Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  But Tycho wasn’t staring at him.

  The girl was deathly pale, like the maidens in old stories about the Olympians and their conquests. Her hair was a riot of long curling red tresses that bounced and shuddered all around her face with every movement of her head. Her thin lips were the palest pink rose, threatening to vanish against her skin. She had golden eyes, not hazel or bright green, but pure gold that made her pupils and lashes appear all the more perfectly black.

  But Tycho wasn’t staring at her eyes.

  Her ears. By heaven and hell, those ears!

  Rising from her luxurious masses of red hair were two tall animal ears, broad at their bases and rising to triangular tips. White fur covered the fronts of the ears and dark red fur covered the backs.

  They’re moving.

  The ears twitched and swiveled like those of a dog or cat, each one moving alone, each one seeming to track a different person by the soft chuff of a shoe or the clearing of a throat.

  That’s impossible.

  Tycho glanced up at Salvator and saw the same dumbfounded expression on the Italian’s face that he knew must be on his own, so he blinked and closed his mouth and cleared his throat loudly. He looked at the girl one more time, into her wide golden eyes, and he saw her lip tremble, and he saw the traces of red around her eyes.

  She’s terrified.

  The dwarf turned around. “Your Grace, I was just informed about the capture of these two prisoners and came to interrogate them when I learned they had been brought here. How can I assist you?”

  Lady Nerissa looked at him with a strange smile. “I have no idea, major. None at all. I had them brought here because this gentleman was seen speaking to the Damascena. But now I find that information rather… unremarkable.”

  “I understand. If I may?”

  She nodded and the prince nodded as well.

  Tycho looked at the Aegyptian, forcing himself to remain focused on only him for the moment. “Sir, what is your name?”

  “Omar Bakhoum.”

  “Are you an officer of the Eranian army or an agent of the empire?”

  The man called Omar grinned. “When I was a younger man, yes. But not for many years now.”

  “What business did you have in the Strait today?”

  “I boarded a ship in Varna bound for Alexandria,” he said. “I was simply passing through when my ship was assaulted, first by the Turks and then by your own marines, who took the ship and me and my poor apprentice captive.”

  “You were seen speaking with the Damascena,” Tycho said.

  No one speaks with the Damascena. She just appears on the battlefield, slaughters as many Hellans as she likes, and vanishes again. She’s a weapon. A terror. Something that Radu unleashes on us to destroy morale. But she’s never been seen with an officer, never giving or receiving orders. Just killing.

  Tycho asked, “What did you discuss with her?”

  “The Damascena?” Omar’s grin grew a little broader. “How poetic. I’m certain that she didn’t name herself that. Nadira was never one for poetry, even at the nunnery.”

  A silent instant of shock rippled through the room. The Vlachians glanced at each other, and Nerissa and Vlad glanced at each other, and Tycho felt Salvator’s eyes on him, but he pressed on. “Her name is Nadira? You know that for certain?”

  Omar laughed. “You don’t even know her name? But you wouldn’t, would you? Not that it matters, really. She is what she is, by any name. And yes, to answer your question, I know that for certain. I met her a very long time ago.”

  “And what did you discuss with her today?”

  Omar shrugged. “The weather. How time gets away from us. The old days. Better days. Old friends—”

  Tycho picked up the report on the table and scanned it quickly, and then cut off the prisoner. “I find it hard to believe this woman took command of a Turkish gunboat and attacked an Espani merchant ship just to make small talk with an old friend.”

  “Can my new friend sit down? She’s a bit tired,” Omar said.

  Tycho allowed himself to look at the beautiful girl with the tall red ears. She was shivering. “Yes, of course. What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “It’s Wren,” Omar said. “She doesn’t speak Hellan. Just Rus, and a little Eranian, though not very well just yet. She’s still learning.”

  Tycho pulled a chair forward and said to the girl in Rus, “Please, sit down. No one is going to harm you. We just have a few questions for your friend.”

