“Guardian Scilio!” Galvatine cried, tossing the soulblade. Scilio somersaulted forward to deftly snatch it from the air, then he kicked off and made straight for Vann.
Any question they had as to Galvatine's politics and loyalties were answered in that one action.
Alokien bolted toward the altar, but Kir sprang forward and blocked his path to buy Scilio time. Just behind him, Galvatine was doing some tricksy crafting. It was no kind of spell Kir had ever seen, and it looked all manner of complicated.
“We're not done, Alokien. We're in a chamber keep. That means if I sever you from your vessel and expel you from the soulblade, you go right back to where you belong,” Kir said, trying to keep his attentions focused on her.
“It won't end here, darling. I have agents in every cranny of Septauria. I'll be back before you can blink,” Alokien promised.
“If you do, we'll just keep on sending you home. We'll always be there to stop you. For as long as it takes. Gods only belong in prayers. You're better off as wishful thinking.”
“This must end, Your Holiness,” Galvatine finally spoke from behind.
Alokien turned to face the High Priest. “Ah! Galvatine! Taking a vacation from that stuffy old Citadel, are we?”
“I've come to deal with you. And I do not mean bargain,” Galvatine affirmed.
Alokien's face puckered. “You can't kill me, High Priest. I am your God. I own you!”
“I don't intend to kill you. But I certainly can Annulerate you.”
Galvatine placed his leathery hands on the sides of Alokien's neck in a Prophetic casting that sent a flash of light rays through the chamber. Alokien's scream was a bellow of defeat. The inky black scrollwork faded away, along with the obsidian vambraces and swords of Soventine's Guardians.
Grent's knees gave out first, followed by Sterrick's guttural moan and Draback's silent acceptance. The three battered warriors bowed their heads, gripping their vacant forearms that no longer bore the weight of lumanere about them. Kir didn't know whether to feel sorry or happy for them. At least they were free of the Chaos Bringer's collar.
“Soventine is no longer a King. It's time to retire. Pass the torch,” Galvatine wheezed. He sounded hollow and drained.
The God cackled, rummaging up the last of his remaining strength. “My, how you underestimate me! I am Alokien, Lord of the Creatives, coaxer of inspiration. You've run through my script. Therefore, I've already won.”
Kir thrust her patella against the back of Alokien's knee, driving him down. She held Deynartrial against his throat. “Maybe so, but your role is finished, Your Holiness.”
In a blinding explosion of blue flame, the Kion burst forth from Vann's altar, seething through the chamber. The serpentine silver creature snaked its way along the icy inferno that encased it, searching for the reason it had been summoned. Gavin, Grydon and Shiriah huddled together, mouths agape.
Kir could see Scilio perched over Vann's head. He was holding the soulblade, which must have done its intended business. Blood dripped from the blade point, and Kir realized Scilio had used his own to activate the device. It dropped from his hands, clattering beside the altar.
Malacar and Inagor raced to Vann's side, eager to sheathe the dragon. Scilio beat them to it, pressing his hands against Vann's chest. The Kion shuddered momentarily, and with a voracious gale and gyrating pressure that popped Kir's eardrums, it whirred back to oblivion.
There was a moment where the entire chamber seemed to have been frozen in time. No one moved, no one spoke. The silence was deafening.
Then, Vann twitched. His eyes fluttered, hands clenching to fists. He gasped in a breath as he ejected upright like his back was loaded on a spring. Rolling to his side, he threw his legs over the edge of the altar. As his boots met the floor, he wavered, unsteady and disoriented. His limbs didn't seem to remember how to work. Inagor held him apeak.
The royal scrollwork of Karanni shone across Vann's neck in dazzling radiance, like a swirling opalescent tattoo. Malacar and Scilio both examined their vambraces and swords, restored to their original lumanere glory. The taint was cleansed away. Kir sucked in a shuddering gasp of relief.
“Vann?” Inagor pressed, leaning in to examine the sky blue eyes that were suddenly full of the awareness and spark that had been missing.
Vann clutched at the burgundy tabard. He squinted, studying Inagor's face in a daze as his fingers brushed his adopted father's cheek for reassurance. “Inagor?” His tentative smile faded. “That means... I'm dead, then?” His voice sounded parched and cracked, but it still chimed in that familiar baritone that Kir had so missed.
