No Return

by Zachary Jernigan

  No god would debase himself with such crude tools. Only man and elderman relied upon the strength of bone and steel.

  ‡

  Mid-afternoon, Pol walked to the docks to buy a set of knives. Not any knives, either. He required a very specific design for his purpose. Garrus had recommended a bladesmith in Vanset, but Pol did not trust Ulomi and decided on a shop Shav recommended in Little Demn. He admired Tomen for their serious, frequently violent practicality. If anyone could make a knife suitable for an assassin’s hand, a desert man could.

  He met every stare in the street, unafraid. The unsheathed blade of his liisau caught the sun, announcing his presence from several blocks away. For someone like Pol, Little Demn was just as dangerous during the day as the night. Men could easily see him for what he was: not only an Adrashi, but one who actively sought peace with the devil.

  It was an important distinction, for just as many types of Anadrashi zealot existed as Adrashi. Roughly equal in number but generally less organized than their god-worshipping brethren, one basic belief bound them: Adrash should not be worshipped. The reasons for this numbered in the thousands, but roughly boiled down to two philosophical stances—the canonical and the personal.

  The Black Suit orders, for instance, taught that Adrash actively sought the destruction of the world, and could only be kept at bay by displaying one’s faith in mankind, by cursing the god at every opportunity, and by physically besting those who worshipped Adrash. Though they acted in the community, they primarily expressed their faith through planned, bloody encounters with similarly outfitted Adrashi orders. Their faith was a thing of rigid order, tradition, and—though they would not admit it—a certain measure of symbiosis.

  This expression contrasted sharply with that of the Rinka, a fraternal organization of former Adrashi in Northeastern Casta. Bound by the shared experience of family abuse, the members expressed their ecstatic faith in city squares and markets. Crying and screaming were encouraged as part of the proselytizing. Members often renounced drinking and gambling, and preached nonviolent opposition to Adrash through meditation and fasting.

  Tomen rejected both the canonical and personal stances. They considered the existence of Adrash—whom they considered to be a demon of great power—to be a practical affront to humanity, and reacted in kind. Reasoning that Adrash drew strength from his worshippers, the men of the desert took every opportunity to take the lives of Adrashi, as well as weak-wristed Anadrashi. They valued freedom and self-sufficiency above all else, wrote no creeds, proselytized not at all, and committed no violence upon their brothers. Some claimed that within Toma existed the most peaceful society on the continent.

  Along its borders, however, more men died in combat than anywhere else on the continent—a situation mirrored in their expatriate communities. But for the presence of the city watches, places like Little Demn were for all practical purposes border towns at war.

  Pol interpreted the looks he received correctly. They would gladly gut him if given the opportunity.

  A month ago, he might still have chosen to travel alone, but he would have seriously considered the consequences. This morning, however, he had not given it a second thought. Cool fire moved along his nerves, twitched the muscles in his fingers, urged him to move, to strike.

  Do it, his stare mocked. Attack. He knew with every ounce of his being that an entire army could not stand against him.

  He had moved the Needle.

  Every day since Ebn’s disastrous mission, he had awakened to the same nervous sensations, the same memory of knocking one of Adrash’s spheres out of alignment. He recalled the pain of the sigils awakening upon his body—the mounting, rapturous pressure of the unknown spell straining for release—the vaguely disappointing knowledge that he had acted too late to save his brethren—and then the near-instinctive unloading of his pent magic upon the first target that came to mind. He tried to summon the exact feelings to him again, lingering on each detail as one might linger on a lover’s touch.

  It had been a gift from the void. A call to action, proof he could no longer sit by and let events continue unchecked. He would answer the call and make himself a leader of men, but to do so he knew he must prepare carefully.

  For a brief period after the disastrous encounter with Adrash, he worried he had become too addled to continue painting sigils on his skin. But, despite all of the energy coursing through his system, his hands were sure with each stroke. He even found himself painting his back, as though his fingers had eyes of their own. Sometimes it seemed the sigils were painting themselves. The marks became more complex, esoteric, and dangerous. He became a collection of alchemical lore. A weapon.

