by Mark B Frost
Derris slowly returned his sword to its sheath, but kept his hand on the hilt. “Then finish me. It is why we are here, after all. Slay me.”
Myris paused, scanning his cousin for a hint of what he was thinking. Finding no indications, he made his move cautiously. He dashed forward at one of his lower speeds, and when he was within striking range swung the Soul Scythe at Derris’ right side. As the scythe was in mid-swing, the Cainite lord took a step back with his right foot and rapidly unsheathed his katana. The attack was so fast Myris saw only a slight flash of yellow, then his scythe was knocked from his grip and sent spinning into a nearby tree. He recovered quickly, slamming his feet into the ground and catching his balance. He waited a fraction of a second to see Derris’ follow-up so he could react accordingly, but the man did not seem ready to make another attack. Instead Myris rolled to his left and headed toward the lodged scythe at a dash.
Quickly, his hands flying faster than seemed possible, Derris sheathed and unsheathed his sword again. Just as Myris was about to reach for his scythe, he saw another flash—this one red—and felt a hum of magic coming at him from his enemy’s direction. Again he came to a forced stop, then threw himself fiercely backward. A razor-thin sweep of fire passed right in front of him, grazing his chest and tearing it open, then cut its way into the forest.
All of this had taken place in just under five seconds, and Myris took his first opportunity to look at himself. His gloves were still smoking from the first attack, and he felt a slight ache in his hands, probably from burns. He realized that if the Soul Scythe had not absorbed most of that attack, his arms would have been burned off. He turned his gaze to his chest. He was not bleeding much, the wound having burned shut as quickly as it was opened, but a quick scan revealed that his rib cage had been sliced through in two places.
Just as he began to wonder what sort of attacks Derris was using, the explanation came freely. “How do you like my ultimate technique, cousin? I call it my Draw Strike. By using the extra speed imparted by the blade leaving its sheath, I am able to attack faster than the human eye can follow. At first, this technique alone was enough to vanquish all who opposed me. But for you, dear Myris, I perfected my move, coupling it with the natural elements of our magic. Already I have shown you two of my ultimate strikes. The Lightning Draw serves as the perfect defense, delivering a powerful blast to an attacking opponent, making their own attacks their unexpected doom. The Fire Draw attacks with range, sweeping at foes and rapidly cutting them down, leaving their flesh relatively undamaged but breaking their bones apart, crippling them.”
Myris narrowed his eyes, calculating. Almost always, Cainite lightning or fire techniques were the most powerful in a given set. Most ice magic served only practical applications—such as reinforcing weapon integrity—and rarely provided devastating spells. Still, he was skeptical that Derris had already revealed his trump card. He knew he must be cautious until he had seen the ice technique.
He drew forth a Moragam he had been given. He was certain that Derris would have a speech to make about him using Onion Knight weaponry, so he launched himself forward to preempt the lecture. He struck at the man’s face with an attack just fast enough to look threatening, hoping to draw him into using his final move. The ruse worked, and there was a sudden flash of blue as the katana left its sheath once more.
Myris endeavored to follow the trajectory of the blade, but in vain. The technique was simply too fast, even faster than the previous two. Cainite katana ripped through Moragam, shattering the slim enchanted blade effortlessly, then made an arch and came back at Myris. It sliced through his right leg straight to the bone, nearly severing the limb and leaving a trail of solid ice floating in midair for an instant. As a painful cold spread over his thigh, Derris rammed a shoulder into his chest and knocked him back. Myris’ ribs and leg caused him an agonizing pain, and he only barely managed to catch enough balance to land on his knees.
Derris sheathed his sword once more. He could not refrain from gloating. “How was that? As you probably noticed, my Draw Strike technique has a weakness. I can only strike in a straight line, sweeping it away from the sheath, and the attack is so swift and powerful that I am temporarily left defenseless. I compensated for that with this move. I first freeze the blade of the katana, causing it to leave the sheath even faster than normal. Then I use my magic to create a slim track for the blade to follow. This allows me to sweep it in two or even three arches without losing any of the speed of the technique. And of course, once you are struck the attack continues to damage you, freezing your muscles and making them unusable.”