Inagor's weak laugh was almost too soft to hear. “No, son. You're very much alive. As am I.”
Vann seemed to be wading through a whirlpool. “Alive? Truly?” He clutched Inagor firmly, the reality of what he held confirming it. “Blessings abound this day. You have no idea, Inagor. No idea...”
“I think I do,” Inagor assured him.
“Sanctified Karanni,” Galvatine breathed. “Welcome back, nephew.”
Vann shifted his glassy gaze around the chamber keep, taking in Malacar and Scilio, onto Shiriah, Gavin and Grydon, beyond them to Soventine's former Guardians who were knelt in formal royal tribute, and then he found Kir. She hung back, shortsword still tucked against Alokien's throat. If she had been free of his burden, she might have flung herself into Vann's arms.
“Hey Stick. You're late to the ball. We've all been dancing without you.”
“Kiri!” There was something in Vann's expression that she couldn't read. There was relief and elation there, but something else, too. Something darker, like fear or maybe even loathing. His eyes drifted to the form of Soventine, and he darkened further.
“I think a little soul severing is in order. Wanna do the honors?” Kir asked.
Scilio picked up the soulblade from where it had fallen. “I would relish the honor myself, but it is Your Majesty whom my dastardly father has most wronged. Deliver your justice, for the honor of us both.” He handed the device over to Vann, who nodded and squeezed his vambrace in silent acknowledgment.
Vann stepped forward on uneasy legs, supported by Malacar and Scilio.
“It's over, Your Holiness,” he said to Alokien. “It's time for you to move on.”
“Yes, I couldn't agree more,” Soreina's wicked voice chimed from behind Kir, dripping with delight.
-57-
Marionette of the Spider Witch
Kir is mending slowly, and even the fresh Arshenholm air through her window does not seem to lend speed to her recovery. Only the devotion in Vann's eyes has served to do that. We have chosen not to tell her of the severity of the injury, how urgently they fought through depletion to save her, or of Vann's reckless plunge. We still don't understand from where the rallied strength came, for both Vann and Malacar had pushed themselves to their very limits. Through the Guardian Bonding I lent my pathetic mana to theirs, in the hopes that they might find something worthy of me in her salvation. My youthful disinterest in pursing further magical study now slaps me in the face. If only I had the knowledge to offer, the education to share. If I was a learned man, a master of more than my own ego, I could have been Kir's savior. As an ignorant man, all I could do was sit and pray.”
- Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
That insolent harpy.
Soreina lay sprawled across the cold, polished floor of the chamber keep. She kept her eyes closed, breathing measured, limbs still. The fall had knocked her from consciousness for several moments, but she had regained herself quickly. Her perfect kaienze body was resilient, and very little, not even the fury of Elementals, could affect her. Soreina was practically a Goddess in the flesh.
The Blazer storm sent by the little royal whorelet had stung. The impact with the chamber floor had stung more. She was not prone to breaking easily, and in fact, Soreina had never known the pain of shattering bones. Still, it had be
en the most catastrophic assault she had taken in recent memory. It would not go unpunished.
Soreina had remained still as the Princess rummaged around her hair, looking fruitlessly for the soulblade. She had listened patiently as the High Priest Annulerated Soventine's Kingship and the Princess subdued Alokien with a blade at his neck. She did allowed an eye to squint as Vannisarian's silver dragon roared forth, since every other eye was trained on it and oblivious to her. And now, she waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike. She zeroed in on the back of the whorelet's neck, the sweet spot, with the skill of an accomplished assassin. Soreina never missed her mark.
The royal bitch had been a thorn in Soreina's thumb for far too long. The very idea of her self-righteous hauteur sent shivers of loathing up Soreina's spine. On the airferry the year before, the warrior wench, a Guardian then, had destroyed Soreina's favorite alterlet and lent herself to constant bother. She had tweaked Soreina's annoyance, but the reclamation of Soreina's prized henchman had fueled her wrath. Now, the brash little harridan would pay.
It wasn't enough to kill her. As an assassin, Soreina knew all about the leniency of a quick death. She wasn't a proponent of mercy, for where was the fun in that? The ways of torment were infinite, much more delicious than letting the prey expire quickly.