  His power would soon eclipse Ebn’s. Possibly, it already had.

  Odd now that I must search for knives, he thought. Such crude implements, yet he did not want to rely solely upon spells and sigils. He would not underestimate Ebn, a craftsman of magic with few equals, a mage who responded to attacks with cunning and raw power. She had even swayed Adrash, if only for a moment. Undoubtedly, she had examined her memory of the failed mission. Perhaps she had discovered what Pol had done, knew his power for the threat it was.

  During the final confrontation, she would not allow sentimentality to cloud her judgment.

  In this, they were bound. He prepared himself, and thought up novel ways to kill a master mage in orbit.

  ‡

  Shav weighed the knife, flipped it a few times to test the balance. Ten heavy inches of steel, a straight handle accounted for half its length. The teardrop blade, edge ground to razor sharpness, accounted for the other half. Per Pol’s request, the bladesmith had bound a fine layer of charcoal to its surface so that it would not reflect light. It was a simple, elegant weapon, a tool clearly intended for killing.

  “I told you he was good,” Shav said. “When will the others be ready?”

  “Week’s end, he said.”

  “You must have been robbed.”

  Pol smiled. “Yes, I was, and he took some convincing. He told me that if he accepted my business, he would be dead by week’s end.”

  “Nonsense.” Shav stood and threw the knife overhanded into the target Pol had fixed to the wall. His next throw hit flat and clanged to the floor.

  “Why is this shaped so?” he asked, running his finger over the chisel-shaped tip of the handle.

  “I have designed the knife carefully,” Pol said. “Once thrown, it has two tasks. First, it must shatter Ebn’s helmet. Second, its weight must carry the blade forward into her skull. In many ways the handle is more important than the blade.”

  Pol gave this information without hesitation. He had long since ceased keeping secrets from Shav. He no longer hid his sigils. Though he had not yet discovered a use for the quarterstock, his idiosyncratic presence was oddly comforting. Furthermore, he was an excellent lover. Even his smell, which seemed to always carry the salt and rot of the sea, had an odd charm.

  It amused Pol to think he had once been intimidated by the quarterstock. Shav turned his hand. The knife disappeared into his sleeve. He thrust his hand forward, and the knife appeared in it. He grunted in surprise at the blood welling up from his calloused thumb. “Why is the blade so sharp? You can practice with a dull knife, can’t you?”

  “No.” Pol took the weapon from him. He hefted it and then flicked it underhanded into the target. “I will not chance it. The weight of the practice knives needs to be exactly the same as the killing blade itself.” He pulled the knife free and repeated the throw. He moved back a pace and hit the target handle first, but got it the next time, and the next.

  Shav watched, brows raised. “You’ve thrown knives of this design before?” Pol shrugged. “No.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t get used to this, then. Handling the knife, yes, but maybe not the throwing. No doubt, it will fly differently in the void.” Shav sat at the table and tore a piece of rouce bread, dipped it in green olive relish.

  He gestured for Pol to do like
wise. “Maybe you should practice in orbit.” They sat in silence and ate. Shav’s intelligence never ceased to arouse Pol’s interest. Curious as to his strange companion’s education, he had made subtle enquiries at the academy but discovered little. Of course, Shav claimed to have done many things. He had been all over Knoori, claimed to have fought in a dozen wars, many of which were happening simultaneously. He had sailed the ocean and planted his feet on foreign soil. For many years he had kept his identity hidden, staining his skin with a semi-permanent black ink. Pol dismissed much of the history out of hand. The quarterstock was mad, a charming and startlingly keen liar. At times he had seemed almost prescient, but now Pol suspected he was merely a skilled observer. A man could appear to do miracles if he watched others closely enough.