  The girl blinked and sank warily into the chair. “Thank you.”

  That accent. She’s not from Rus.

  Tycho let his eyes linger on her ears a moment longer before returning to the man. “What did the Damascena, Nadira, what did she say to you?”

  Omar rolled his tongue around his mouth for a moment. “She asked me to help her with a small personal problem. A medical problem.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Of a sort. I specialize in very rare cases.” He nodded at the girl in the chair.

  Tycho nodded. “I see. What’s wrong with the Damascena? Is she sick? Is she dying?”

  Omar laughed. “No, quite the opposite, my little friend. The lady suffers from an overabundance of life, much like myself, as a matter of fact.”

  An overabundance of life?

  Tycho froze. His mind flew back several months to the arrival of the two strangers from Rus, the barbarian Koschei and his damned mother, Yaga. The ugly northerners had entered the Chamber of Petitions dressed in furs and rags, the man covered in patchwork armor and curved daggers from all over Asia, and the woman covered in bones and feathers. Prince Vlad had boasted of the two so-called immortals from Rus, and Tycho had not been impressed. And then they both slit their throats and fell dead on the floor, and then, only moments later, both had staggered back to their feet, wiped the blood away, and pledged their service to the defense of Constantia.

  An overabundance of life?

  Tycho blinked. “Sir, how old are you?”

  Omar stopped smiling. “Older than I look.”

  “Do you know a man from Rus called Koschei the Deathless?”

  It was Omar’s turn to freeze with a queer look in his eye. “You know Koschei?”

  Prince Vlad leapt to his feet. “Do you know Koschei?”

  Omar nodded and said softly, “I do. Better than he knows himself.”

  Tycho exchanged glances with the others. “I believe this is no longer an interrogation of a military nature. Mr. Bakhoum, was it? Please have a seat. Let’s all have a seat for a moment.”

  Everyone sat down around the end of the council table, except the Vlachian soldiers who retreated toward the door. Tycho placed himself between Lady Nerissa and Omar, and he was about to speak when he saw the Aegyptian take the Rus girl’s hand in his and whisper in her ear. The girl seemed to relax a bit more.

  “All right.” Tycho folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Mister Bakhoum, for the record, are you now in the service of Emperor Darius in any capacity?”

  “No.”

  “Do you intend to give aid to the troops in Stamballa?”

  “I intend nothing except to return to my home in Alexandria. But, truth be told, if someone did ask for my help, I might feel inclined to help them. I’m a scholar, not some sort of monster who snatches innocent girls, ties them up, and throws them into dank dungeons without just cause.”

  Tycho ignored the barb. “Mister Bakhoum, are you immortal?”

  Omar hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

  “Is this girl here also immortal?”

  “Wren? No.”

  “Is the Damascena also immortal?”

  Omar tilted his head to one side. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “Yes.” Omar sighed. “Yes, she is.”

  Tycho leaned back.

  Damn.

  Of course Tycho had suspected as much ever since that day Kosch
ei first arrived and proved that immortals really did exist. The Damascena had fought in too many battles, with too many confirmed injuries to be believed, and yet she always appeared on the battlefield the next day, just as strong and devastating as the day before. So after he saw Koschei die and rise again, Tycho had wondered if the Damascena might have the same gift. But now, actually hearing that it was true struck him cold.

  Prince Vlad groaned. “So Radu has his own immortal warrior, and he has our immortal warrior. Damn him! It’s just like him. He never was any good at sharing.”

  “Radu?” Omar asked.

  “The prince’s brother, Radu, converted to the Mazdan Temple and is now in command of the Eranian forces in Stamballa,” Tycho explained.

  “So this Radu has Nadira, and you had Koschei,” Omar said. “But now Radu has Koschei as well?”

  “Captured, two months ago,” Vlad said. “They swarmed him with gunfire. Numidian rifles. Sharpshooters. It took a hundred shots to his chest to bring him to his knees and a hundred more to drop him dead.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Omar said, rolling his eyes. “It only took one shot. I know how it works, there’s no need for your propaganda here.”