The crippled man let his head hang, breathing heavily and thinking for about the span of a minute. Finally he placed one of his hands on his thigh and cast a small fire spell, thawing the ice and causing a fresh burst of blood. He let the blood flow, rising to his feet and tearing off his mask. He locked eyes with his cousin with a grimace of determination.
“Myris Phare the Cainite could not have beaten you, Derris. I see that now. You have truly perfected a powerful technique, and it seems you have thought of everything to make it unbeatable. But I am Myris Phare, Lord of the Cain, Son of Felthespar. Precious few on Morolia can overcome me, and you are not one of them.”
“Fool! My attacks are faster than eyes can follow! There is no way you can counter them.”
“Then tell me, Lord Phare, what if I myself move faster than eyes follow?”
With that, Myris vanished. Derris struggled to locate him, and managed to do so just in time to see him snatch up the Soul Scythe. He went to use a Draw Strike, but Myris again disappeared and his hand stuttered. The Lord Commander saw his cousin one last time, suspended in the air a foot above him, the Soul Scythe already swung and piercing his chest.
The Lord of the Cain landed a few feet behind where Derris’ already dead body stood immobile. By some incredible reflex the man had managed to execute a final attack, and his katana was stabbed through Myris’ chest. He withdrew the blade as the Soul Scythe fed him healing energy from the life it had just taken. His cousin’s power had indeed been substantial, and the damage Myris had sustained quickly recovered, leaving not a single scar.
He returned his scythe to its place within his capes, then stored Derris’ katana temporarily in the sheath he had used for his destroyed Moragam. He turned and gave the fallen body a slight bow, whispering, “It would seem that I am still Lord Vaelius’ favorite.”
* * * * *
Once he was certain Myris Phare had vacated the premises, Stratas stepped out of the forest from where he had observed the battle. He walked over and gave Derris a swift kick, making certain there was no response. He rolled the body over, examining it with his own eyes, still skeptical. The Cainite lord was indeed dead, his entire chest furiously shredded by the fierce blow from the scythe. Only his spinal column held the upper part of his body to the lower, and his most vital organs had been completely incinerated.
It looks like he used a fire attack, Stratas noted to himself. Interesting. I couldn’t even sense him cast the spell. I wonder what that means.
Content now that Derris was finished, he turned and began to head south. Just before he left the clearing and stepped once more into the trees, a small broadsword suddenly embedded into the tree to his left, only inches away from having cleaved his skull in twain.
Stratas stopped moving and raised his hands, turning about slowly with a slight smirk on his face. The sword had sunk hilt-deep into the tree, telling him that the throw had been both powerful and skillful. This meant whoever had thrown it had missed on purpose—if they had wanted him dead he would be so already. They had not killed him, which meant they were going to give him a chance to talk. And Stratas Ezul could talk his way out of anything.
He turned to see a tall man in white and blue armors standing across the clearing from him. He was impossible not to recognize, for Cildar Emle was a difficult man to forget, especially for those brave or foolish enough to call him an enemy. St
ratas quickly reminded himself this was the man that had matched Brakken Chardoch in battle, and decided not to try anything that might aggravate him.
“The Dragoon. I believe your name was Cildar, was it not?”
The Felthespari’s body was completely motionless, not a single muscle twitching. It was clear that he was poised to attack at the slightest hint of deviousness. “What are you doing here?”
Stratas’ hubris almost got the better of him, and he nearly spat out, “We’re here to take over your country, remember?” He forced himself to follow a less suicidal course, and answered honestly. “I knew of the final battle between our Phare and your Phare, and came to witness it with my own eyes. The death of Derris Phare was one of my heart’s fondest desires, and I came to make certain that, one way or another, he did not leave this battle alive. And what of yourself, Dragoon?”