But work first, then play. There was a mission to complete. After commanding Soreina to incapacitate the Mon-Priest and Master Prophet to claim their forms, Alokien had explained how he had planned to use the nousectional, channeling his own soul into the princeling's open soulgate through the conduit. It would have worked, if only the lecher Guardian hadn't seen through the disguise. Soreina was the backup plan, and the time to act was upon her.
She wished she had landed closer to the doors, where her travel satchel waited. It contained several useful instruments, including her extra riftjump cufflet, which was fully charged and ready. The one she currently wore was depleted after the lengthy series of riftjumps she had made to White Tower from the Hili border. If it had been even a hint of power left, she could have used it to riftjump—just another form of shadow-hopping, really—to her target. Always a handy tool in assassinations.
“It's over, Your Holiness,” the princeling said. “It's time for you to move on.”
“Yes, I couldn't agree more,” Soreina chimed.
Faster than a mantis, Soreina rolled forward on her agile legs and launched. Her Marionette Line propelled right through the Princess' spinal cord and into the nerve center. Another successful catch. The royal whorelet's shortsword slipped from Alokien's neck and clattered to the ground as her shoulders fell limp and her head lolled.
“Kiri? What's wrong?” the princeling called, alarmed.
The Marionette Line was Soreina's favorite casting. The ultra-thin thread, engorged in her spell, could make a puppet of any body. With the power of concentrated thought, Soreina controlled the complete nervous system, making the victim a slave to her will. It was not a Psychonic form of bondage, but a physical one. The puppet would retain full awareness, unable to manipulate their own actions.
Vannisarian took a step, but Soreina tutted. “No, no, dear boy. She's my puppet. You want her to live, don't you? Keep back, or I'll drink her neck.”
The Princess' elbow snapped to a bend and the short blade attached to the wretched leather armguard zipped toward her own throat. Soreina commanded it to halt just before contact.
Vannisarian stifled a cry. His feet ceased their advance and he held a restraining hand gesture to the room.
Inagor was beside himself, helpless and pleading. Soreina knew his defeated state all too intimately. She hungered to revisit those lovely weeks in her lair when she had gone about breaking him. When she was done here, Inagor would scream for her again. Not long now.
Satisfied that the command had been duly accepted, Soreina allowed the puppet's blade arm to fall. Moving with the speed of a spider, too fast for most humans to track, Soreina's protective nest of hair pushed the soulblade into the Princess' empty hand. Soreina directed her puppet to strike first with the blunt end, slicing Alokien away from Soventine's failing vessel through his middle. She didn't worry about him being cast astray. Alokien had explained that the capacitor had some manner of magnetic attraction to his aura. He would be spirited inside as soon as it made contact. She had little interest or care in the details, only in the execution.
Soventine's eyes were suddenly blank, void of the churning violet Godfire that had occupied them. The Annulerated vessel was no longer needed, and it was a battered shell anyway. The soulblade required more blood to fuel the capacitor. The perfect donor was at hand. Through the Marionette Line, Soreina manipulated her Princess puppet to thrust the sharp end deep into Soventine's left ventricle. Bright, rich blood gushed down the blade. It overflowed onto the bitch's hand and down her wrist.
Gasps and screams pierced the chamber, reverberating off the smooth lumanere crystal walls. Soventine's fallen Guardians roared their grief and anger, ready to fillet Soreina with the weapons of their fingernails.
“He's already gone. Protect the civilians!” Malacar commanded them. Reluctantly, they fell back with the High Priest to where the three trembling socialites cowered, raising Defensive Shields. As if that would matter. Should Soreina mark a target, no pathetic Shield would stop her, but she couldn't care less about those insignificant bodies or even the seething former Guardians. She was thirsty for the flavor of the King.
Soreina bade the puppet to raise her delicious arm. It hung limply at the elbow like she was strung a true marionette. Relishing the revulsion of the audience, Soreina trailed her tongue along the Princess' red forearm, savoring a long taste of the succulent royal treat. It was just as tangy as she had hoped. She would have to collect some in the empty flagon waiting in her satchel. Gliding forward to Soventine's side on graceful legs, Soreina slid her tongue into the mortal wound, her eyes parked on the royal party to enjoy their shock and horror. She coated her fingers for the privilege of licking them suggestively, then slipped back to the Princess' side and trailed her fingernail along those perfect lips, painting them with the King's color.
