by Chris Fox
“If we want this world to survive, then we need to find the answer. For the time being consider me your research assistant,” Voria offered. “Help me find what she’s after, and I promise we will stop her from getting it.”
“I think we’re in agreement then, Major.” Horuk smiled grimly. “Let’s get to work then.”
45
The Power Of Beer
Aran tucked his helmet under his arm, resisting the urge to put it back on. Nara had suggested it might help if the refugees could see his face, so he kept it off. He’d considered taking the armor off entirely, but the idea that the Krox could come back at any time made him think better of it. They needed to be ready for a follow-up assault, even if it seemed unlikely.
They’d managed to direct a few hundred refugees to the makeshift shelters, but it felt like so little amidst the carnage.
“Aran, did you want to talk?” Nara glided to a stop next to him. “I mean, about Bord. We collected his body…”
He considered the question. Did he want to talk?
“Thank you for that.” Aran looked away from her. “I’m going to go check in with the major. Would you mind keeping an eye on things here?”
“Sure, but I think Davidson’s people have everything in hand. The barricades are up, and watches have been assigned.” She raised an eyebrow. “Sooner or later, we’re going to need to talk. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know, trust me. I’m not doing the ‘oh god I’m a terrible leader’ thing.” He forced himself to look at her. “It’s just a lot to process, you know? I need a little time. I’ll be fine. Thanks for looking out for me. It helps knowing you have my back.”
“All right, I’ll let you off the hook.” She laughed. It crinkled her nose, drawing the freckles together. “Now go do your officer stuff. But when you get back, come see me, okay?”
Aran smiled. “I’ll do that. We’ll raise a glass to Bord.”
“He’d have liked that.” Nara tucked her helmet firmly under her arm, then zoomed off in the opposite direction. They both pretended that Bord’s death wasn’t tearing them up, a kind of mutual defense against grief.
He turned toward the archive at the top of the hill, zooming slowly in that direction. He kept his elevation at a precise thirty meters, within easy view of everyone below. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the pillars of smoke rising from the buildings around him.
Had he made the right decision in having Bord protect the temple? Could he have reacted more quickly when the dragon landed? Heat bubbled up in his gut. He shouldn’t have even been in charge in the first place. He had no experience at this, and that lack of experience might get the whole company killed.
But what was the better option? The Major couldn’t assume control, and Crewes had made it clear he didn’t feel up to the job. So what option did that leave? Stepping up. Putting aside his own bullshit emotions, and focusing on the job. Before someone else died.
Aran drifted down to the wide double doors leading into the archive. He touched down right outside and gently pushed open the door on the right. The interior was dimly lit, but after his eyes adjusted he made out the rows of bookshelves. They smelled heavenly, tickling a memory he couldn’t quite grasp.
The cavernous room was deserted except for Major Voria and a mage he took for the archivist. He walked boldly in their direction, nodding at the major when she looked up at his approach.
“Sir. You asked me to report to you when the area was secure. Shall I come back later?”
“Now is fine, just give me a moment.” She touched the archivist on the shoulder. “See if you can find more about the Guardian, and about whatever these strange skies are. What we have so far is maddeningly unspecific. I’ll be right back.”
Aran moved out of earshot and waited for the major to join him. She approached briskly and stopped a meter away, folding her arms. She watched him evenly, waiting for him to speak.
Aran led with the report, to stall the question as long as possible. “The barricades are set up, and watches are assigned.”
“Excellent. Now let’s get to the real reason I asked you here.” Voria’s face showed a rare note of sympathy. “Losing someone under your command is tough. I know you’re strong Aran, but strong can also mean brittle. I need to know you’re okay, and still able to command.”
“Bord died because he followed an order I gave.” Aran licked his lips, struggling to verbalize the tapestry of emotions. “I know rationally that the order was correct. I’d give it again, if I had to. I did what I needed to do, and we accomplished the mission.”
“But?” Voria asked.
“Bord is dead.”
“You’re wondering how you deal with the fact that Bord is dead, because you expended him like a resource.” The major seized Aran’s shoulder, locking eyes with him. “You are a resource, Aran. I will expend you like a resource. So is Nara, and Kez, and Crewes, and every last one of the Marines under Davidson. We are all of us resources, all part of a larger whole. You sleep at night, Aran, because you know when the time comes you’re going to go out with the same dignity and courage Bord exhibited. And because of his sacrifice, billions of Confederate citizens sleep safely, not having to worry about the Krox darkening their skies.”
Aran nodded, considering her words. “That doesn’t sound like an easy thing to reconcile, but I can do it, sir. I can’t lie. His death tears me up. But I won’t let it cause me to hesitate. The Krox have to be stopped. If Bord’s death taught me anything, it’s that. Those bastards have made this personal. I figure instead of guilty, or sad, I’ll just get pissed off.”
“Anger will insulate you, for now at least. Unfortunately, I’m about to take that anger away.” Voria released him. Her entire demeanor shifted, the dour expression replaced by a broad smile. “I waited to do this, because I wanted you to experience loss as an officer. I realize how cruel that sounds, but I needed to know you wouldn’t break. Besides, I’m not certain what I’m about to attempt will work. Come with me. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but we may be able to fix this situation.”