Cildar seemed to relax his shoulders slightly, and there was a strange flicker from his eyes that Stratas could not quite interpret. “I too came to ensure that Derris Phare died here.”
Stratas could not repress a snicker. “So it would seem that this night we were allies, united by a common foe. It would also seem that Derris stood no hopes of returning to his tent tonight.”
“You are Derris’ second?”
“What?”
“You are Derris’ second-in-command, are you not? And now the Lord Commander of the Cainite legion?”
Stratas was uncertain how to answer this. Admitting that he was currently the single most important man in the Cainite army seemed like a bad move, but something about Cildar’s tone told his instincts otherwise. Stratas always followed his instincts.
“Aye. I was second-in-command to the late Phare.”
The paladin reached back and drew out his Trine Lance. Stratas’ heart skipped a beat and he almost panicked. Then Cildar slammed the butt of the Lance into the ground and it lit the clearing brightly. “Take your fallen lord and carry him back to your army. Give him a proper burial and show him the respect he deserved as a leader. I let you live this night not for your sake, but for the sake of the honorable dead.” Stratas bowed in acknowledgment, then quickly went to Derris and carried him away.
The Lord of the Phoenix stood alone in the bloody clearing, letting his thoughts run their course. Myris had said that Derris’ second was a reckless man, a man whose leadership would become a crack in the armor of the Cainite war machine. Cildar had just spared the life of the man who now dictated how the rest of this war would go, for both armies. He hoped that his decision proved to be prudent. If he was wrong, he knew he may have just condemned Felthespar to its final doom.
Chapter 36.
Emperor of Nightspawn
“There is no sure thing in matters such as these, but I will say that this is the best I have to offer.” Kinguin visited the General in his tent, shrouded in the mystery of his own arrogance. The two stood waiting alone, Kulara trying for a quarter of an hour now to extract some new proposal over which the man was clearly excited. The Lord Archmagus had maintained a clandestine air, refusing to give out anything until the Military Council was assembled in full.
Finally Kulara gave up and decided his curiosity would be more quickly sated by meeting the herald’s wishes. He called to a sentry outside of the tent to round up the councilors, then had a seat on a stool to wait it out.
It was about an hour before the Council was assembled, most of the men and women coming from training exercises with the younger troops. As Lathria took her seat—the last to arrive—Kulara gave a curt introduction.
“Lord Kinguin asked me to call you all here. He observed our first battle with the Cainites and has something to say about it. But before he begins, I want to hear what you think.”
Zynex was the first to speak. “On a personal level, I definitely think it could have gone about a hundred times better.” He was heavily bandaged, with a cast protecting his left arm. The medics had diagnosed that he would be well in a few days with regular treatments of white magic, but the Church was too swamped with the critically wounded for him to see a priest.
“Zynex managed to take out one of the most dangerous Cainites,” Cyprus disagreed. “Their big general, with the sledgehammer. No one else among us can claim something so lofty.”
Kulara waved a hand. “I’m well aware of Zynex’s battle. As well as the similar battles that Cildar and Myris had with Cainite commanders. That’s not what I’m interested in. The grand scheme, the general tide of the battle—what do you think?”
Lathria, Lord of the Black Hand, offered an answer, although she was somewhat daunted by the overlooking Kinguin, her idol of many years. “We won, overall. Our final death toll turned out somewhere just above seven hundred, and our tacticians estimate that we gave the Cainites easily over a thousand handicaps.”
The General nodded at this valid but lacking summary. “Anything more?”
“It’s not enough,” Shasta announced bluntly. “Seven hundred dead, but well over three hundred more who won’t be able to participate in any immediate battles. Four more battles like this last one and we’d have a standing army of under one thousand. Four more battles like this and the Cainites would still have over ten thousand strong. Even if we did twice as well from here on out, we lose, and fast. No more Felthespar.”