“Beautiful,” Soreina breathed, taking the harpy's chin into her grasp. She engulfed the wench's lips with her own, tonguing the savory tang of the King that coated them.
Soreina had made her mark, and Alokien's soul, encased in the nousectional, was in her hand. Now, all she needed was Vannisarian's cooperation. She cast the Forbidden Enhancement spell to her hair quickly, making the threads a million times more indestructible than steel. It was a merry invitation to the royal dragons. The invincibility spell was cast. The Kions had been summoned. Soreina was counting on it. She stared into the puppet's eyes, watching as the churning bloodwine flame danced through them with the Kion's birth.
Two silver dragons ripped through the wispy fires that steamed from their bodies, filling the chamber, spiraling together. The princeling and his affianced were caught up in the blue and red flames that mingled their fiery hues. Their eyes were awash in empty glow, their scrollwork swirling in hues that matched their own dragonfire. They looked like puppets of the dragon, without their own will of mind.
Soreina knew the icy sear of the Kionflame, and she expected it this time. Her encounter with the whorelet's Kion at the fort in Aquiline had taught her a few things about her foe, and herself. She was immune to the dragonfire, and though it singed her superficially, it could not destroy her. She allowed the Kions to rake their excruciating beings over her, devouring the hints of Forbidden magic from the casting. She continued fueling the spell to keep the Kions fuming, despite the raking with every pass they made across her flesh. She was almost as immune to pain as she was to their fury.
Vannisarian's two battered Guardians gripped the princeling's shoulders to dismiss his Kion. Even after the dragon evaporated into its cyclone, Vannisarian's eyes glowed, swirling in electric blue artistry. Malacar fixed a tight grip to keep the dragon contained.
Kiriana's deep red dragonfire still continued its swirling conflagration and the remaining Kion writhed, aching for repletion, unsheathed by the frantic Guardian that couldn't get close. Soreina bared her pearly fangs at Inagor, taunting him in his helplessness.
Scilio threw himself toward Soreina, the folly of his predictable frontal assault being his undoing. It would have been easy to kill him right there, but the fop had provided a delightful night of debauchery on the airferry the year before, when Soreina was contracted with the mages. She normally didn't indulge a sentimental side, but the letch tweaked what little she had. She had wished for another round or five. Keeping him alive would prove delectably pleasurable. She could wrap him up for later enjoyment. He would make a lovely addition to her Guardian collection.
Soreina shot a lengthy tendril of hair to catch Scilio up at the ankle. As he tripped, too sluggish to avoid it, another tendril blunted its end and sank into his gut, knocking wind from lung. He collapsed next to Soventine's corpse, wheezing and semi-conscious.
The wenchery madam bellowed a fearful cry that thrilled Soreina's ear. She screamed out the letch's given name, which meant they were close. The whore must have been the degenerate Guardian's new wenchtoy. Soreina's interest was piqued now. Another precious delight to wrap up for later enjoyment. Torment was best savored in pairs. The lair would host some splendid new acquisitions.
Inagor took advantage of Scilio's paltry diversion. He lunged to act the Guardian. Soreina wasn't about to let him near. She launched a barred wall of woven hair that extended thickly from her scalp, barricading him behind, along with Malacar and the princeling. They were out of reach of the flaming tartlet. Inagor began hacking at the thread wall with his Guardian sword, frantic to break through. The Enhancement spell was too strong. For all that labor, he didn't even make a dent.
The Kion launched again. The icy burn almost tickled. Soreina showered the chamber with a wave of thin, needle threads on the offensive, distracting the entire room with their frenetic attempts to keep their own skin from shredding. The Kion was not dissuaded. It continued its futile attempt to incinerate its target, and Soreina became accustomed to the burn. For variety, she changed the form of the thread assault, forcing the defenders to shift their strategies. Sometimes it was thread-blades. Sometimes solid woven walls to slap them back. She didn't want them dead, only distracted and a little bloodier than they already were. It was a dance of chaos.
Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace Page 69
