to meet him.
She very quickly found herself surrounded by all of his men. She sighed deeply, feeling trapped. If I had a protein bar I could defeat all of you, she thought to herself glumly. The blonde warrior signaled to his men, and the ones closest to her withdrew their swords from their scabbards and pointed them at her. Several of the sharp tips poked into her green Kevlar armor.
“Explain yourself, intruder,” the leader signed.
“Hey, look!” she signed back to the leader. “You oughtta be a bit more cordial. I’m the guest of honor. I received a handwritten invitation and a gift basket and everything.”
“General Visola Ramaris?” he questioned.
“In the flesh.”
“Why did you not say this instead of attacking us?” he asked angrily.
“I didn’t attack you! Your untrained barbarians attacked me. I would have explained if I’d had a spare second.”
He nodded, his lips set in a grim line. “Fine. I will go get Vachlan.” He turned and gestured to his men. “Watch her.”
Visola suddenly felt uncomfortable with all of those eyes on her. She spun around, scanning the hundreds of eyes. If she had felt insulted earlier that Aazuria had only left one person to guard her, she supposed that she should feel flattered now. Strangely, that was not the first emotion that came to mind. She did the first thing which she could think of in order to ease the tension in the atmosphere.
“Hi,” she signed, waving at them. She could not resist a smile when a few of them waved back. And why not smile? These men were not the military leaders of the Clan of Zalcan—they were just young men who had been born into the clan of nomadic vagrants. Or perhaps they were employees who had been recruited. They did not make the decisions—they had nothing personal against her. They followed instructions, and as long as their instructions were not to kill her, she was safe. She imagined that these instructions could change at any moment, so she might as well enjoy their company now, while the waters between them were neutral instead of hostile.
Besides, knowing that in a few minutes she would be reunited with her estranged husband gave her the biggest desire to flirt that she had ever experienced.
“So,” she signed to the men coyly, “fine weather for this time of year in Alaska, isn’t it?”
“You’re Vachlan’s wife?” one of the men asked. “Is he fucking insane? If you were my wife I would never leave you.”
“That’s really sweet,” Visola said, beaming. “The situation was complicated of course. The main complication was that he was a dick.”
Many of the men in the room chuckled, and a few of them nodded in agreement. Visola felt a bit heartened by this. She received the rush of a stand-up comedian with a captive audience; regardless of the fact that she was literally being held captive at sword-point by her audience. Enemies or no enemies, Visola loved having an audience.
“So what about that Atargatis?” she asked them, raising her eyebrows. “You guys let an ex-ballerina lead an attack?”
“Ballet is actually a challenging sport that requires great strength and tolerance of pain,” one warrior dropped his sword to respond defensively.
The man beside him rolled his eyes. “He’s just saying that because he had a crush on her.”
“Everyone told Vachlan that we should go in with full force all at once,” someone else responded. “He said ‘always test the waters.’ I guess he knows best.”
“Atargatis was a nine in the looks department,” one man said. “She had a great rack. Kind of a six as a commander though.”
“Six?” Visola said, scoffing. “Five-and-a-half at best. All she managed to do was drown a few lousy fishermen and stab some shoulders. I do agree about the boobs, though. Man, I wish I had honkers like those.”
“Your boobs are stunning, General,” signed a young man, nodding emphatically.
Visola smiled at him thankfully, and had started to form her flirtatious reply when something whizzed right by her ear. In the next moment, before she could process what had happened, she saw the quarter-sized dark hole in the middle of the forehead of the man who had complimented her. There was shock on the faces of his companions, and all the smiles that had been on their faces disappeared. A dark cloud of blood began to surround the young man as his eyes stared forward, wide open but unseeing.
Visola felt awful. It had just been a little bit of harmless flirting. At least, her flirting was usually harmless. She briefly wondered if it signified unrest in the Clan of Zalcan’s camp that they were killing their own men; then she realized that this type of thing would only inspire more discipline in the troops. They had plenty of manpower to spare. Considering the way she had left Adlivun, after knocking her princess unconscious, she was not one to pass judgment on this.
She did not want to turn around to see the beast that had shot the bullet because she knew exactly what she would see. It would be him, but he would be changed in some awful way. His viciousness and spite would appear in his transformed face as great ugliness and scarring. It would be a creature of untold horror; something that children could not look at without bursting into tears. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull. His violating gaze was forcing itself between the strands of her hair and into the skin of her scalp, beyond hair follicles, blood and thick cranium, and into the most tender part of her brain. There, it sprouted razor-blade blossoms which it promptly juggled with inside her head, slicing and dicing away at her grey matter.
Turn around, her frayed cerebellum told her. She refused. She could see his reflection in the fearful faces of the men in front of her. She could see the way that he petrified everyone, and she did not need to see the revolting person that was causing this. Turn around, her unprincipled curiosity implored her. Sh
e had seen glimpses of him from afar in the battles of the 1950s, but she had not faced him directly. There is a monstrous phenomenon behind you, her imagination told her. Her self-degradation had to add, and you’re married to it, sucker. She had never been a wimp, and she knew that she needed to turn around eventually. I need a divorce, the progressive part of her declared. She took a moment to make her face absolutely, utterly expressionless. Maybe I should think about baseball, a desperate part of her suggested. I like baseball, an honest part of her argued.
Unify yourself! the wisest division of her psyche commanded all the other squabbling subdivisions forcefully. Be strong, and be calm, and be emotionless. Everything will be okay. You should turn around. So, knowing that it was the wisest part of herself which advised this, Visola obeyed it. I am bulletproof, declared the brave bits. There were quite a few of those. Only because my clothes are made of Kevlar, explained the derisive portion. She ignored this last comment, and was able to make herself tranquil and strong before she finally turned around.
Some good all that mental preparation had been. She saw him and knew that she should not have come. Aazuria had been right to lock her up. She silently wished that this was all a nightmare; at any moment she would surely wake up comfortable and protected on the luxurious floor of her prison cell. She held her breath. At any moment now. Really, any moment. Hard floor? Vertical bars? Okay, so never mind—this was real, devastatingly real.
Meeting the scrutiny of his steel-grey eyes made her feel sweltering hot and bitterly cold at the same time. It was a thousandfold more difficult to tolerate the intensity of his gaze when it was penetrating her skull from the front instead of the rear. She felt like her eyes did not offer as much protection as the dense bones of her skull had. He was already piercing beyond her eyeballs to knead her memories with his knuckles, and to dissect her thoughts with his fingernails. She tried to get past the pain in her skull to objectively observe her enemy. His jet-black hair was pulled back into its classic ponytail at the nape of his neck. Had he not changed his hairstyle in all this time? Had he not grown hideous with all the horrible deeds he had done?
Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2) Page 11