  Vlad glared in silence.

  “Are you also a warrior, sir?” Lady Nerissa asked. “You had a seireiken when you were captured. We know of these terrifying swords. If you have one, you too must be a great warrior.” She stood up, her face pale and stern. “Sir, I ask you, on behalf of my people and my city, to use whatever power you have to help us end this war and save my people. I will grant you any reward you ask if you will do us this service.”

  Tycho winced.

  Don’t ask that yet, it’s still far too early. This is why they shouldn’t be here. They don’t know the routine. They’re giving him leverage.

  Tycho held up a hand and drew Omar’s attention. “If I may. Let’s just step back from that question for a moment. Mister Bakhoum, do you have any knowledge of Koschei’s whereabouts?”

  Omar focused on the dwarf. “You’re not interested in the big picture, are you?”

  “Actually, I am,” Tycho said. “Koschei?”

  “No.”

  “And the Damascena?”

  “Nadira. And no.”

  Tycho rifled through his papers. “It says here that the captain of your ship, a Mister Ortiz, confirmed that you boarded in Varna, bound for Alexandria by way of several other ports. And none of our contacts inside Stamballa have ever reported seeing a man fitting your description in the company of Prince Radu. Therefore, I’m inclined to believe that you are what you claim to be. A traveler with no part in this war.”

  Omar snorted. “Well, thank you very much, my little friend.”

  “On the other hand, the fact that you claim to be immortal and that you carry a seireiken gives us two very serious reasons for concern,” Tycho said. “I’ve been to Alexandria. I am familiar with the men who carry these swords. The Sons of Osiris. Are you one of them?”

  “Off and on. They have certain valuable resources, and they don’t ask questions, as long as I help them with the occasional project.”

  “Such as?”

  Omar sighed. “I’m sorry, but this is getting to be a bit tiresome, friend. I’m not going to tell you my life story. It’s far less interesting than you might think, and hardly any of your business.”

  “The safety of Constantia is my business, Mister Bakhoum,” Tycho said. “I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  “Constantia has stood here for fifteen hundred years,” Omar said. “It has survived countless wars and sieges, famines and plagues, and more earthquakes than I care to remember. It doesn’t need you to save it.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  A fist pounded on the door and everyone turned to look just as a man on the other side called out, “Major Xenakis! Major! I saw them! I saw them at Saray!”

  Saray!

  Tycho moved his shaking hands to his lap and looked at the pale Italian. Salvator nodded. Tycho stood up. “Would you all excuse me for a moment, please?” And he walked calmly to the door.

  On the other side he found a young Vlachian archer, his face flecked with soot and blood, gasping for breath. “Major, I saw them. Hundreds of them. We fought them, but there were just too many. We couldn’t stop them. We lost half our men in the first few minutes, and most of the others broke ranks and ran into the wilderness. And now they’re coming toward the city. They’re coming here.”

  Tycho grabbed the man’s dirty jacket and pulled him forward and down to look him in the eyes. “What are they? Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “The dead.” The soldier trembled and covered his eyes. “The dead. Dead bodies. Corpses. Rotten and broken, black and blue and white, covered in dirt and ice. Sir, they were dead bodies, and they tore our men and horses into pieces. They were dead. They were already dead.” The man collapsed to the floor, shaking.

  Tycho stepped back and let the other men tend to the archer. Salvator stared at the soldiers with a look of revulsion and confusion. Tycho swallowed and tugged his jacket down.

  It’s true then. The dead have risen. And they’re coming here. It’s the end, the end of the world. God is choosing who shall stand and who shall fall.

  He swallowed again, turned and walked back into the room, waved Salvator inside, and then closed the door. He sat in his seat and folded his hands together on the table. “Your Grace, Your Highness, I must report that there is another army approaching the city from the northwest. They have taken Saray and are moving this way. The rumors have been confirmed.” His voice broke and he paused to swallow again. “It is an army of corpses. The dead have risen from their graves. I’m afraid… The end of the world is upon us.”