  “That is my intention, yes,” Pol finally answered. “Unfortunately, I believe I am being observed constantly now. This morning, I breakfasted with Ebn.

  All scheduled solo ascensions—and thus all independent projects of study in the void—have been placed on hold. She wants the mages to maintain a constant presence above Jeroun from now on. Comprised of eighteen half-day shifts, the watch will operate as an early warning system of sorts, possibly even the first line of defense against Adrash. A ridiculous concept, of course, but Ebn is insistent.

  “I have been assigned the twice-weekly task of ascending to orbit and relieving the first and fifth shifts. As you may have guessed, I will not be alone in this task.

  Loas, the most senior mage next to Ebn now that Qon is gone, will accompany me. He is highly skilled in the lore and unquestionably loyal to Ebn. I must find a way of silencing him so that my target practice is not revealed.”

  “Won’t it be revealed the moment you take on another partner?”

  “No. Ebn’s resources are stretched too thin. It will be weeks before she can find a replacement for Loas. For a time, at least, I will be left to my own devices. Even if I am wrong, it should not be too difficult to arrange yet another accident in the void. Many of the voidsuits were damaged when Adrash attacked.”

  Shav shook his head. “This is far too complicated. Why not simply replace this Loas with someone you can convince to keep your secret? Someone you can buy?”

  Pol had already considered this and rejected it. “Beyond the fact that Ebn would find my request for a replacement highly suspicious, I would not attempt to bribe another mage. Only someone in a weak position would accept such an offer, and sooner or later he would realize how much more there is to gain by turning me in. No, I must convince Loas to help me lift the helmets and targets into the void. I will tell him it is a last minute request from Ebn. And then, once we have reached orbit, I will kill him.”

  “Your plan hinges on one act of deception? What if he doesn’t believe you?

  He will not ascend with you, but go immediately to Ebn.”

  Pol ground his teeth together. “I have no other options, Shav. I have so few resources at my disposal, no friends conveniently placed in positions of...” He paused, struck dumb as the answer suddenly revealed itself. He had finally found a use for the quarterstock.

  “But perhaps I have been looking in the wrong places,” he said. “It occurs to me that you may be of some assistance.”

  Shav chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “You want to use my dragon as a pack animal.”

  “Yes,” Pol said, impressed once more with the quarterstock’s acumen. “I want it to carry the helmets and targets so that Loas’s curiosity is not aroused and my hands are free to attack. I can manage the weight of the helmets and targets from that point on.”

  “Sapes and I can only travel so high, which means you must strike your enemy well before reaching orbit. Gravity won’t be on your side, so you’ll have to act very fast. Are you sure it wouldn’t be wiser to kill him at your convenience and allow me to transport your materials later?”

  “I am sure. Time is of the essence.”

  “His death must look like an accident, Pol.”

  Pol closed his eyes, picturing the spell he would cast. His fingers twitched on the tabletop, and his tattooed skin puckered with gooseflesh. The sigils seemed to assert themselves more and more every day, whispering possibilities, temptations. “I can do it. Can I rely on you?”

  Shav stood and stretched. An erection pressed against the fabric of his pants. He wrapped his fist around Pol’s bicep.

  “Of course you can. You...”

  His eyes rolled up into his head and he shuddered, fingers tightening on Pol’s arm. Pol waited, mildly amused by the display.

  “The elderman,” Shav said once the seizures had ceased. His voice was deeper than Pol had ever heard. Almost painfully hoarse, it quavered as though the quarterstock were in agony. “The elderman’s name is Orrus. He is my father. He has won his first battle and will soon leave for his second.