Everyone sat in silence at this sobering announcement. Deep down they had all known this was the truth. The numbers were staring them in the face and did not lie, but no one wished to admit it aloud.
“It’s true,” Kinguin stepped forward from where he had been waiting at the back of the tent. “And if Kulara is done for the moment,” he waited for the nod from the General, then continued, “that is exactly why I am here. I have come to a weighty decision. I have already informed the Arcanum, and they are doing as they must. Unfortunately I don’t know the Military structure as well as this council does, so there are preparations you must make as well.”
Karice tapped a foot impatiently. “Lord Kinguin, we don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Spit it out.”
He raised an eyebrow, but continued civilly. “I’ve decided to open up the Arcanum weaponry archives.”
Everyone in the room widened their eyes, with the exception of Fujia, who spoke up. “Excuse me, but I believe I’m missing something. Are you talking about the large rune-sealed door over in the armory? The Military Councilors already have access to that, and it’s only filled with a small selection anyway. What’s the big deal?”
“I said archives, as in plural,” Kinguin replied. “They are not common knowledge, like the room in the armory. Only the members of the various High Councils know about them, and only the most elite members of the Arcanum know how to access them. They contain the remaining weapons from the first Arocaen. And, as it so happens, there are a good many of them left.”
“I guess since I’m new no one has gotten around to filling me in,” Fujia said with a touch of annoyance.
“There have been more important events transpiring. Moving on. As I said, I have already informed the Arcanum and they are working on unsealing the vaults. There are somewhere between two and three hundred of the weapons remaining, mostly random elemental weapons, but they’re more powerful than what we are using now. It’s going to be up to you to determine to which members of the Military to distribute these. I’ve already opened one of the vaults myself, and I have brought a few select presents with me.”
Kinguin snapped. A herald entered the tent from outside and handed him a large, carefully wrapped package. The aide turned and rushed out of the tent, apparently needing to be somewhere in a hurry. The Archmagus spread the brown cloth out across the tent’s planning table and began handing out weapons, explaining each in turn.
“For Miss Karice Contel I brought this.” He handed Karice a long but slim sword with serrated edges along its length. The hilt was long enough for a two-handed grip, but the sword was light enough to wield with only one. “It’s called Flamberge. Once
you’ve become accustomed to it, the sword can be made to light aflame. Once you’ve mastered it, it can be used to generate an impressive fire wave that will sweep through your enemies. Flamberge is the most destructive of the elemental weapons we know of, so be wary of its power.”
As Karice nodded her acceptance of the gift and admired the sword’s craftsmanship, Kinguin moved on. “Shasta D’argail, your weapon is a bit more complicated, but I trust that as a Phoenix Dragoon you’ll be able to adapt.” He handed the man what seemed to be nothing more than a long staff. Upon closer inspection the metal pole was clearly wrapped in tiny, almost unreadable rune spirals. “It’s a weapon similar to the Dual Blade, called the Conformer. It is capable of multiple shapes, transformations made possible through archaic magics that even I don’t fully understand. The various forms include the basic staff, a spear, a large-headed battle ax, and a glaive. I recommend you put in several hours of practice with it before actually taking it out onto the field.
“Next, for the young Fujia Tuel.” He lifted a weapon which appeared to be a plain short sword. Fujia took it and brought the blade close to her face, noticing tiny runes etched into the blood groove. “It’s called a Shield Sword. When it experiences impact with another weapon or armor, the vibrations cause it to generate a powerful barrier around itself. Once activated, you’ll be able to manipulate the barrier and expand it to protect the rest of your body. With proficiency, it may be possible to extend it over others as well.
“Cyprus Galahe, for you I found these.” Kinguin handed him a pair of beautiful mirrored platinum gauntlets, large enough to cover his forearms from elbow to knuckle. As Cyprus received them he marveled at how light they were, given the apparent durability of the metals. His benefactor continued, “The left gauntlet is capable of generating a large ice shield in front of it, and the right is able to launch concentrated bursts of lightning.