“Fix the situation?” Aran prodded, but the Major ignored him as she exited the library. He badly wanted to ask where they were going, but stayed silent as they headed to the temporary morgue that had been erected next to the battlefield.
Walking those rows of bodies chilled Aran in a way the void never could. Someone had taken the time to close their eyes, at least. It dimmed the horrified expressions many wore.
“I found him.” Aran called numbly, from the third row. He waited for the Major to make her way over, forcing himself to look at the olive-skinned medic.
Bord’s face was pale, his eyes closed and peaceful. The hole in his armor gaped, the edges stained black with blood and dust. Aran wiped the corner of his eye, refusing to look away. This was on him.
“Do you remember our visit to the drifters?” Voria asked. She reached into her satchel, removing the small black keg of beer they’d acquired.
“Vaguely. The drifter claimed that was his best beer, right? I didn’t really understand most of what he said.”
“He said, very specifically, that the beer would wake the dead.” Voria slapped a tap into the top of the keg. “Now I don’t know if he was as good as his word—but most drifters are, despite what people think. It’s one thing to make a healing potion, quite another to make beer that can call a person’s spirit back to their body. That’s a fifth-level spell, and usually requires a full ritual casting at a Catalyst to accomplish. We’re talking half a dozen powerful mages, all working in tandem, at a place of immense power. Even then, such rituals often fail. This brew may do nothing, but I can’t think of a better time to use it. I figure nothing is lost in the attempt. And, if it works, it will definitely prove that trading my staff was worth it.”
Aran ruthlessly culled the hope. He wasn’t ready to deal with the disappointment, not so soon. The idea that magic powerful enough to call someone’s soul back to their body eve
n existed…it refused to take root.
“Hold his head,” the major ordered.
Aran did as instructed, tilting Bord’s head back and holding his mouth open as the major poured in a steady stream of thick, black beer. She trickled it into Bord’s mouth for an eternity, so long that Aran’s arms began to cramp. Still he held Bord perfectly still, saying nothing.
A tremendous burp rolled from Bord’s throat. His body spasmed, then he coughed violently. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at Aran. “Oh gods. You’re the last face I want to wake up to.” Bord’s hands shot down to his chest and his voice rose three octaves. “I’m dead.”
“You were dead,” Voria said, with more than a touch of pride. “Did you think I’d find dying an acceptable excuse, Specialist? You still have work to do among the living. You may stay here and rest until morning, then we’ll get you back in the fight.”
“Getting killed got me a day off?” Bord mused, leaning back and interlocking his fingers behind his head. Then he grinned. “Worth it. Totally worth it.” He leapt from the slab as though unable to sit still. “I feel incredible.”
“It’s the aftereffects of the brew. You’re drunk, Specialist.” Voria turned to Aran, grinning in a way that—on anyone else—Aran would have called girlish. “Get your company prepared, and tell Davidson to stand ready in the square. Spread the word to all the shelters that we’ll be gathering in an hour.”
“Uh huh. Sir.” Aran gawked at Bord, still reeling. “You just brought him back from the dead. Like…he was dead, and now he’s not.”
“Well, technically, the drifters did it. It wasn’t my spell.” Voria shrugged. “Now get moving. When I promoted you to lieutenant, I expected initiative. We have a long, dangerous road ahead of us. You’ve got your healer back. Now start delivering me dead Krox.”
Aran sat there, bewildered. He’d run the gamut of emotions, from helplessness, to overpowering grief, and finally anger. Now, he wasn’t sure what to feel.
“Dead Krox,” he finally said, “is something I can do.”
46
Confrontation
Satisfied that Aran would do his job, Voria allowed herself a rare moment of reflection. She set down the tome she’d been reading, stretching as she rose. She’d placed a great deal of faith in the augury the Tender had given her. Including using a priceless potion to bring Bord back from the dead. The augury showed him at the final battle. Had that not been the case, she’d never have used the potion.
Voria stifled a yawn. She still had an important task to deal with, one that would require she keep her wits about her. She didn’t know how long Nebiat had been in that swamp, or how close the binder was to her goal. Even now, the dreadlord could be completing whatever ritual she was out here to perform. Perhaps she was out here in search of an artifact from the godswar.
Whatever Nebiat’s motivation, Voria needed to pursue her immediately. That meant dealing with the governor in the most expedient way possible, while still retaining a mostly functional government in this city. Stopping Nebiat, but having the world fall to anarchy, would be a bitter victory—one she’d prefer to avoid.
She slung her satchel over her shoulder and departed the archives. Horuk had agreed to her request and would report to the square as soon as he’d locked the archives. That meant the last piece was in place. Voria marched briskly back down the steep thoroughfare, only relaxing once she’d re-entered the perimeter Captain Davidson had established.
“Captain, a word please?” Voria called, her loud, clear voice echoing over the still-smoking market square.
Davidson disengaged from a trio of subordinates, striding over to her with brisk purpose. “Yes, sir?”
His deep green fatigues, like those of the men around him, were stained with blood and sweat. His men looked at him with a mixture of respect and adoration.