  He is frightened, as he should be. He knows a wiser man would hoist sails for the outer isles, leaving the world behind. Instead, he contemplates taking from the Lord of the world his most prized possession. He is a fool.” The quarterstock knelt. His right index fingertip traced the lines of the flight sigil tattooed on Pol’s shoulder. “Before he leaves, my father tells me to contemplate death. He tells me to feel my mortality in the creak of my bones and the soreness of my muscles. With every heartbeat, you are closer to death, he says. He forces me to smell the stench of his underarms—the smell of the body birthing and decaying life at the same moment. He tells me to know, intimately, every sign of weakness in my body, and then reject each in turn. “He breaks my arm with one blow, kicks me as I writhe on the ground.

  Remember this lesson above all others, he says. The body heals. It responds to trauma, to pain—not with fear, but with purpose. So must you. You need not die, my son, but in order to continue living—”

  Shav stared into Pol’s eyes.

  “—you must suffer.”

  PART FOUR

  VEDAS TEZUL

  THE 1st TO 3rd OF THE MONTH OF ROYALTY, 12499 MD

  THE CITY OF YNON to GRASS TRAIL,

  THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN

  The Locborder Wall extended three hundred and fifty miles along the western shore of Lake Ten, from the foothills of the Aspa Mountains in Nos Ulom to the screwcrab warrens of Toma. Begun

  in the twenty-third century and finally completed in the thirtieth, its length documented Knos Min’s former glory, before Nos Ulom and Toma applied pressure west and northwards on the larger nation’s borders, reducing its area by half.

  Once, an army had slept atop the wall, guarding its hundred gates and the various villages clinging like barnacles to its lakeward side, but the increasingly aggressive gestures of Nos Ulom and Toma forced Knos Min to fill many of the gates. By the midway point of the one hundred and twentyfourth century only the three largest remained: Ioa, Ynon, and Defu. The villages had been abandoned long before and were crumbling slowly into the lake.

  Adrash chose this moment to send his two smallest weapons to earth. They struck the ocean to either side of Knoori, sending tidal waves to the coasts, water vapor and dust into the sky. Thus began the Cataclysm—a tragedy of such monumental proportions that, one thousand years after it occurred, few referred to it at all. When the clouds finally parted, ending the decade-long winter, the population had been reduced by fifty percent.

  Nothing lived along the shores of Lake Ten, which did not thaw completely for twenty years after the Cataclysm.

  As the continent grew warmer, men gradually returned to the lake, and it was not long before they discovered something extraordinary. Previously unknown species of fish had survived the great freeze, breeding in vast numbers under the thick ice. Large and oily-fleshed, the animals represented not only survival, but prosperity. Generations could grow strong on food such as that. Nations whose borders had not shifted perceptibly during the famine decade now found themselves fighting to keep their waterfront property.

  The race to repopulate had begun.

  Without a doubt, t
he nation of Knos Min came out ahead. It owned two hundred and seventy miles of Locborder and its most strategic docks. A vast infrastructure for repopulating cities, fortifying armies, and communicating over vast distances still existed. The old capitol, Danoor, the new capitol, Grass Min, and the sprawling equatorial metropolis Levas sent their best engineers, fishermen and soldiers to the three cities of the lake—Ioa, Defu, and what would come to be the most important, Ynon.

  Instead of waging a war of territorial conquest, however, the administrators of the three cities simply fortified the two borders abutting the shore and concentrated on hauling everything they could from the great lake. Dried and fresh fish went to all corners of Knos Min. They traded none of their catch, no matter how high the demand grew throughout the rest of the continent. All resources went to feeding, to growing. Immigrants pored in from across the continent and Knos Min welcomed them, demanding nothing but labor and loyalty of arms.

  The first thing many new citizens learned about was the history of Locborder Wall, which had grown as a symbol to encompass the hopes of an entire nation.

  As a child, Vedas had learned this narrative. All Knosi children did, no matter how far they had strayed from their homeland. The residents of Golna’s affluent Tannerton had even erected a miniature replica wall alongside their tiny manmade lake, Tenia. Its placement confused the neighboring boroughs because it blocked the view of the water. Few understood how large Locborder loomed in the Knosi consciousness.