  Lady Nerissa and Prince Vlad stared at him, and he did his best to look them each in the eye and to keep his breathing slow and even.

  “Oh, that?” Omar said.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  “That’s nothing,” the Aegyptian said. “It’s certainly not the end of the world. It’s a strange event. A scientific curiosity, certainly. But it’s just a confluence of local burial practices, weather conditions, and aether distribution currents.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Tycho asked. “You know about this?”

  “Of course. We saw it in Vlachia.”

  Tycho felt his heart begin to race. “Can you… can you stop it? Can you help us?”

  “Well, I did say I might be inclined to help someone if they asked.” Omar glanced at the fox-eared girl, and then nodded slowly at Tycho. “So, maybe we can spare a little time to help you in your hour of need. Does this mean I can have my sword back now, please?”

  Chapter 8

  The longer Wren sat at the table and listened to these strangers babble in Hellan, the less frightened she felt, and eventually even a bit of boredom sank in. Omar looked and sounded as calm and comfortable as ever, and that was enough assurance for her, for the moment. The dwarf had been kind enough, offering her a seat, and once everyone started saying “Nadira” and “Koschei” they lost all interest in her and her ears.

  Thank you, Woden. That was a kindness.

  But then someone beat on the door and the dwarf stepped out and when he stepped back in everything was different. There was fear in the air, even in the eyes of the beautiful lady in her fancy green dress and the tall scowling man in his black and red uniform. And then, just as she was losing patience with not being able to understand what was being said, she realized that Omar was speaking in Rus again.

  “…to include my young friend in the conversation,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Wren Olgasdottir of Denveller, my apprentice and student of natural philosophy and metaphysics.”

  Every eye was once again on her. Wren nodded to the lady in green. “Hello. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  The lady smiled.

  “Wren,” Omar continued, “I’d like you to meet Lady Nerissa, the Duchess of Constantia, an
d her ally in arms Prince Vlad IV of Vlachia. And these two gentlemen are their intelligence officers, Major Tycho Xenakis, from Hellas, and Signore Salvator Fabris, from Italia.”

  “Hello.” She nodded at them.

  “It would seem, my dear, that these good people have just now learned about the small matter of the walking corpses, which have appeared as close as eighty miles away from where we are sitting right now. And being the most gracious and humble fellow that I am, I have agreed to help them deal with the problem.”

  Wren looked at him. “You have? What about Alexandria?”

  “We’ll get there soon enough. But the Duchess and the Prince have extended their considerable hospitality to us in exchange for our help, and I think this is a fine opportunity to rest and study before we continue on our way.” He leaned closer to her and said, in Yslander, “Better to have them as allies than as jailers. And more importantly, it was the only way to get them to agree to return my seireiken.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, rubbing her thumb against the ring on her right hand, grateful that no one had thought to take her gloves and steal the bit of sun-steel on her finger. The ring felt warm against her skin. “All right. Then where do we begin?”

  “With a question,” Omar said, turning to their captors-turned-hosts. “Prince Vlad, I see you too wear a seireiken. I’ll skip over the very salient question of how you came to possess it and simply ask, when did you receive it?”

  “Ten months ago,” Vlad said. “It was a gift from Lady Nerissa, brought by these two men here.” He indicated Tycho and Salvator.

  “Ten months.” Omar frowned. “No, from what we heard, this business of the corpses only started this winter. So that’s probably not a factor. I do need to learn more about this area, though. It’s colder here, which is important when dealing with aether. Do you have any local experts in aether studies? Any of your Constantian priests, or perhaps even one of the Sons of Osiris here in the city? I’m sure there’s at least one Osirian in Stamballa advising the Eranians, but I doubt we’ll be able to speak to him any time soon.”