Up close, his weariness was easier to spot. She found it in the dark circles under his eyes and the tremble in his hands. He needed sleep, and probably a hot meal.
“Are you confident you have a perimeter in place around this square?” Voria asked. She reached for the familiar comfort of her staff, then lowered her arm when she remembered for the millionth time that she’d traded it. At least she’d gotten something fair in trade.
“As confident as I can be,” Davidson replied, scrubbing his fingers through his sweaty blond hair. “If the Krox launch another attack, we’ll be aware of it, but I can’t promise we can repulse it. The new rifles and armor helped us push them back, but we’re short on manpower. The locals aren’t going to be any help. Their morale has never been lower.”
“That was my next question.” Voria gave a quick nod. “I want you to pass the word. Have all the shelters gather, and bring their people here. Inform me when they’ve arrived.”
“Sir?” Davidson asked, confusion leaking into his expression.
“Just do it, Captain. You’ll understand why once you see what I have planned, I promise you. In the meantime, I have to meet with the governor.”
“Of course, sir.” Davidson colored and snapped a hasty salute, which Voria returned. “I’ll have all refugees here in the next fifteen minutes.”
Voria gave a pleased nod, then continued through the square. She stepped over the corpse of a Krox enforcer, part of its chest simply missing where a void bolt had finished it. Bodies littered the square, though thankfully they were all enemy bodies now. Davidson had been extremely efficient in getting their own casualties off the field.
To Voria’s mild surprise, Governor Avitus had already arrived at the stage. If he really were bound, she’d have expected him to flee now that his work was done. The fact that he hadn’t troubled her. It suggested he had more mischief planned, or that she was simply wrong about him.
She walked boldly up to the stage, mounting the trio of steps on the right side. The stage had escaped the combat largely unscathed, an island of calm amidst utter chaos.
“Ahh, Governor,” she called, infusing the words with warmth she didn’t feel. “I’m pleased to see you survived the battle.”
“Yes, no thanks to you,” the governor snapped, rounding on her. “A full third of my people lie dead, and our city is in ruins. All within minutes of your arrival. Is this the best your vaunted Confederate Marines can do?” He raised an arm, gesturing expansively at the destruction around him.
Voria walked to the center of the stage. Refugees were already trickling in, gathering at the edges of the square. Davidson worked fast. “An excellent question, Governor—one I imagine your people would be very interested in having answered.”
She sketched a sigil, activating the stage’s latent magic. Her voice was instantly amplified, booming across the square, and hopefully beyond. “Citizens of Marid, hear me. We have been assaulted by the Krox, attacked by some of their most ancient Wyrms. Many have fallen. We’ve lost friends, and family. Some have lost homes. Many of you are asking why. I’ve brought the governor here to discuss the cause of this attack.”
She turned to the governor, slowly folding her arms. He rose imperiously, his finery impeccable in the aftermath of the battle.
“Yes,” he said, “some very troubling questions have arisen. The Krox made no move to assault us, conducting whatever business they have here in peace. Then the Confederates arrived, and we were instantly attacked. The Marines failed to protect us, failed in their duty.”
Dark murmurs came from the Marines, but Davidson silenced them with a look. He stood proud, and his men mirrored the gesture. Voria’s opinion of the man rose another notch.
“Have you anything further to add, Governor?” she asked mildly, the magic amplifying her voice many times over.
“I do.” The governor walked to the edge of the stage, clasping his hands before his chest. “Much as it pains me, I have made the difficult decision to contact the Shayan government directly. I have reported the major’s gross negligence, and been informed that she has already been stripped of command. These Marines aren
’t here legally, and the major has an outstanding warrant for her arrest. Command was to be given to a Captain Thalas, a man the major murdered in cold blood. I do not know if she is in league with the Krox, or simply serving her own interests at the expense of our people. But I will have no part of it. I demand you withdraw your forces from our world. Leave us in peace, and the Krox will too.”
Voria waited, letting the speech wash over the crowd. Many were murmuring confused questions.
“You’ve heard the governor’s words,” Voria called, also stepping to the edge of the stage. “Now hear mine. A mere few hours ago, many of you were fleeing for your lives. You ran because the Krox launched an unprovoked assault. They killed your people, and burned your buildings. The governor paints this attack as somehow linked to the arrival of my battalion, and I believe he is right. I believe the Krox chose that exact moment to attack, because they’d been informed of our arrival. Further, I believe the governor gathered you all here, knowing you’d be in tremendous danger. The more of you who died, the better.”
Murmurs passed through the crowd, more heated now.
“And what could I possibly hope to gain from the slaughter of my own people?” Avitus scoffed. The way he looked at her suggested he thought he was winning this little debate.
“You hoped to serve the ends of your true master, the dreadlord Nebiat,” Voria calmly explained. She let that sink in for a moment, then continued. “Your will has been shackled, and everything you’ve done preceding the Krox invasion has been at the behest of a full Krox dreadlord.”
Voria knew a moment of fear. She was almost positive she was right, but the possibility still remained that the governor was merely incompetent, not bound. If that was the case, everything she was hoping to achieve here would fail.
